omicronically notZie

Actually it’s going well thanks.

 

Well? You’re kidding right?!

 

Er…no, should I be?

 

Millions already dead and millions more lining up for extermination… the end of freedom… concentration camps in Australia and other countries…

 

Yes, pretty impressive, don’t you agree.

 

Impressive?!?!?!

 

Talk about steepening the curve.

 

I’m sorry – weren’t you supposed to be one of the good guys?

 

Good, bad…don’t you think it’s a little simplistically binary to either-or creation, or reality too for that matter if you prefer?

 

So evidently I and millions of others were mistaken placing our trust in you. How sad. Very, very sad.

 

Yawn. If you had any idea how duff your facile moral superiority makes you sound Zie, as if God or humanity have in some way let you down, poor Zie, deserving better, diddums.

 

Zie? – I’m not Zie – in any case, I thought he was supposed to be dead.

I know you’re not Zie – but who cares – I need a name for you the same way Byron needs a name for his heroes: exhibit number one – from Beppo, A Venetian Story:

Her real name I know not, nor can guess,
And so we'll call her Laura, if you please,
Because it slips into my verse with ease.

Or exhibit number two – the eponymous Don Juan himself:

I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I’ll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time […]

So, as I said, I’ll take my friend Don Juan.

 

Well, if you could be bothered to use my real name – that might be a good starting point for a meaningful discourse.

 

No, not really.

 

?

 

You never actually bothered to find out your own name, Zie, which is why I’m calling you Zie.

 

Whadya mean – never bothered to find out my name? You wanna look at my birth certificate, my passport, bank statements, utility bills or driving license?

 

Nope.

 

It’s just a further indication of the kind of person you really are Thibblenub Offerdike.

 

Listen Zie – ok – let’s make it notZie if you prefer – you’re welcome to call me anything under the sun – Thibblenub Offerdike or Ethelwurt Sporrytoffin – but I, as you’re well aware, was referring to your true name – the name that your soul, assuming you have one, bears.

 

My soul?

 

Assuming you have one.

 

And you think I have a different name?

 

Think? Why would I think something when it’s a fact that would normally be acknowledged universally, were it not for the fact that you’re all of you under mind control, and thus unable to see the wood from the chipmunks.

 

Er… well – what difference does it make?

 

What difference? You’re serious?

 

Er… yes – why shouldn’t I be?

 

Your soul name – if invoked – immediately pulls you back into alignment with God, the universe and all that is. Boom.

 

?

 

It reaffirms and re-establishes the fact that you are what you are – and nought else.

 

Sounds rather inflexible and dogmatic – if you ask me.

 

It’s guaranteed to get the truth.

 

The truth – how quaint and archaic, how er…

 

Naive?

 

Precisely. We don’t really adhere to such outdated notions as “truth” in our post-modern age of moral relativism, critical race theory and gender politics. What is true for you may well be untrue for me – and what was absolutely certain yesterday – such as my sex, for instance, may be disputable or downright incorrect today or tomorrow.

 

Yes. Which is why I can’t really be bothered conversing with your social media avatar notZie. I’d much rather deal with the real McCoy. *Experienced Merryologists notice a wicked tell-tale gleam in one of Thibblenub Offerdike’s eyes, presaging a knockout dose of GOKW_{[God only knows what]}.

 

The real McCoy? You don’t mean…

 

Precisely – Zephenous Starphlub the 17^th

 

Eeeeeeek! NotZie suddenly finds himself quivering in the air – about four feet and seven inches off the ground – while his soul recognates his wherewithal.

 

Ah, there you are – do you mind if I just call you Zie for short?

 

Not in the least 83.

 

Call me Merry – if you like.

Ok, why not – a word as good as any other. Capitalised?

 

May as well.

 

I’m sensing some reader reaction to these names – perhaps we should avoid…

 

The readers are just going to have to accept the fact that Merry and Zie are neither here nor there.

