Writing to pass the time while waiting for a service call

Dear diary,

All those planets… all those stars… all those galaxies. Either there IS life like ours, somewhere out there; or there’s NOT—& any way you look at it, it’s thrilling:

On the one hand, if all the unexplored realms are devoid of our type of life, it’s thrilling to think that we’re so unique and alone amid all this space. Perhaps we humans are the pioneers of what eventually will prove to be a worldwide infestation. And just like we on Earth wonder what it was like to live here during the time of Adam & Eve, or slightly after the flood, when there were giants and gods and dinosaurs sharing the land with us (I’m now peppering my text with ideas that I don’t think are true—at least not in the accountant’s sense of that word—as an attempt to give my thought a little color) and the offspring of deities even mated with our sisters and mothers:

There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them . . . (Genesis 6:4)

So, if the unexplored worlds beyond this one hold no trace of human-esque life, then just as we earthlings wonder what it was like to live on our planet during the earliest times, so the people of the far-out realms of futurity will envy us occupiers of the twenty-first century: They’ll wonder what it was like to live amid constant warfare, torture, slavery, & soul-numbing inequality, in an eon when artists are the least valued people, while the most valued people are lawyers & priests & moneychangers.

But, on the other hand, it’s equally thrilling to consider that perhaps we’re not alone: perhaps there are humanlike beings alive elsewhere in the world. This thought rouses further questions:

How many assemblages of compatible beings are out there? Do they know of us, while we are ignorant of them? Are they more or less “advanced” than earthly humans? Suppose these mysterious beings from whithersoever happen someday to encounter us; what will be the result: friendship, enmity, indifference? What if they stink, literally?—will we be able to tolerate a species that smells like cucumbers on steroids? What will their robots think of our robots? Who will win the intergalactic chess tournament? On the day that the aliens arrive, will we earthly Christians finally admit that our interpretation of the Bible was mistaken? Or will we try to convert these barbarians to the worship of the True & Living God? And what if they come equipped with their own God who can plainly be seen?—like back in the days of Moses & Yahweh from Exodus (13:20-21):

And the extraterrestrials girded their loins and entered their flying saucers, and they betook themselves out away from their home planet Succoth, and they traveled many lightyears, until at last they encamped upon the planet Etham, whose inhabitants christen “Earth”, which is situated at the far edge of the outermost spaces, in the realm of the wilderness. And as the aliens traveled, their Deity went before them, day and night: by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way; and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light.

Will we take one look at their God and say “Lo, it’s the Devil”; or will we ask him some questions first, to test his spirit?

And that first question I asked above: How many assemblages of compatible beings are out there? – this interests me because I think we’d take the news differently if we learned that the unknown worlds are replete with countless examples of human-esque life, versus learning that, among the vastitude of all the habitable expanses, there is just ONE SINGLE species like our own: our sole sibling and fun-house mirror image. This latter scenario has the potential to end badly, I think; because we might view ourselves as rivals, instead of cooperating. Instead of long-lost lovers meeting with tears of joy and a warm embrace, it might be like The Red Team vs. The Blue Team in the Ultimate Battle for the Domination of Spacetime. (If the worlds are swarming with one’s breed, it offers less of a temptation to play “king of the hillock”, since the odds are against your group conquering all the other groups; whereas, if there’s only two cowboys in existence, then one can say to the other “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.” That’s all I mean.)

And it’ll also be embarrassing if the aliens are more sophisticated than us. That’s like a finely cultured gentlemen opening the door of your cottage and finding you on the dirt floor, disheveled and filthy, wrestling with your brother: for it turns out that you two had been discussing morality, and your argument escalated into violence.

