Four Scouts to the New World
Mother of the Species, Brian George, 1991
The premise, as presented by John Giordano: It is discovered that life can be supported on a pristine planet JUST LIKE THE EARTH located in a distant galaxy. The only difference is that there aren't any humans on the planet. The most evolved animals are apes and monkeys. All the natural resources are the same as Earth. Technology exists to get four people to the planet on a scouting mission. They will stay for one year, planning for the arrival of settlers from Earth.
Should our settlement on Gaia 2 be an extension of the known, no different from Gaia 1 than New York is from Timbuktu? Should we send an ambassador from Burger King, or a lawyer from the International Monetary Fund, or an ideologue from Harkin Energy to privatize the water supply? Should a lottery be held among the five large media conglomerates to see who should control the wavebands of interplanetary news? Should we transport our habits, both good and bad, in order to create an environment familiar to the touch, or should the voyage be regarded as a new beginning, in which all certainties are put aside?
The questions we ask will condition the answers that become available. We worship practicality, but in many ways our actions are not practical at all. We do not live in our bodies. Desire is abstract. Terror is no longer an emotion; it is the remote-controlled hand of the oligarch, bread for the circus, an economic windfall, or an art movement searching for the door to a museum.
Our accumulation of fetishistic objects has perhaps become a form of addiction unto death. Is technology a blessing or a curse? There is no time to judge. Once set in motion, it sweeps all before it like a juggernaut. Blocked memory pushes what the strange attractor pulls. It is we who were left as a sacrifice to the recombinant simulacrum. We are the real victims of an artificial war, which has existed from a time before necessity shrunk the atom. Should our settlers be experts, and if so, how do we insure their freedom from the influence of corrupt agendas?
We should determine, first, how many objects are really needed to sustain the life of a community. Perhaps far fewer than we think. Is it too fantastic to suggest that our settlers bring next to nothing with them? They will see with fresh eyes. They will feel with open hearts. Let them bring a few tools and instruments, the clothes on their backs, the energy around them. Let them act on what they know. The gifts they share should produce a more than adequate abundance.
Is it even possible to prepare for such a voyage? Let us entertain the possibility that the present Earth is not our home. That our race the remnant of a similar adventure.
The plan will succeed through an act of hallucinated self-destruction. Species will devolve, allowing the new gods to play. Communication with Gaia 1 will be suddenly cut off. The omnidirectional eye will blink, and then stay shut. The spider-pod's legs will be frozen by arthritis. Objects will rust, and will soon be seen as ancestral parts of the environment. Ocean probes will revolt against instructions. Weather balloons will refuse to inflate. An extinct but oddly functional life form, their one computer will be exhibited at the Museum of Natural History.
Scouts could be chosen to illustrate each of Jung’s four cardinal functions. We could call them Intellect, Emotion, Sensation and Intuition. By such verbal actions the gods once generated history. But we have been there, and done that. Eyes wide as plates refocus on the red dawn of omnipotence.
Our allegiance is to a sun that has long since disappeared. We are exiles, with no place to go. We are the citizens of a city with no physical location.
Casting shadows from an aviary that was swallowed by the deluge, our technological genius has again come home to roost. We should learn from the skeletons that the gods keep locked in their closets. These were the brave. A personality type is as stable as the ocean that it walks on. As the story requires, we must put our total hope for transformation in the actors, who are pure, since they do not yet exist. Our four scouts are the vanguard of a perpetual revolution.
Soma – flow for Indra; hallucinatory energies will soon harden into facts. Each dogma will be overthrown.
No action now produces an equal and opposite reaction. The law, as now written, states that every action is to give birth to a metaphor; in its turn this should catalyze some burst of occult action at a distance.
For 26,000 years, we have labored to build out of dreams the great labyrinth of the ego. No self is singular. Each choice leads to an unexpected end. The hand of antimatter points to the icon of predestination. The gods too must be moved, as our violence has just informed them. There are none who do not rise or fall.
