kung fusion 11/11

 

I’m not!

 

Er...

 

So let that be the end of it!

Er, Merry, is everything ok.

 

Oh, hi Zie. How's it going?

 

Good thanks. You seem to be upset about something... Who were you talking to?

 

You, of course, who else?

 

Talking to me... but I’ve only just walked in.

 

Well, obviously.

 

Then how were you talking to me?

 

Good question. Do you want the easy answer or the difficult one?

 

Am I going to understand the difficult one?

 

Probably not, not at the moment anyway.

 

Then I think I’ll take the easy one.

 

Ok. Time ain’t always linear, is it?

 

Er...

 

Did that help?

 

Not really, no. Time may not be linear but how could you be speaking to me if I'm here?

 

Good question Zie. Do you want the easy answer or the difficult one?

 

Déjà vu. I expect the difficult one is going to be beyond my comprehension, is that right?

 

Yes, ‘fraid so, for another 6 to 8 months.

 

And then?

 

Then it'll be a piece of cake, once you have a little more experience.

 

The easy one.

 

The easy answer is that I can’t.

 

Can’t?

 

Be speaking to you.

 

But you were.

 

Yes, precisely.

 

Then what help is that answer?

 

In itself, not very much, or none at all to be more precise.

 

Then why do you refer to it as “an answer”?

 

Because a not-thing is often as useful as a thing, even an answer that seems to tell you nothing whatsoever.

 

So you're not-answer was in some way useful?

 

Yes, evidently so.

 

In what way, if you could elucidate.

 

It presents the paradox, the fact that I can't be speaking to you unless you are here, within the context of doing precisely that. Rational minds might throw up their arms helplessly, in despair, but there’s more to the mind than simple reductionist rationality, isn’t there?

 

Er, if you say so.

 

Well, just supposing that was truth in my answer, no matter how confusing it seemed rationally, somewhere within you there is a truth receptor which would have logged and registered the fact that I wasn't lying or deliberately misleading you, even though your rational mind preferred to assume that I was. With this single data point, with this log entry you are then able to go into a deeper mode of inquiry and scan your multiverse, so many different layers and levels of mind which are always present in the background, which we prefer not to navigate for fear of getting lost, or for fear of what we might discover, and doing so you would sense or feel something that you couldn't quite explain, something that you couldn't quite understand, something which doesn't yet fit into any of your cognitive processes or patterns of understanding, an anomaly, but “something” nonetheless. A file is opened entitled: to be explained at a later date, and any time you start getting any information which seems to be pertinent to that file, which seems to fall within its purview, you allow the file to be updated, until sooner or later a picture starts emerging of something which made no sense whatsoever until – suddenly it does. Bingo!

 

Ok… Maybe I can go along with that, but why were you angry Merry? You're supposed to be above that kind of uncontrolled emotionality, aren’t you? A zen master, or something of the sorts?

 

Why do you assume anger is necessarily uncontrolled? Do you have a list of emotions which are acceptable and unacceptable?

 

Well anger often leads to violence doesn’t it, and violence is a bad thing, isn’t it?

 

Yes, generally speaking violence is a bad thing.

 

Generally speaking? You mean to say that violence can actually be a good thing?

 

Yes, of course it can in the right context. For example, there are some sports which are violent, but the violence is channelled in a way which doesn’t cause physical harm, or rarely does. And the combustion engine too, is a violent process which is contained and channelled producing a beneficial effect, moving a car or a plane forward at great speed.

 

Okay, okay I see what you mean, but here we're talking about you being ticked off – you were practically yelling at whoever it was – which indicates you weren’t on top of the situation, doesn't it?

 

Generally speaking, yes, that would be a fair interpretation of what you saw, but no, in this instance you are mistaken.

 

Merry, you never like to admit you're wrong, do you?

 

Wrong?

 

Yes, as in mistaken, delusional, tunnel-visioned, biased…

 

Zie, you seem to feel the need to find fault and put people in the wrong. Are you sure this is not projection? Are you sure you’re not projecting your own frequent wrong-ness on to other people, myself included?

 

Possibly.

 

Bear in mind that we always judge people according to our own standards. It's physically impossible to judge people by higher standards than our own, as we do not have access to higher standards, do we?

 

So you’re saying I live in a primitive, tribal reality of blame and guilt, and therefore I assume you are no different?

 

I'm saying something simpler, that I was not necessarily angry in the sense you understand the word. There was, admittedly, a certain force or energy in my style of delivery which might be interpreted as anger, but nothing more. Your insistence that I was out of control is not my responsibility, nor will it necessarily help you to evolve.

 

So now you’re insinuating that you're responsible for my evolution...

 

Yes, I agree, it doesn’t sound good, does it?

 

Sulking.