The lead gentleman of the trio taps his cane on the wooden door, and the door creaks open, and a shaft of light illumines ye twain, who appear, mid-struggle, like the statue of “Laocoön and His Sons” minus the father, down there on the floor, clutching fistfuls of each other’s hair. Motes of dust suffusing the beam of light provide the lone motion, as you two have frozen in your discreditable pose. You notice that the handle of the gentleman’s cane is radiant green and resembles the mantle of a squid. His two companions are identical to him in appearance: it’s like one lord in three persons. The gentleman addresses you in a measured voice:

“Let a little water, I prithee, be fetched, and wash your face, and wash the face of your brother as well, and rest yourselves—stop grappling and cudgeling—& mop up this blood. Now I will fetch a morsel of bread, to comfort ye your hearts; & after that I shall pass on, for I have only appeared here to alert the inhabitants of this cottage that a company is coming: you shall have visitors. Make them feel welcome. They are Plan A. Had they failed, you yourselves would have served as Plan B. But they are acceptable and pleasing, thank Luck.”

Now a saucer lands outside, in the clearing in front of the cottage. And the trio of gentlemen who stood before the door of your cottage withdraw from you and ascend up into the saucer, by way of its ramp. And the mellifluous voice of the gentleman who spoke to you earlier is now heard addressing the saucer’s occupants:

“O souls of Succoth, make ready quickly three measures of fine meal, knead it, and make cakes upon the hearth.” (Here I am plagiarizing Genesis 18:4-8.) “Also,” the gentleman continues, “fetch one of your golden calves, tender and good, and offer it up with a prayer unto the Ethamites in the outbuilding yonder. And proceed cautiously; these beings are volatile in nature.”

And you watch as the gentleman and his two companions descend the ramp of the saucer. They leisurely continue their stroll, past your cottage and over the horizon, in the direction of Sodom. Then you hear bustling from the inside of the saucer. Soon, seven beings emerge, almost exactly like humans in appearance, even clearly attractive (in the manner of ads for hair-removal clinics), and their bright apparel is like form-fitting swimwear. The visitors approach your cottage holding a salver on which is fresh butter, and milk, and the calf which the gentleman ordered them to make ready. They place this meal on the ground before you; and they sit in front of you, under the shade of a tree, and with warm smiles they motion for you to partake.

The food is very good; it’s certainly one of the best lunches you’ve ever enjoyed.

Now your brother steps out of the cottage, and you wave him over and say “Come, eat—the Succothites have offered us this cuisine as a gift of friendship, and they’ve invited us to travel with them in their saucer to the place called Two Mile Crick, which is a narrow freshet that spans the entire width of southern Bloomington: it’s exactly two miles long, hence its name.”

So your brother eats a share of the “landfood” (the Succothites refer to roast calf as “landfood”, the way earthlings call tuna “seafood”), and then the two of you enter the saucer and travel to Bloomington.

During the trip, you espy thru the western windscreen an additional flying saucer, much like the one that you are traveling in. Pointing to the vehicle, you ask your hosts, “Is that another of your spacecrafts?” And they answer, “No.” And you say, “Then whose is it?” And the bespectacled one among them, who goes by the name of Herbert, answers:

“We do not know whose craft that is. Although it’s been harassing us ever since we arrived in your atmosphere, it has yet to respond to any of the welcoming messages that we’ve been sending it. But, since it is weaponized, we assume it belongs to your government.”

And just as Herbert is pronouncing the terminal syllable of that final word, a cannonball crashes thru the windscreen: the pursuant craft has blasted the Succothite saucer. Flames & smoke are everywhere, and the air is resounding with the noise of emergency sirens. All the buttons on the saucer’s wraparound control panel are flashing red and signaling “DANGER!” Then the saucer crash-lands in the jungle.

Looking to your right, you see a huge white farmhouse. You think to yourself: A farmhouse in the jungle? Your spaceship has apparently crashed in this family’s back yard, which is one with the surrounding tropical wonderland. The family’s members – a kindly man about 70 years of age, plus his wife who is wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette (her nightgown is sleek and stylish, and she appears unperturbed) and their two children: quiet, shy toddlers – all at once exit the back of their house thru the French sliding door, and they stand on the high deck, and the elderly patriarch exclaims:

“Is everyone OK down there? The flames from your accident are about six hundred and sixty-six meters high, blazing up to the stars—they awoke us from our slumber, so we came out to see if we could prepare some breakfast for you and your crew of extraterrestrials.”