It is the principle of uncertainty that drives the data around every electrified U turn of the microchip. Again, the labyrinth flies, before a glitch erases every password in the network.
No matter what their talents, there are no four people who could represent the range or extent of human knowledge. This goes without saying. Perfect specimens would still at best be out of focus holograms.
As the first of the four scouts to Gaia 2, one of my planning group has suggested that we send an ecoscientist. It makes little sense to me, I say, to take apart what is self-sufficient, or to fix what was never broken. Next, we should send an auto mechanic to retouch a Jackson Pollock painting. The end of the world approaches. My attempt at irony does not go over well.
Though an ecoscientist is better than an ecoterrorist, I have my doubts about the wisdom of such a choice. As it is necessary to start somewhere, I will bend, for no particular reason, to the first impulse of the group.
Such a person may not please both the scientific and the ecological communities. From all sides, many would raise doubts, or probe her political philosophy for flaws, or joke about her appearance. The name rolls importantly from the tongue, but what, exactly, can the ecoscientist do?
Could she build a meeting hall from branches, or cultivate a garden? What about the children, you say? How important is the study of whole systems when the settlers' boys and girls must one day go to bed without supper? It is possible, however, that our arguments do not fall on deaf ears, and that our questions will prompt an answer from the hypercube. The ecoscientist has become as pregnant as a cloud. Her biographical files might, as we speak, be reconfigured by a circle of non-spatial watchers. Even now, I can see it in minute detail. A trident has appeared as a red welt on her forehead. It is out of my hands. What she does not know, she is smart enough to learn.
Does she see the planet as a living being, whose body is coextensive with its mind, and whose forces are the active agents of creation? Did she give blood to the goddess? We should not assume that a woman would be any less materialistic in her views. She has been scarred by Occam's razor.
She is tougher than any guy. She has had to be. Does she see the planet as a concept to be turned this way and that, and its species as mere data in a computer simulation?
She will chart the interaction of natural and supernatural agents, of organic and inert geometry, of the future and the past. She will speak in the third person. Though almost mad, she will cultivate an objective tone of voice. If a disaster should overtake the group, leaving footprints but no physical remains, her thoughts will provide a starting place for those who would reconstruct the story.
Fate has scheduled the new planet to cast a spell on its inhabitants. A radioactive flood will transform her every atom. As time goes on she will be called the Mother of Experimental Seeds, Transplanter of Endangered Species, Protector of the Explosive Power of the Small. The sun will turn colors. She will shake hands with her opposite.
The shaman will establish the ritual center and circumference, to mark the sphere of action from the wilderness beyond. As the planet turns like a dancer, he will reimagine the lost lineage of his art. He will swallow a machete. His tears will drench a mushroom. Crying to a conscious stone, whose image is the asteroid, he will be seized by the power of telepathic speech.
Knowledge will explode, flowing two ways through the axis. Is he here or there? He will rediscover the technique of bilocation. He will think that he has never left the Earth. He will hug his favorite tree. A goat will chew on a Campbell's soup can. His long dead wife will appear as an adolescent girl. She will not wear any clothes.
He will touch, with his own hands, the individuated spirit of the place. Learning how to heal, he will develop an intimate rapport with every leaf and root. He will call from cold storage the spirits of the ancestors, that they might assist the group in restructuring the stage set of creation.
They will lead him deep into the shadows of the forest, demand that he explore the transparent labyrinth underground, or lift him, his ego still in his body, far above the clouds, as though he were the victim of a conscious dream. He will transduce superhuman energies. Without charge, he will broadcast a safe current to the group. He will wonder, as water drips from a stalactite, at the hand that drew his image on the cave. So long ago.
The shaman will refuse to die. He will put on and take off phenomena. He will wed the planet. His rigid phallus will be happy. He will counteract the desire of the ecoscientist to present the story as a linear progression.
A bunker stocked with drums of radioactive waste will not be subject to the laws of chance. It will not be disturbed by the drift of continental plates. A computer simulation has assured us that no leakage will occur for 50,000 years.
