Sympathetic Magic Part 8

Chess playing Death -- no, the reverse Death sitting decked out and self-satisfied in black no mandatory top hat but a shroud shouldering a cowl.

There stereotypes end -- appearances have to be kept up tho' hardly any cinematic gnarled fingers of Baron Samedi fame rather pudgy digitals reflecting gentile prosperity (after all, Winners do take all his fellow satanists bank on it).

Of course, such things are fict.i.tious.

Death plays no favourites (and waits for no man when rivalling Time).

Still, parlour games are one indulgence.

Hardly comforting to know human beings function at one purpose when this Hallow of Hallows puts on the smirk.

Dalliance with the victim is the upshot -- the chess motif again.

Sift thru the chicken bones a mite -- let the chump stir the rubble of his dreams.

Something of gallow's humour or gangster largesse.

Page 80 Offer a stiff drink (brandy will do), one last cigarette.

Then, too, for beaten gladiators toiling bravely the apparent rewards accelerate. Truckloads of flowers at the funeral, for instance. Preferential treatment for the guise or mercy must be kept up.

All lies in appearances. Prepare the feast. Sit the guest of honour on a splendid cus.h.i.+on, then serve up dish after sumptious dish.

Dining splendidly on one's own children unbeknownst is a favourite -- maddens the victim no end.

Brief success turning to bitter sawdust is the supreme moment of ecstasy. Serves precisely as metaphoric extension of all earthly reward as illusionary. (A delicious ruse borrowed shamelessly from fellow representatives on Earth --the Sicilian Mafia.) Further spin-offs centre about the Absurd But spare us juvenile intrigue with petty omens like a bird loose in the house. Rather, a swift check-mate served up in the best Grandmaster tradition is more a propos.

Therein lies the jest.

Workaholics and their polar opposites, the dead lazy.

effortlessly come around. When realization hits home all distinctions blur. No difference. Sharp laughter unceremoniously greets even the self-composed.

Page 81 Especially intriguing are the ambitious. Endless quirks really.

Concerted mockery recreates further patterns of futility.

Basic strategy remains unchanged, though. Disguise is paramount.

Dress her in robes of tarter gray, implant a slight smile, then beckon from around each corner.

Create a maze, but attractive-like with flower pots.

Faint knockings behind every door. A cooling breeze overhead.

Genuine affability like an open air Swiss cottage in a summer meadow.

The greater the false hope, the greater the final squirming.

Funny stuff, for even Death at one remote corner of his being partakes in occasional mirth (why not, with his monopoly intact on everything else).

Page 82 DRESS REHEARSAL

"The universe is expanding".

There's cause for reflection and bound to do wonders for "who am I" queries.

At this late moment on the Celestial Clock, man isn't sure if he's stumbled into a Black Hole or just the debris from the Big Bang Theory.

Many of the earth's residents desperately want to be E.T.'s -- travellers with carte blanche pa.s.sports welcomed in any galaxy. Therein lies the ultimate twist to "getting away".

Alas, what if we're alone?

What if the universe expands so much it forgets there's an inhabited world and obscures the planet from our collective vision? Sobering stuff.

Meanwhile, on a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p earth preparations are underway. Preparation to abandon the planet.

Preparations to forget life is a serious matter.

Preparations to drown protracted speculations about existence's intensity.

E.T. mania is carrying the day. People adorn stuffed, life-sized dolls of imagined creatures on the dashboards of their cars. Children queque up for hours to get gingerbread designed from scary, monster dough. Everywhere, the question on everyone's lips is "how many of'em are there"?

When will contact be made? Will they want to throw in their lot with mankind or "take over"? After all, it's our Arc. No one seriously wants reminders of Von Daniken's chariots riding again or the genetic mumble about intergalactic breeding.

Going to bed with E.T. is too much. It's the Outer Limits. Propriety still has some hold even if Marian Engel did slip up and get it on with a bear. At least

Page 83 that was recognizable earth life. Darth is too much of a transition even if it's only a One Night Stand.

E.T. is just like Bambi.

He wants to go home.

And alone.

He's not interested in s.e.x.

Too many other myriad problems are floating in his adorable, gelatin head. Surely earth women can relate to that. Surely, if the universe is expanding, then it's because of intrigue in high places. Because cosmic particles are hammering out new definitions. Anyone of a thousand theories.

Star Wars can stuff it. We want "peaceful" contact and on our terms. Ask Orson Welles.

Or H.G.Wells.

Time machines are old hat and another invasion in Newark is too much to absorb.

With NYC across the river, they've already got all the action they can handle.

We like our extraterrestial life tailormade and preferably in our own image. We're prepared to accept them if they conform to stiff criteria. They have to be like us and prepared to cooperate. Seeing eye dogs help the blind, horses were good draft animals for centuries. We might even want to decorate it like the Hindoos do elephants; make it into a "religious"

procession such as a Roman Triumph. It would be the same for outer s.p.a.ce visitors. No mutants or Roving Intelligences allowed. Earth is "off limits" to marauding predators -- we'll fight at the suggestion they're here on "reconnoitering missions" as a prelude to Conquest or the Bermuda Triangle is one of their many "staging areas" or dress rehearsal sites.

Earth for humankind carries more immediacy than "Canada for the Canadians". If they are "out there", they'd better behave.

Page 84 Hollywood's got it all figured out.

There's no shortage or scenarios.

Life support systems will be rushed wherever there is a sighting with artillery back-up.

The Pentagon is in control.

The Moonies have asked to be informed.

Crackpots the world over await deliverance.

The Earth has big plans for the visitation.

Contact would displace Ihe Copernician revolution as "a first" in blockbuster events: edge out Columbus'

hat trick, even erase Caesar's Gaelic campaigns.

Such things are no longer "relatable".

Every school kid can fathom "aliens" even if he can't decline a Latin noun or understand the causes of the Renaissance.

Unveiling the first s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p would cap the evolutionary quest for Enlightenment or realization of a greater Oneness.

The universal thirst for knowledge would be satisfied.

Still, our trek to the stars would turn in on itself if they got here first. Something like the Seminoles arriving in Paris in the 13th century overland from Nice or finding an orangutan piloted the Viking s.h.i.+p, Sutton Hoo, into Vineland. It's barely credible and has to be remade into "tangible" dialogue. No sapient, red puddles or Dryads need apply. Fuel up the Crematoria. Break out the electric cattle prods. They may be common as blades of gra.s.s in a meadow but it's our show. Orange Pekoe intellects will naturally be suspect. Benign intelligence better be the order of the day.

Earth is a "closed shop".

Everything Koltur. Everything above board.

No renegade "interpretations".

When will the Juggernaut be?

Human nature is nothing to toy with.