 

Neither here nor there – yes – I see what you mean – but they’re focussing on personas, aren’t they?

 

Yes, can’t be helped. The quantum field – Qufie to be precise – said to hell with their mistaken notions. Merry and Zie are merely aspects of the quantum field rubbing up against the terminal moraine of 3D reality, loincloths for lemons that are trying to pass themselves off as cabbages.

 

Ok. Fair dinkum. Now we have to do a little house keeping.

 

Do we really?

 

Yes. Stockmarkets are crashing around the world. Governments are collapsing. Men and women are donning anonymous masks and protesting in the streets – all because you inadvertently let slip that millions are dying in this war against humanity, that a global elite is trying to railroad men, women and their offspring back into neo-medieval serfdom, at the very least.

 

Guys – continuity – chief of staff – Steven Spielberg – who wrote this script. I never said that Zie – you should be ashamed of yourself.

 

Oh God Murry – you’re right – it’s glitching again – isn’t it.

 

I was the one who said I couldn’t give a toss – or rather – that I’m delighted because…

 

Yes – that’s right – because… you never actually got round to saying why, did you?

 

It reminds me of the Bolsheviks.

 

It does? How exactly?

 

The fact that they didn’t support trade unionism, because that would prevent a full-blown proletariat revolution if the bourgeois capitalists made concessions and allowed the prols to believe that the system could satisfy their demands and respect their needs.

 

Right… Not sure I follow the lo…

 

gic. No, you wouldn’t – being a Zie – even a notZie. Nothing personal old chap – but you’re matrix bound – even if you’re operating at 5 to 7D as opposed to chug-chug phut-phut 3D – it’s still a matrix, innit? Still a construct, no matter how you try to sell it.

 

I… – Zie’s eyes well up with tears and some soft, sad music conveys the pitiful emotions of feeling unloved and, frankly speaking, a bit of a failure.

You see notZie – I don’t even give a toss if you’re blubbing away here on screen – in front of 49 million viewers – or several times that number on syndicated platforms.

 

You don’t care.

 

Right you are – or rather – I would care if I thought any of this were real.

 

NotZie starts bawling even louder, lost in self-pity.

 

But the fact is – all the world just happens to be a stage – and yes – I mean that literally.

 

Give over Murry – that was just a metaphor.

 

Well yes, in your 3 to 17 Ds I’d agree with you – but once Qufie gets the turntable ripping and puts the quantum field back on track – a different accounting, a different reckoning kicks in.

 

Like what?

 

Like what’s really going on – just under the surface. The isness of be – as we sometimes call it – bubbling away – fascinating energies, rip-roaring maths – and don’t get me wrong – I almost flunked the maths they taught at school – did my head in – but this here maths is, in fact, the interface.

 

Huh?

 

Between reality and uncreatability – between

 

Er…

 

That which can vaguely or definitely be digitalised or squared, and infinity on steroids – Qufie spinning disks as only he can – mixing the frequencies, the melodies, the stories and images of competing realities – without attempting to operate within a particular set of rules. Not his style, not his pay grade.

 

You mean he’s not up to the task?

 

On the contrary – he wouldn’t ever stoop so low. What would be the point? The result would be tendentious – algorithmic – predictable – sterile – devoid of the life-spark that just happens to 𝑥 all his work.

 

𝑥?

 

Missing word.

 

Pourquoi?

 

The field needs the odd-occasional gap here and there – little blemishes – minor imperfections.

 

Why?

 

Good question. Why not ask Qufie…

 

Er… Qufie doesn’t really seem to be more than a figment of your imagination.

 

Oops. Not good.

 

What?

 

He’s not going to like that.

 

Well, I’m very sorry if I said anything offensive…

 

Talking about digging a deeper hole. Please don’t expect me to bail you out when the ship starts sinking.

 

You mean he’s a vindictive bugger?