As children of the industrial revolution, we are eager to put our faith in complicated systems. We believe that a design can be perfected in advance. For this reason, I would next nominate for the voyage an army engineer, who would know that such fantasies do not come true. He trusts an expert only as far as he can throw him. A disaster waits around every corner. An alien craft is hiding in the silver lining of the cloud. No good deed will ever go unpunished. The victim will get blamed. The guilty will hang the innocent from trees.
He trusts that good luck will turn into bad, if not today, then at least by tomorrow.
If something can go wrong, it probably will. To him courage is not a virtue. It is just a part of the job description, a way of thumbing his nose at death, a daily requirement for the survival of the group. A fan of history, he will remember the Maginot Line, and insist on planning for the camp not one but a multitude of defenses.
He will not complain, too much. He will gladly work with whatever is on hand. He will treat each challenge as a matter of life or death. With a few sticks and plastic bags he will levitate a bridge across a river. He will refuse to offer or accept excuses. He will politely ask large boulders to step aside. He will scare crows. He will challenge the wind to a judo match. Threatening a leafy ear, he will put the fear of god into the uncooperative corn.
He will undercut the sentiment of the ecoscientist, and say blah blah blah to the historian of mythology. He will laugh at the obscure pronouncements of the shaman, and try to catch him off guard. He will succeed, in a way, but not too often, and only when allowed to do so. The army engineer is not politically correct. His off color humor will serve as a catalyst for growth, as it shakes the faith of the archetypal father/mothers.
It is not, in fact, possible to prepare a plan for Gaia 2, or dictate the behavior of the scouts. A black dog wanders here and there. Things happen. Chaos spreads her legs, as from her reconstructed landing pad she will tempt the muscular hero, saying come. The successful plan is built to incorporate snafus.
Historian of Mythology
It may be difficult to judge if the new environment is user friendly. As our four brave scouts push forth into the green light of the forest, they will be forced to reimagine their relationship to Nature, against ever shifting odds. It is not enough to be in love with her appearance.
They will move, their upraised palms turned outward to the clearing. Eyes will open behind branches. They must fear the small disturbance in the wind. They must quickly act on her inscrutable commands. She is big. They are very small. Behind the landscape made of dreams, titanic forces may be massing for an attack.
Due to the unforeseeable nature of events, I am tempted to think that a doctor is a necessity. The other members of my planning group agree. The human body can easily get broken. The mind breaks also.
We do not really know that the planet is exactly like the Earth. No doubt seeing is believing. We will have catalogued each genus of bacteria in a foreign solar system. If the planet is alive, it is possible that she may choose to hide from us. Her electromagnetic grid may operate according to eccentric principles. Objects on this planet may occasionally fall up. The engineer may bump his head on an unidentified flying object. He will wake with amnesia, and third degree radiation burns, that do not hurt and are shaped like Egyptian hieroglyphs. Perhaps a shower of space junk will decimate a lean-to, with the ecoscientist inside.
Obsessive fear for safety was not an attitude indigenous to the Earth. It is not likely to have characterized its first inhabitants. Transplants from the realm of consciousness, it did not occur to those fields of gyroscopic energy to be anything other than careless with their bodies. Forethought was a later permutation. Space exploration is not now and never was for the faint of heart. Perhaps the new Earth is hungry for an act of tribute. Blood would be ok. To introduce themselves, the four scouts may want to sacrifice one member to the planet.
Is nature a good mother? She will speak from behind the two-faced mask of Janus.
Just how important is it to be safe, and if it is important, why bother to leave home? There was nothing that originally compelled us to depart from hyperspace.
Fear for safety may inhibit the play of open consciousness, contracting the scouts' range of movement. Should not the goal be fullness of experience? This leads me to propose as a motto: we who are about to die salute you! The early dead will be guaranteed a good place in the story. They will appear to the eyes of fascinated children. Each time anew, they will be buried in a makeshift ceremony, or burned, to the sound of Hindu chanting, on a pyre built from driftwood by the sea.
