Playing Phone Tag.
How does one injure ones knee playing phone tag, one might ask. Well, it’s really quite simple: don’t answer the phone upon your turn, and choose instead to brew coffee. Upon brewing the coffee, one is possibly going to notice a terradactyl in the kitchen. DON’T FEED THE TERRADACTYL!!! Which is what I did: he nipped me in the knee while trying to catch a falling thin mint.
OK: so what REALLY happened? Don’t tell, but I was wounded as a stunt double in a porn flick, and I have to stop telling girls this story because they become so excited they won’t leave me alone. I have serious art work to do. Basically, it’s a maneuver where the man places himself on top of the woman, as in the missionary position, yet rather than the standard up and down motion as an in and out, he makes his body completely rigid, and, then spins upon her like a helicopter. It even has a name: “Helicopter Sex.” Well, in my case, which is why I’m the stunt double, and why I can’t tell this story to any more girls, I can pivot so rapidly that I generate a sufficient enough downdraft to bear us aloft, which, in the injurious moment, caused the woman (what was her name?), to such an orgiastic pelvic thrust (Marta became so excited at my telling this aspect of the story that her body heat set off the fire alarm in the restaurant, IT’S TRUE!!) that she ejected me, allowing my Vesuvian climax to appear as the propelling force beneath my spiraling, like a whirlygig top, up into the air and I landed, on my knee, on an innocent postman’s pith helmut three blocks away.
That’s REALLY how I hurt my knee. Postman’s fine. Truly grovelling, I helped him clean up all his spilled letters. I just couldn’t walk. But then it got weird. Because once word got out about how I hurt my knee, helicopter sex apparently became all the rage up on the avenue, in Chestnut Hill, of all places! In this cutesy bastion of old money, gentility, and destination botiques, suddenly you have all these men spiraling out of windows, rooftops, out over the avenue; and landing in the lamp stantion planters, bus turnaround, backyards, and bouncing off the hoods of cars caught in the clot of traffic desperately attempting to inch up the avenue. And somehow, randomly, they always seem to pick the hoods of the most gentile and repressed female drivers, leading to truly Benny Hill-esque moments: “Oh Dear, another plummeting sexual deviant has put a dent in our hood! Last week it was the Volvo, now it’s the Lexus. It’s all the fault of that….Henry Martin!! Who does he think he is, arousing me…..NO! I meant Viola!! Viola our maid!!” (Gee I hope Lawrence didn’t hear my slip….) Another man was propelled so hard by his partner’s thrust that he spiraled all the way from the water tower park to the New Covenant Campus in Mt. Airy and crashed through a plate glass window of a Bible study class! and, Boy, were the girls in THAT class curious…………
These spiraling episodes, these whirleybirds, to use accurate nomenclature, are also auditorily fascinating, for their orgiastic release always coincides with the adrenaline howl of a twirling body on a parabolic trajectory sailing over multitudinous stone facades. It’s always a tremolo, like singing into a fan, only it’s in 3-d: a “Wah wahwahwahwahwah”, or: “Yah yahyahyahyahyahyahayh,” or a: “Whah woawoawoawoawoawoao!!!” or whatever sound happens to erupt spontaneously from any random whirleybird deviant. To the extent these events are displays of vowel sounds, and considering the fact that these men often end up in the Emergency room at C.H. Hospital with strange fractures and bruises and sh#* eating grins that won’t go away, the entire experience is not unlike laughing gas.
So….. while driving with these images in my mental eye, of the spiraling hombres tracing their arcs across the Febuary sky, I note at this moment that Killian’s has placed a windmill on their roof. It is a dual-hooped windmill, with vanes arranged like the steps of a water-wheel, and a fin to guide it squarely within the wind. A water wheel fish windmill: a concrete visual metaphor of my own absurd vision, if ever there was one, right on cue. As I also recall the exact moment during which Marta set off the fire alarm I begin to see a strange synchronicity emerge in these events, a story within a story.
Killian’s stands at the very intersection where I was wondering, while driving home two months ago in the rain, if I were driving through reality, or merely driving through a projection of reality upon my mind, a holographic universe. My mind and the universe are one, as all are minds. What leads our universe, then, to fold inward upon itself, and generate, in these bizarre and ridiculous imaginings of my mind, a strange and synchronous repetition of itself revolving around whirleybirds, windmills, orgasms, and fire alarms?
Somehow, synchronicity is woven into the fabric upon which the universe is constructed. Even DNA exists because of chance. We know this fact. And the music of chance continues to percolate upward through matter, all the way throughout the tier of mind. In this particular tier, however, this music can flow back and into itself in highly unusual ways. The tier of mind is, as we all know, the eddy upon which matter coalesces into a node capable of perceiving itself, the screen upon which the holographic universe projects, and these perceptions and projections are woven through with symmetries that project themselves through time. And here we approach the story inside the story inside the story. Perhaps it is the perception of these symmetries that grants a seer the power of augury. It is not irrational, it is non-rational, out here on the frontier….
What would William Blake believe? The path of excess leads to the palace of wisdom, does it not?
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