 

I’m actually assuming that we all prefer to evolve and learn, to expand our minds and our perception of reality. This isn’t possible to do without a little humility, without the willingness to accept that we are not yet perfect, that our perception is somewhat limited, that humility is the vital ingredient which enables us to go beyond whatever our limitations at the present moment might be.

 

Fair point.

 

Besides, let's not take things too personally. If there’s any truth in what I’m saying then allow your truth-sense to register that and to log it. What you do with this information, this awareness, determines whether your life is going to be a journey of expansion into something bigger and brighter and better, or a dull reiteration of the fact that things cannot really change in any way.

 

Ok, you've made your point.

 

Ok, on guard.

 

Huh?

 

I’m going to fight you.

 

Hey! What’s this all about.

 

Enough theory. It's time for action. Defend yourself or face the consequences. It's time for a spot of kung fusion.

 

You can’t attack me. I don't permit it... Ow... Ow... Stop that...

 

What you think of as anger is, as you’re now going to see, a vital survival mechanism.

 

Yaow! Quit beating me with that thing!

You mean my shillelagh?

 

Yes, whatever it is. Ouch. Are you mad?

 

Zie, you talk too much. Right now your healthy, channelled anger is the only mechanism that’s going to save you from a thorough drubbing.

 

I refuse to be a part of this madness. I’m leaving.

 

Oh – you want to play it that way, do you – whiney little spoilt brat – not playing with you – you’re not my friend – that what it is?

 

Zie can’t for the life of him understand what’s got into Merry, and the unprovoked assault, far from making him angry – leaves him cold and clinical. Something switches, clicking internally. Zie is aware of another mode – another stance. For a split second it’s like there are two of him: the nonplussed, bewildered “what-the-eck’s-going-on” Zie, and er…

 

Kung Fu master! – Merry whoops in delight. There you are, at last. I nearly busted my shillelagh trying to resurrect you.

 

Battered, bewildered, what-the-eck’s-going-on Zie – fades to the faintest of shadows, while standing in the limelight – exuding power, confidence and style – like a Kung Fu Zorro is…

 

We meet again – mad Derry of the oak grove – my arch nemesis – seethes not-Zie – with utter contempt and cool, cool fire.

 

Mad Derry of the oak grove? Yes, I can accept that role, and who would you be, Kung Fu Malone perhaps?

 

It matters not – for what is a name when there’s an old score to settle?

 

True.

 

Our livestream is, as always – technically perfect – g-nomeportal has IT resources that would put world governments to shame, yet even the most observant of our billion strong audience fails to notice the transition from now to then, from regular 3D-olatry to mythos-ology.

 

Mein Gott! – gasps from the ever-swelling audience setting off irritating beeps throughout the amphitheatre. “We kindly ask the audience to refrain from invoking any or All divinities while within the confines of the sacred grove.

 

Don’t ask me how a quantum-plex amphitheatre can simultaneously be described as a “sacred grove”, or we’ll be stuck in the “who’s on first base” conversation of kung fu-sion – whether your preferred answers be easy or difficult. Let us focus, instead, on what we know – on what we can now perceive – on what is being experienced even as I prattle on – in the sacred grove – as Derry no-longer Merry, and Cú Chulainn, pronounced Cuhullin, in full-blown battle rage leaving Zie’s shadow far, far from sight now pit themselves against each other for the greater glory and liberty of old Ireland.

No – I’m not going to describe the fight Everal. I have better things to do. Coffee to make. Birds to date. Social media accounts to update with false information. For God’s sake BEEP! Damn BEEP! Oh for Chrissake, would someone switch off that bloody machine! BEEP! (We have no font size to do justice to the scale of BEEPs now reverberating throughout the quantum-plex amphitheatre – even Derry not-quite-but-almost Merry and Cú Chulainn no-foolin-if-Zie-would-sneeze are temporarily staggered, blown back, frame-frozen by the onslaught of take-not-in-vain-ology blasted through the mythosphere.) Astonishingly, our narrator seems utterly oblivious to the sonic pain he has unwittingly inflicted on the billion strong crowd of fight fans until he gets an irate phone call from Borax Botterstamp, the only one in g-nomeportal who can fully control the Beeper – “What the hell are you playing at Stan?” – deathly silence, not a beep in sight. “We have an epoch changing duel being fought between D and CC [B.B, like many officials, adores acronyms and abbrev’s] and you trigger an avalanche of beeps! And now you’re making coffee instead of commentating the fight, damn you!” deathly silence².

 

Stan was indeed sorely tempted to retort “I’m not!” but thought the better of it.

 

My abject apologies Borax Bertiflux! he replies, tweaking the field to ensure B.B would be soothed rather than offended by his insouciance.

 

“So let that be the end of it,”¹ B.B. continues “We need your voiceover.”