Destiny is strange, as is its disobedient shadow. Chance is peculiar. The self-generating story speaks. There is nothing to be done. The fabric of space/time unexpectedly rips, in such a way that no doctor can repair it. I therefore propose to substitute for the doctor a historian of mythology.
She will not preserve the safety of one experimental actor. She will throw a bridge across the generations. She will tell stories.
Her stories will not be for the purpose of entertainment, only. They will give birth to a dream, to a vision of the body politic, to the recombinant social history of the group. In her self she will integrate the demands of one lineage with many, without loosing the strange flavor of each.
The physical base will be powered by the wings of a superconscious aviary, by a fleet of living windmills, by a bank of solar energy cells. Death will take a holiday. There will be no resource that a dream does not renew. The group itself will be driven by the resonance of the spoken word. The historian of mythology will visit the amnesiac patient at home. Stories will be the raw material, from which others will one day weave the new world culture.
There will be stories and more stories. There will be every type of story, from everywhere. There will be small stories and large stories, fairy tales and obscure epics, shamanic flights and scientific chronicles, Zen improvisations and Hebrew genealogies, nostalgic odes and records of past futuristic wars.
The interdependent arising of Earth's languages must be scheduled to survive their transportation. One person must embody as much as possible of the imagination of the distant globe.
The historian of mythology will possess an encyclopedic memory. She will serve the group as a different kind of doctor, a green leaf on an amputated branch. She will found an Institute for the Study of Inderdimensional Memory, and provoke a renaissance in the art of memory, an art in slow decline from a period before Homer. She will momentarily become the story that she speaks.
The dead will escape from their cryogenic cylinders. A brontosaurus will win the poetry slam. Fish will clap. Skeletons at sunset will crackle on the hearth. Smoke will assault the noses of the group. The historian of mythology will pause to amplify an echo- to make real to them the footstep of an army. The dead will kiss the target on her radioactive forehead. A burning elephant will dance from her tongue.
She will take by the hand the ragged artist from Lascaux, and call the omnipotent bindu from the sea, to create out of sound an indeterminate space – where anything can happen.
She will sponsor intercourse between the small and the large, between the microcosmic phallus and the macrocosmic wheel. The center will start to turn through the circumference. The open house will fly, shuttling between one solar system and the next.
The One Year Plan
Goals will be set, but never achieved. The one year plan will fall by the wayside. Gifts will be kept in circulation. The seven day work week will go the way of taxes, death and television. Food will be sufficient for each day. Projects will be projected from an unknown source onto clouds.
There will be no permanent leader. Skills judged to be valuable on Gaia 1 may prove useless or destructive. Power relationships will be subject to ongoing negotiation. There will be no external agency to impose rules from above. There will be no police to call. The group (of necessity) will be the judge, the punishment and the refuge.
Echoes will collaborate. The dead will all at once remember how to read. Birds will excavate the crumbling records. Leaders will be the temporary masks through which the voice of the new planet will jump as it clamors to express itself.
Future of the Group/The Open House
Let us say that the purpose of the four scouts to organize a society. Auroras will cause them forget.
Should we not put aside conventional wisdom, and attempt, as dead and resurrected actors, to see the universe anew? Anxious to avoid being ignorant, there is a good possibility that we know too much. The faculty of direct perception works best when there is empty space. It is simple to ask questions. Such as:
Does consciousness begin at birth? Is matter, as we have been lead to believe, inanimate? Are the living truly separate from the dead?
Can animals talk, and can we stretch our language to communicate with pet prehistoric species?
If there is in fact a single universe, if all is one, is there nonetheless a multitude of dimensions stretching above and beyond us? Does the mouth of the Many close on the snake-tail of the One? And is there anything left over if one squares the circle, some static left on the outside of the framework of creation?
Do we create or (simply) read the future? Is it up to us to choose our work, or did a poet, writing on a distant constellation, prescribe what we should one day do?
Are we moved like tearful actors by the story, or is it up to us to revolt against the Zodiac? Should a Paleolithic weapon be employed to drain the energy from a death star? Is the new planet pleased with our performance?