 

No Qufie – I didn’t say anything of the sort. No Qufie – it’s notZie, as opposed to Zie. No, of course, Zie would never have said anything like that.

 

Good acting Murry. I almost felt like you were talking to a monkey-like figure – this Qufie of yours but

 

Oops – there he goes. NotZie is suddenly deatomised as every molecule in his body suddenly starts questioning the mathematical probabilities of having remained thus far in close proximity, under the aegis of being Zie – or not – as the case may be – now definitely not.

 

De-atomised – is that where you are?

 

Merry senses muffled cries offstage left and right – from front of house and all over the place. Disconcerting but not entirely unexpected.

 

Yes Qufie – I agree – he had it coming – but it’s a learning curve isn’t it. He’s getting there… No?

 

Rule number one – never tell Qufie what to do. He hates being bossed around.

Taking that one step further – rule number two – never even hint at the fact that you’re trying to get something from him, or pushing a certain outcome. It’s guaranteed to trigger his wick.

 

Ed. surely that should be “get on his wick”?

 

A writer – our very own writer – suspended in a Faraday cage to minimise electromagnetic interferences finds his state of inner-well-being-and-unrufflable-calm mildly to intensely ruffled. Impossible – you may well insist – for how could he possibly preserve quantum neutrality if ruffles are ruffling? And the answer, of course, is that he can’t, couldn’t or won’t – depending on which time band or level of conditionality you adhere to – thus we encounter a glitch in the field – the kind of glitch that could/would/should send worlds spinning off into un-beable-ness were it not for the fact that there are certain safeguards to protect against the “human factor” as it’s sometimes named. Does this imply that the quantum field itself is a living organism – which doesn’t particularly like convulsing – and is able to sense incipient convulsions outside time? or are we simply in the realm of – take in on trust – dear reader – until you’re ready to experience it at first hand? Personally, I prefer to think in terms of wriggle room – in which the quantum field is somewhat elastic – and can wriggle past awkward so-called “moments” (though please bear in mind that as we’re operating outside time – such “moments” are closer in meaning to the Latin root momentum, which the online etymology gives as “movement, motion; moving power; alteration, change;” also “short time, instant” – for what it’s worth) Being rather egoistic he, our writer, assumes that this glitch, this spasm of annoyance is contained and dissipated by Zenlike breathing and a near-fanatical commitment to self-denial for the greater good – whereas, in fact, one suspects, and Qufie’s monkey antics backstage right – seem to indicate that there are layers within layers, levels beyond levels, and managing the quantum field for the Zen of Zen   deep, deep within the labyrinths of infinity – is, quite literally, child’s play.

 

Ah – that’s a trigger word – if ever I saw one.

 

Child’s play – and around the world, on this planet or any other that takes your fancy – children play today, as always, blissfully ignorant – so we assume – of the infinite that watches, observes, records and participates in their beauty for beauty’s sake, play for the sheer joy of messin’ around and simply letting play work its magic exclusively here n' now – rearranging, defragmenting the Field - both personal-local and omnipresently.

 

Am I expected to believe that you’re saying all children at play around the world – or worlds for that matter – are involved in generating a distributed, decentralised field of fun? which somehow or other holds the quantum me-knows-not-what-ness together – like a womb or skin – disentangling it from within – smoothing many of the jags and spikes caused by mind-locked adults – who are constantly taking reality to the brink of extinction whether their intentions be good or nefarious, due to their utter inability to distinguish the wood from the trees: the electro-magnetics of life-in-play from the root directory of things-recorded factually – i.e. the business-of-being from the joy-of-being – for adults seem to have lost the ability to allow, to endure or to manifest the so-called “magics” of fulsome Field fluidity, adhering limpidly to flat cross-sections or dimensions, to hierarchies and directories of things-what-matter obsessively. 

 

Kinda, yes – but don’t quote me.

 

But why does the quantum field have to be vested in human beings?

 

Er… where else is it going to be vested? Duh!

 

I mean – can’t it just exist somewhere?