 

Voiceover, commentary – like I’ve nothing better to do – Stan grumbles to himself sotto voce – ensuring there are no hot mikes in the room. But, not one to fall into line submissively – Stan pulls a nice little white rabbit out of his proverbial hat – so to speak. Actually, a rather large beetle – but no ordinary beetle, I hasten to add.

 

No?

 

Absolutely not. Since when did Stan ever satisfy himself with anything ordinary.

 

Then what?

 

Problem. Reaction. Solution. That kind of logic’s going to take you a long way Bronwyn.

 

Oh. So, in that case we’re talking, perhaps, a Babel beetle?

 

Stan’s eyes light up with admiration. Attagirl, Bronwyn! Not for the first time you’ve nailed it.

 

Bronwyn takes this in her stride. What, after all, is heartfelt praise to the practitioner of kung fusion? She’s well aware of her ability to download all kinds of inaccessible information from the quantum field of knowing-ness.

 

So, what are we waiting for? Stan whispers something in the Babel beetle’s left ear. Those of you familiar with the critters will know that the right ear is reserved exclusively for amorous messages – contacting a different brain lobe – so be sure to get it right.

 

The Babel beetle has a direct thought-line to the g-nomeportal mythosphere and sacred grove audio transmission feed – long story – ‘nother time – and starts commentating as only Babel beetles can – garrulously, fluently, flawlessly. In fact, a few of our more observant spectators are on the verge of suspecting that Stan’s pulled a fast one, as he’s wont, but our beetle – conveniently labelled T-max, slurs the occasional s and f – not every time – but just when he senses things are getting a little suspiciously too good to be true – clever trick – don’t you think? We use that sometimes with 3D reality – the Murphy effect we call it – throwing in a few judiciously disseminated error prompts to keep things believably imperfect.

 

You may be wondering what on Earth (sic) is happening between Derry and Cú Chulainn – and I’d be the last one to keep you in the dark. It’s epic. Without a doubt. You’ve seen this kind of fight a million times. Thunderbolts and lightning. Earth shaking. An audience enthralled, dribbling, oo-ing and aa-ing with every point of contact between our larger-than-life heroes – but the fact is that it’s mostly just a distraction.

 Huh?

 

Well, like I said – you’ve seen it a million times – so sooner or later you’re going to figure out that it’s er…

 

A distraction. Got the message Em – but why go to all the trouble of setting up the fight scene, with the Babel beetle commentator, Stan and the lovely Bronwyn, if you never intended to actually follow through.

 

Do you want the easy answer or the difficult one?

 

The difficult one of course.

 

42.

 

Pathetic.

 

Absolutely. Tee tee tee.

 

Ah – I see.

 

You did?

 

Yes, I do. Your feeble answer triggered a cascade of ideas and associations until the next thing I knew…

 

Was?

 

I knew.

 

And? What?

 

You want me to tell you? Give me a break.

 

But, Tana, I need to know whether you really know.

 

Like hell you do. [silence]

 

Huh?

 

What’s wrong Em – you look like you’re choking.

 

No beeps!

 

I told you, didn’t I.

 

You know! You really do.

 

I guess so.

 

You’ve done it Tana. You’ve squared the circle. You’ve reincorporated, reintegrated, re-fused g-nomeportal and the rubber duck side of human conscious-yware-ness. You’ve transcended your character type. You’ve become a goddess – you’re Dana now – aren’t you.

 

I’m not.

 

Er…

 

So let that be the end of it.²

 

Damn! BEEP This is beginning to do my head in – mise en abyme.

 

What did you say?

 

Oh, hi Zie.

 

Mise en abyme.

 

As in story within a story?

 

Yep. And you’re implying that… you’re not actually trying to say that… no, surely not…

 

I might be.

 

That our whole reality – is in some way – to some extent…

 

I’m worried about you Zie.

 

You are?

 

Yes, you’ve just taken part in one of the most epic struggles ever to have been witnessed in the mythosphere – the raging Cú Chulainn almost reduced Derry, formerly known as Daire or the oak grove to a pulp of paper paste – yet you seem completely detached, almost bored by this herculean feat?

 

It wasn’t really me, was it?

 

What do you mean?

 

It was the battle rage. A natural force like thunder and lightning out of control – wreaking havoc. Of course it had its way. Bertie Beetle waxed lyrical over my bulging muscles and fiery battle stare – but that was just it – wasn’t it.

 

?

 

The fiery battle stare of a beast – a being possessed by unquenchable rage. I couldn’t help but win. And what of it? I won… and what? Zie was always apart. Zie was never excited by the binary nature of win or lose, heads or tails, me or you – in fact he was heartily sick of it all, wasn’t he.

 

Er... it sounds like something has broken inside. Like you’ve lost your will.

 

I… Zie feels himself imploding inwards.