Just how young are we really after 42,000,000 years? And were we old before the present age began?
Is the self an echo of a nonexistent other, racing to remember what is up next on the schedule? Is what was? Is tomorrow now, or is some alternate version of you scheduled to exist?
Is chaos a form of interactive video, projected across the screen of horizontal space, whose mouse the unconscious student is too afraid to touch, and whose laws are guarded by the iron hand of chance?
Did Columbus discover America? Seers orbiting the platforms of Tenoctitlan were in shock- to observe that they had lost their strength. They were little more than stick figures who could not hold on to their shadows. Love’s champions were victorious in their war against hallucination. It was not true then, but would soon be so.
Did Columbus discover anything that did not belong to others? The answer is yes/ no. He did promote, if not invent, the living and still dangerous phenomenon of the New World as a myth.
Should we impose our obsessions on a foreign planet, however much it looks like Gaia 1? How often are we given a real chance to start over? Operated by remote control, and bent beneath a technocratic shadow, do we know what a community is?
How far down must the astronaut dig to locate evidence of his origins?
Do we know where human beings are from? What are they for, and what work they were made to do? What do you and your supernatural double really think about the experiment?
Is the center aimed so as to turn through the circumference? Would the great assembly beyond space agree?
Is homo faber a drunken god, who the demiurge had sentenced to hard labor in the mines?
It is perhaps time for the slave to take revenge- by living well.
Ecstasy is a must. Direct vision will restore all of the information fossilized in the 26,000 year precession of the equinox.
Omens will remove the camouflage nets from the ziggurats of the birds.
The purpose of the four scouts is to actively do nothing, to let go of their fears, to prepare the ground for the revelation of a planetary myth. Yogic discipline will then open them to signs. Nature will awaken the giants that a curse had once imprisoned beneath geology.
A myth cannot be created from whole cloth, but a new society cannot be born without one. It would have no reason to exist. When, due to a catastrophe, the Turks began to search for a new home on the Earth, a star appeared to the left of a crescent moon, to lead them across the breadth of Central Asia. Fish jumped into their hands as they marched on the Black Sea.
The new planet is the egg that a determined myth will fertilize. The child of Gaia 2 will improvise a patois. He will stage a revolution. No more nostalgia! The figure 8 will become the new image of the beloved. The intelligence behind the archaic smile will return.
Is the child male or female? Is the soul the same sex as the body? The preexistent engineers would know. A key will be needed to unlock their lips, and a map to the city that they built inside an atom. Opening her arms, the golden child of the waters will laugh. Her heart will serve as a meeting place for all actors that the myth had dispossessed. She is the shadow of a haunted empire, branch to birds, a riverbed to the constellations. She will teach to us the art of indigenous dance.
Interspecies marriage will reconstitute the genome scarred by hyperspace. I brood on a concept of nonexistence, whose time has not yet come.
An excerpt from The Annals of Seth:
In those days they constructed out of alloy cones. Quartz led chaos in a world scale revolution. Fractals were triumphant. A space ship was used to cross the breadth between two nerves. A jump of two bands on an octave was thought of as a gulf. At the speed of light a sign – STOP.
Top experts had determined: Time goes one way and that way is forwards. Pithecanthropus evolves in a straight line to the present. Knowledge goes only up.
Most babies did not travel past the sun or live to celebrate their hundredth birthday.
In the year 2112 big news: Footprints have been found on Mars! They were, exactly, where the earlier versions of themselves had left them. Only Mars was different. The aqueduct and dome had been destroyed in a rampage of hallucinating birds. Rust covered the centrifuge. Water was occult, and all lost species were expressed in code. Dark energies flowed through the labyrinth of canals. Great works of cyclopean genius now looked like any other natural formations.
Not yet found the law: One body is equal to the square of space. Soon futurism would invent an algorithm that would let them deconstruct the true genius of the macrocosm. The most archaic mode of transport is also the most efficient. Closed curves lead from zero to the circumference. Orange lights flash. A detour has been staged by Metatron.