And Herbert the Succothite, your space-alien guide, answers the old man: “We are fine. I think your government just accidentally shot our spacecraft out of the sky, so we landed here in the jungle of your back yard. But can you tell us which way we should proceed, to get to Two Mile Crick?”

And the old man answers, “Sorry about my government. I have no control over its actions. There’s basically a double nation, a twofold bureaucracy, here in the U.S.: one portion, wholly clandestine, that handles the foreign affairs, which we citizens cannot control and thus have nothing to do with; and another government that deals with domestic affairs, which is mostly unresponsive.”

And the Succothites say, “No problem. No hard feelings. – Yet what about the creek?”

And the wife and children begin to shuffle back inside while the man answers: “O yes, you mean Two Mile Crick—well, you’re almost standing in it: that’s how near it is! Just turn around, tiptoe down those steep rickety steps there, which run along the whole length of the mountainside, and, when you reach the bottom, you can’t miss it: you’ll see it there, right before your eyes—it’s called Two Mile Crick—named on account of the fact that it’s exactly two miles long: it spans the southernmost border of Bloomington. It’s the pride of our town. It’s got rapids, where the water plummets over a precipice and splashes in a big foamy mess upon the sharp and dangerous rocks, and it’s also got calm areas where the water gently swirls around a bend, and it is so gentle smooth and clear that you can see straight to the bottom: right down to the tawny sand. When the weather’s serene, some parts of the river appear like liquid glass. But on a stormy night like tonight, when there’s torrential downpours and nonstop lightning and thunder, I recommend donning a waterproof poncho and seeking out a position by the bank where the roots of the trees are exposed: just stand there and marvel at the chaos: the multitude of raindrops pounding down on the surface of the water. If you relax your mind while gazing at this vision, you can hypnotize yourself and even unlock memories of your previous existences, as well as long-repressed truths of the wars between the Succothites and the Ethamites.”

And your group shouts “Thank you, friend!” and the old man nods politely and returns into his farmhouse. Then you descend the thin, rickety stairway, and, upon reaching the ground, you behold the creek. It looks like paradise, before the first human sprang from earth’s mud-womb. Before Yahweh muted the breath of life into man’s nostrils. Budding plants are everywhere; a mist continually rises from the floor of the forest. Near the shore beneath one of the bridges is a mannequin wrapped in plastic, placed there in honor of Laura Palmer (see the very beginning of the first (pilot) episode of Twin Peaks (1990)). Also nearby is a large gray rock that got split by a thunderbolt into a cross section, on whose flat smooth interior is revealed a dazzling array of concentric zigzags.

So you and the Succothites enjoy walking from one end to the other of Two Mile Crick. At a certain point you even navigate a slender footpath that bridges the walkway over a gap more than fifty fathoms deep. The footpath is held up by a single support-pillar made of aluminum, which wobbles with every step. You notice your alien friends, while attempting to maintain their composure, are visibly trembling. You ask them, “Why are you all so scared?” And Herbert answers, “We are smart.”

Then on the other side of the tall path, you meet a passerby: a young woman walking a leashed alligator. She smiles and says hi and shimmies her shoulders as she passes. Herbert says to you, “Some of your people seem genuinely kindhearted.” And you say, “Yes!” And Herbert says, “It’s sad to think that, sooner or later, life beats the pulp out of everyone.” And you say, “True.” And then you add, “I wish you could’ve known me when I was a youth, dear Herbert. I was happy-go-lucky, just like that girl with her pet.” And Herbert says, “Our records show that you were an uptight spaz, and that you kept to yourself.” And you say, “How did you know!” And he answers, “We’ve been taking detailed notes on your behavior, performing surveillance on you Ethamites for millennia. . . .”

*

Well, time’s up, gotta go. I only wrote this entry to pass the hours while I was waiting for a real estate agent to come and tell me that my apartment is unsellable and thus I’m stuck in Burnsville forever.