 

Imploding inwards? How else are you going to implode?

 

Shut up – Fria.

 

Get sucked down, ever deeper, deeper into the central emptiness – the bottomless um that simply makes no sense whatsoever – no matter how hard you try – these disparate strands of story threads…

 

Stands of story threads – more tautology if you ask me.

 

Fria – would you please shove a cork in it.

 

Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole – but no bottom seems to emerge from the ever deepening gloom of bottomlessness.

 

Until – zzz

 

Z³ to be precise.

 

I beg your pardon?

 

Z³ – to be precise.

 

Batty as a fruit bat.

 

No, you fool – it’s nutty as a fruitcake.

 

Ah – that’s it.

 

Hey – I’m not falling.

 

Correct.

 

And you?

 

I’m not.

 

Er… déjà vu.

 

Déjà vu.

 

Correct. So let that be the end of it.³

 

If you insist. But before we part…

 

Ow! What was that for.

 

Zie grabs the shillelagh using his newfound Z^{3  “}time is but a construct” ability – reaching through preceding pages of the story, inserting a little comma in the text to separate it from Merry – and now sets about generously applying it to Merry’s infinitely bashable anatomy.

Merry is torn between laughing and crying – as his 3D form is all but beaten to a pulp, while his mythos shines brighter and brighter with the paradox of things not really mattering in the slightest when the supposedly-sacred veil of space and time separating this side of things from the oak grove of meaning

 

Or truth.

 

Yes Fria, we got the message, thanks.

 

Just sayin.

 

is no longer zip-tied up.

 

 

Later that day…

 

You said it would take 6 to 8 months for me to work it out.

 

Did I?

 

Yes, do you want me to find the exact quote?

 

Not really.

 

Well, it looks like your infallibility has taken something of a beating today, Merry, doesn’t it.

 

Yes, I’ve had rather a drubbing – but then again – how was I to know you’d team up with Cú Chulainn? or that you’d play it so cool – not rising to the bait.

 

Ah. Indeed. For once I outsmarted you.

 

But then again.

 

Yes?

 

Look outside.

 

What? The window?

 

Where else? Just because you’ve learnt to unzip the fabric of space and time doesn’t mean you have to ignore the beauty and wonder of physical reality – or her wonderful world of nature.

 

Her?

 

His – her… What’s in a pronoun?

 

True.

 

Zie looks out the window over a wintry landscape.

 

Wait a minute… What’s going on?

 

Huh?

 

It’s winter out there.

 

Is it?

 

Yes – you can see as well as I can.

 

Oh, yes, I suppose it is.

 

But…

 

Yes??

 

It was summer this morning.

 

Was it? That doesn’t er… doesn’t sound terribly plausible Zie. Not in the classical sense, if you don’t mind me being old-fashioned about this.

 

Where did it go?

 

I’m sorry Zie. Where did what go?

 

Summer, autumn. When is it now?

 

March.

 

March? You’re kidding me!?

 

No, not at all.

 

Bloody hell! Beep!

 

Watch it Zie – don’t want to put Borax Butterslip in a rage.

 

But…

 

Confusing, isn’t it.

 

8 months falling down a rabbit hole?

 

Apparently so – all in a day – preserving the essential unities of time, space and action – but then again – look Zie – the important thing is that you’ve answered your question, haven’t you.

 

I…

 

And if you don’t mind – I’ve gotta go.

 

Huh? Where?

 

Merry suddenly looks kind of sheepish.

 

You’re not off on a date, are you?

 

Even more sheepish.

 

With?

 

Sheepish to the point of transmutation.

 

Bronwyn? I…

 

Hey ho, gotta go.

 

‘m flabbergast.

 

Merry skips gaily out – exiting back stage left. Zie is left onstage, irresolute, unsure. Lights fade to grey.

 

 

The end

 

Thundering applause

 

 

 

Stan quickly hops back into the commentary box before Borax Botterstamp has the chance to spot his absence, slipping Bertie the garrulous beetle back into his box. Those of you with a bent for geometry will have observed, no doubt, that the box is definitely circular on the inside despite being thoroughly square shaped without. Incidentally, the same could be said of the quantum-plex amphitheatre – but more of that anon.

He bumps into Zie who seems to have found a novel way of coping with his feelings of post-rage depression by reciting poetry "All the world's a stage...la di da"– which for some reason he's now able to access, or generate directly from source, along with Pi to infinity and a bunch of other stuff that would make him look terribly smart down in 3D reality. 

You look like you need a drink Zie – says Stan. 

For a second or two Stan is paralysed by fear as the shadow of Cú Chulainn flickers before his eyes, but then it's just Zie once more, and the two link arms and find a sunset to light their path, as they head down to the Gravediggers Pub, somewhere in Dublin, sunny when.

 

Cuckoo la la

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