Notes for New World Planners
Group planners 1 and 2 agreed on the importance of the ecoscientist. She was vital to the mission. She would modulate the arrogance of the technocrat, insure that Isaac Newton would behave, and prohibit excess reproduction. She would ban the hoe and the rake, which terrorize the hearts of worms. Mesoamerica could instruct the voyagers in the design of low tech tools. Natural death is best. Species will beg to be harvested, as they eat from their destroyer's hand.
The ecoscientist would remove all the batteries from flashlights. They do not last. Artificial light obscures the movement of the constellations.
Did I agree with group planners 1 and 2 on the selection of the ecoscientist? As I have said before, my attitude was arbitrary. It was necessary to start somewhere. I delegated my power to the random conjunction of forces. The group mouth had spoken. I would play along.
In the days of the Rig Veda, before any rules for Sanscrit were invented, when the Aryan race was young, poets would free a horse to wander across the fields of anonymous grass. North, south, east or west, where the horse went the hungry tribe would follow.
Thereafter I parted company with the group. We could not reach any consensus. Group planners 1 and 2 were skeptical about the shaman, the army engineer and the historian of mythology. The army engineer did not seem safe. He would get ideas about death. He would dream of genocide. He would export arms to the uninhabited globe. My other candidates did no better. They were voted off the expedition. We will see. Group planners 1 and 2 are concerned about my psychological health. I am building androids to replace them.
Their fear was: that the shaman and the historian of mythology did not seem very useful.
As I had said myself, they reminded me, it was now our turn to reinvent the calendar. Every accident in the new world should be happy. An ideal should shine, like a city on a hill. No darkness should be allowed to taint our ideological hygiene. To my perfect mind, their objections became almost interchangeable:
The cold warrior is a dinosaur. He is rude to UFOs. The tragic muse destroys what she creates. Ecstasy is selfish. Magic is not a force for universal peace. My choices were strange or politically incorrect, they said. They were not useful to the group.
Is group think safe? Revenge is a dish best tasted cold. I prepare the cervical socket of an android- to receive the plug of a prehistoric brain. In the course of the argument my candidates, from the outer dark, had returned, and again were voted down. Their lack of usefulness was of course the point, the goal being to reverse the course of progress, in the service of an obscure and impenetrable cause.
In search of blood, my infantile ideas grew up. My sperm has staged a jailbreak out of the urinal of Hermes. There is no way to avoid the key role played by regression.
Dead rulers will march, attended by a train of genetic engineers. Again, Moebius and Medusa will decide to tie the knot, which binds man’s DNA to hard labor at the laboratory. Birds will liberate burning books from the sewers of the Sargasso Sea.
My dreams are big. They will prompt an explosion.
The long shadow of Earth’s history will demand to be of help in the transposition of the 5,125 year cycle.
A black sun will trade places with the yellow. Tribes will levitate the Pentagon, as they did before. The spiked head of the Statue of Liberty will crack open. The music of the spheres will move in for the kill.
Please forgive me. I am bad. I do not know what I was saying.
Bankers will jump naked out of windows, as the water swells at the end of Gotterdamerung. Laughing, some will hold hands as they fall. All images will be recycled. 24/7 media will broadcast the heroic death of gods. Continents will break dance. The unconscious of the moon is full. Predestined units are to set foot on the ark.
From Pluto to Mercury, the planets had all arranged themselves in a line, as a solar flare knocked the last weapon from Earth’s orbit. It was the seventh session of the Kitty Hawk Consortium. A fourth planner had been added to the group. His own group had been swept off by the plague, just in time to escape the conflagration.
Hi. I'm group planner 4, but you can call me 4, or John, my sub-lunar slave name, if it makes you feel more comfortable. Daily exercise is good for you. I ride a 12-speed bicycle, and believe in perpetual motion after death. Transport is immanent. I play drums in a rock band. Alliances were rearranged, by stealth hypnosis. Pens tapped against teeth. Faces put on serious looks. Notebooks opened.
