<invocation>

Let this transcript present my full character upon a sober reading. I proclaim this to be Truth on the 19th day of May in the Year of Our Lord (Ackmed Nemrah Garnlarty) 1998. This is the NAME OF POWER -- enclose it with no quotation marks or periods. (Parenthesis are, however, okay.)

<reality>

Skeezer, Freezer, Weezer, Chuck, Canopy, Roger, Fox, Skank, Guinness . . .

Bear with me. I need to remember a name.

<fantasy>

I am the ungod of compassion, lost in a wellspring of discontent. Lost. Found. In a gutter filled with rain. Dropp'd off, floating at sea, tweedle-dee/tweedle-dee. I am ungod. Worship me like a motherfucker. Wrap me in the smooth, warm folds of your bosom. Take me in the mouth and do me on the lawn furniture of love. Do me in the plastic jacuzzi. I'm yours to fuck at will. Wait . . . This is getting pornographic. I think I'm loosing sight of my true aggression. But I'm coming back now. I feel it. A sense of self burns inside. It seems to have mass. Mass can never be created or destroyed. I AM BACK. I have returned from the brink. I (he) am the observer, the scientist. He studies me and I hear his (my) voice. He is the archetype of my true self that keeps my (our) body running. He talks like Humphrey Bogart. I am now relating Truth to you. Future generations, heed my gospel of love. I am now the Ungod Zorax -- founder of light and hedonism. I am the gospeler of the psalms lost to the Ages on his way to Calcutta. I am the delivery-man who walks along the alleyways, muttering to himself because his wife won't give him any in the back of his 1956 Plymouth Firebird. She is a bitch -- a heartless, mindless, arrogant whore. I now know how to retrace subjects again. Writing this sentence, however, I lost it . . .

<reality>

Skeezer, Freezer, Weezer, Chuck, Canopy, Roger, Fox, Skank, Guinness . . .

Ah, fuck it!

Anyway, I’ve long had delusions of grandeur – the greatest intellect, the greatest lover, etc, etc, etc, oh well. It’s true. I think I’m God. I really do. I think I can never die yet I fear death around every corner. Irrational measures make up my rational mind. I am the everyday product of fear.

My entire life has been a script – pre-planned, pre-thought.

<fantasy/reality>

Tell me the Truths of Amon-Re. I am the ungod who wants you to stay at home tonight under the protective canopy of your soul. Do me in the arms of Morpheus. I am the ungod of Purgatory. Find me in the red mark shopping list found at the five-and-dime on April 20, 1956. This is the way of SHUNTA – non-goddess of the non-world and surveyor of all she sees. She is the many-starletted whore who takes men into her mouth and delivers them into a world of pleasure and death. Fuck, this is becoming clichéd. Wait . . . I seem to be finding myself again. Lost in the folds of delusion as I so often am. I can breathe now. I feel free from this computer-tether. OH MY GOD, I SEE THE LIGHT . . . of faith. FUCK! I’m only imitating Skeezer, Freezer, Weezer, Chuck, Canopy, Roger, Fox, Skank, Guinness – what was his fuckin’ name! (It was really weird.) He had this image engraved on his wallet. A stick figure holding its arms to Heaven. He carved this and then he smiled a lot. No more troubles. No more worries. I couldn’t figure out how he pulled it off but maybe I can. Someday. Maybe if I remember his name. I am ungod. Feel me roar in the righteous slumber that coils you back into earthen arms.

Damn it, I LOST MYSELF AGAIN!

<reality>

FUCK YOU!!! Why the hell don’t you love me? Why am I the one thrown out of houses? Why am I the one always referred to as “that guy on the couch”? I truly hate this. Does my voice sound bad? Do I look gay? Is my ego too strong and do I need to curb it? Stop feeding the id?

Do I try too hard? What do you see when you look at me through the mirror in your eyes? I often imagine myself in movies. In them I have to talk and act perfect. That might explain a lot of things. I need to be the control-freak, the grand high priest generalissimo.

And what about meaning? Do you think it exists? Or is everything just a by-product of psychosomatic engineering? I have memories. (At least I think I do. Some of them seem older than me.) It doesn’t matter though. They’re trapped. They can’t find their way out of my head. I don’t want them to find their way out. They’ve been in there longer than me. They know what I don’t know. And they flaunt it.

<fantasy>

I know everythink. I am the Judge-Penitent. Ungod of those whose mental capacities won’t let them see “the real you”. (“You” being “I” in this case.)

Just the other day I thought the thought I had thought about thinking when I considered the cabbages, sprung from their cages and lost to the growing Oriental hordes that invade my subconscious much like a Boeing 747 readying for takeoff. Terminal velocity – the speed at which the doughnut ceases flying and starts to hover above the dining room floor. Non-propulsion liftoff. Break the sound barrier. Land on the moon.

Fuckin’ silly, ain’t it?

<existential screaming angst>

BUT I WILL LIVE TO PROVE ALL THE BASTARDS AND ASSHOLES WRONG! DAMN THEM TO HELL AND TO THE LIVING NIGHTMARE THEY DRAGGED ME INTO! DAMN THE ONES WHO MADE ME PERFORM FOR THEIR AMUSEMENT! DAMN THE ONES WHO HELD MY TINY SHIRT TO THEIR CHESTS IN THE MEN’S LOCKER ROOM! DAMN THE ONES WHO USED ME AS A BAR TO BENCHPRESS! DAMN THE ONES WHO CALLED ME GAY! DAMN THE ONES WHO THOUGHT I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT A PIECE OF MY OWN ANATOMY WAS, AND DAMN ME FOR PERPETRATING ALL THIS UPON MYSELF!

AND WHERE IS GOD? WHERE IS GOD WHEN I NEED HIM? DESERTER OF MAN! FOUL, UNNATURAL THING THAT WIELDS ITS POWER WITH THE WILL OF A THOUSAND MEN, CLUSTERED IN THE HALLWAYS OF DEATH!

<reality>

I looked up and felt suddenly different. Perhaps the old me is finally coming back. Alcohol can only last so long. Now what was that guy’s name?

Remembering it will be a simple thing, but it’ll make all the difference in the world.

<outside/inside observer>

I am the scientist writing all this stuff down. The “we”. The many locked up inside the one.

The old boy is coming back. Finally. He will not understand this later. He never understands what I have to say. I think he has to figure it all out for himself. Taking this message from the Other World will help. He unconsciously tried before, but he couldn’t read his own writing. He needs a friend, someone to translate. I am that friend. That friend he needs more than life itself. I am the scientist, the observer caught up in suspenders of light that run beneath the foundations of faith.

<reality>

I hope nobody reads this or ever finds it. But this is the truth about me, and I must reveal it as soon as possible. I must carry this text on my person at all times. I have to be reminded or else I’ll forget. But it’s not the key. No. I know what the key is but I can’t get it out of my head. Is it time for another cigarette? Not quite, I must think of that name first. Then I’ll be released. Skeezer, Freezer, Weezer, Chuck, Canopy, Roger, Fox, Skank, Guinness. (I’ve said these before.) It’s a weird name. He’s got a weird wallet and smiles a weird smile. He knows something that I do not know. (Faith.) He’s felt something I have not felt. (Happiness.) He’s got a weird name. A weird name. That’s all I know.

Wait . . .

Tinker.

<outside/inside observer>

Well. It seems I’m not needed here anymore.

(scientist departs)

(dies)