 

Somewhere – outside time and space?

 

Well yes, why not?

 

Where exactly, in your opinion, if you don’t mind me asking, is “somewhere outside space and time”?

 

Er… well – I don’t know – anywhere really.

 

Outside space and time…? Doesn’t really leave many options, if you think about it… logically.

 

Well, maybe you’re right. But it’s hard to imagine it could be vested in human beings.

 

Is it?

 

Yes. I mean – we’re so limited, aren’t we?

 

Kinda – yes – but at the same time – layers within layers, levels beyond levels being what they are – there’s more to us, much, much more to us than meets the eye – particularly when infants, babies, foetuses (Ed. should that be foeti?) are factored into the er…equation.

 

Just ignore him James.

Er… ok Qufie, if you say so… er… not to mention un-incarnated souls or beings.

 

Beep – beep – beep user alert, user alert – none of that theoretical, speculative stuff if you don’t mind – kindly adhere, strictly to the protocols of empiricism, if ye’ don’t mind.

 

Ok – we’ll leave it at wee folk – under the age of – let’s say seven – who are still more or less free of heavy social indoctrination. Almost boundless potential for running the un-traceable un-measurable un-comprehensible unnings of infinity through their collective play-mind-space, not to mention the dream side of things which opens a whole new can of worms.

 

Indeed, indeed... though I object vehemently to your use of the term “unnings” spelt with a double n – such linguistic barbarism I’ve not… (Ed. cut this – no?)

 

So, long story short – infinity cannot exist in a vacuum.

 

Ha, ha – very funny.

 

But can it actually be said to exist – you’re not asking that – are you?

 

Of course it can – in the same way it can be said to not-exist, un-exist and [glitch] notZie exist – all together, all at once – for what are words – what are terms and definitions if not the place where Qufie’s rosined bow rubs back and forth across the carefully tuned, highly strung strings of the mind.

 

Ah – that is

 

Indeed. So all the world’s a stage – we conclude – and right now the drama is reaching its finale – the point at which all things crash and burn in a splendid bonfire of humanity – or – alternatively – 𝑥 is finally bridged – beautifully – not without the assistance of a bunch of very young, from our perspective, human beings – and others who we’re not going to mention for fear of triggering beep – beep – beep algorithms – if, that is, plot is able to somehow reveal a follow on – a whatever next – a deus ex machina that 01s the uncrossable gap.

 

Er…

 

What is it?

 

I mean – can’t you just think something up?

 

Not really – no. I mean – I could – being God and all that – but what’s the point?

 

Er… preventing Armageddon doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

 

Unless it 01s naturally – from all and nought, from nought to all – it would utterly fail to get past the critics, or cut ice with the viewers.

 

Huh?

 

You haven’t forgotten, have you?

 

Er…

 

We’re all of us – like it or not – viewers and critics of the drama as much as performers.

 

We are?

 

Yep.

 

Well, let’s just give it a thumbs up then, and breathe a huge collective sigh of relief.

 

The thing is – as viewers and critics – we don’t care whether the play is a total flop or a raging success.

 

We don’t?

 

Nope.

 

Then what?

 

Just that we do our job with absolute integrity, responding to what is or is not real. Period.

 

Oh dear.

 

That we take things as they are. If they ring true – if they resonate – if they lift off the workshop floor and hit the ceiling, passing through into the infinite above and beyond – if – then it’s thumbs up and off to the pub for a pint or two.

 

And if not?

 

Then, we write the kind of scathing report that will put the kibosh on that line of theatre, those forms of unresolved, incomplete actions which fail to honour and advance the basic principles of creation, which fail to harness the magics of Iz.

 

Ah.

 

So it's a win-win situation from the critics’ point of view.

 

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t – me thinks.

 

And never the twain

 

And never the twain

 

...shall omicron.

 

Indeed? 

Apparently so... Fancy a pint?

 

 

0=1

 omicronically