Group planner 4 expressed his admiration for a friend, who lives in a community of hard working celibates, who are bald. Beam technology from the future has excised all unnecessary glands. The psyche, as a threat to the universal order, had also to be stapled shut. A magnetic field has equalized the activity of each neocortex. The bald celibates have been biogenetically engineered for joy. They can reproduce by the power of telepathic thought, should the need arise, which it hasn't, at least not that we know. What money they make comes from website design. They do not like food much. They do not consume many resources.
When are they planning to commit suicide? I ask. The joke proved to be an example of bad taste, as the group had not yet chosen to go public with its wedding plans.
A man made asteroid has broadcast to initiates a list of eight things to do. Lift off is near.
The arrival of planner 4 has pushed the group (hard) in a dangerous direction. With few disagreements, we explored alternative modes of thought. We began to act as one body.
It was quickly decided that the political system should be modeled on the 19th century New England town hall meeting. I suggested a revolving leadership, perhaps based on the sacrifice of any and all personal wealth, or on the 12 signs of the Zodiac. The idea was shot down. The crowd would argue until one vision was left standing.
At length external circumstances will force a decision on the group. Fear will act as the de facto leader, as it manufactures a near death experience. The sphere, as once imagined by Parmenides, is a discontinuous web of thermonuclear reactions. They do not yet trust that the human body will give as much warmth as the sun.
Information should move and jump according to the theory of redundancy. If one electromagnetic unit is good, more are better, to insure the synchronistic action of the whole. Every system should be overdetermined, like a symbol in a dream, owing its existence to a multitude of causes, aiming its purpose toward a multitude of ends.
On the new planet there would be no roads. There would only be networks of energy. It is lucky, too, that there should not be any roads, as we have shelved group planner 1's idea of transplanting an industrialist. Who would work on the assembly line? It is almost certain that there would be no volunteers. To whom could you market cars?
Proposed and accepted: that they should build a center for barter that would also serve as Omphalos.
No instruments will be mass produced. Toys will be autonomous beings. They will trade no hallucinogen before its time. Hand made goods will look better with hard use, not worse. Each object will have a history. It will hold a charge. It will catalyze the growth of telepathic touch. Again, the inanimate dark will be inhabited, and helpful. The day’s work will cohere as a dance of reciprocity.
Music will be vertical. Nature’s laws will be habits, only. They will not be difficult for any citizen to break. Gravity will be voluntary. History will be as horizontal as the rooms of a museum.
There will not be any courthouse. Instead they will open a center for negotiated settlements. Money will be regarded as the root of all evil. As there can never be enough of it, except in one’s imagination or in the dead hands of one’s neighbor. Banks will be for sperm. Genetic engineers will subdivide the 1 prehistoric egg. Presents will make the heart grow fonder. Good habits will heal. The bad will beg to disappear. Love will be the punishment for a sociopathic tantrum.
There will be no schools, to speak of. Uncomfortable desks will be custom made for every daydreaming student. They will replace the school with a center for intergenerational holograms.
There will be no difference between breathing and the rigors of initiation, beyond those of their choosing.
Each doorway will act as a passage into hyperspatial knowledge. There will be no fear of destruction. Disaster looms. Death walks beside the scout, an all too cooperative shadow. He goes out. He comes back in. There is a strange grin on his face. Romantic geniuses will be instructed to build duplicates. As before, records will burn. Everyone should know just bit about everything. Every man, woman and child will be both student and teacher.
Again, involution will turn their big dreams into memories. Closed curves will enforce a two-fold movement. The imagination should point inward to the soul and outward to the stars. Messages will reverse, aiming a space ship inward to the stars and outward to the soul. Judges will hang. Islands of resistance will disturb the superconscious dream. Technology will be imported, like a dangerous controlled substance. Its goal: to withdraw itself. Its scope will be microcosmic.
The commissioner for species transplantation was shocked to discover that so large a group of hippies still existed. We will fade into shadows. Happy for our children, we will imitate the model of the archetypal father/ mothers.