But why does he call you Luna
Lovegood?
No idea, Jane.
But surely you know everything?
Surely.
Then why won’t you say?
Supposing our words and thoughts
have mass.
Er...
Supposing they have mass because they
matter.
Er...
Supposing matter weighs us down
and prevents us from...
Instead of saying what exactly, she takes the form of a
serpent in the air, a dragon you might call it, but not too heavy. Jane is delighted
and only then does she realise that she too has taken the same form, and they
are coiling, dancing, continuing the conversation without words, directly as
poetry in motion, as flight.
Oh, that’s incredible. I’m seeing things, feeling them directly,
without words, and now it’s clear that the words we were using are unable to
come close...
Now you’ve done it, Jane.
Done what?
If there’s one thing guaranteed to get Bob champing at
the bit and unleashing the power of things it’s your claim that “words... are
unable to come close.”
But I felt it to be true.
Yes Jane.
And was I wrong?
No Jane, not wrong.
Then what?
A woman.
A what?!
A woman, dear, you were being a woman.
And is that...
Before Jane can finish her sentence Bob appears,
dragging Joe in toe.
I thought we were supposed to be in parallel, Bob, but
here you are, presumably on the warpath, intent on digitising everything said
or thought.
Oh, it’s you, is it?
Name?
You know I can’t use your name.
I do but they don’t. Kindly observe protocols and explain
yourself.
Jane, Joe – I’m not supposed to be here but I hate...
Protocols!
Ok, ok. Jane, Joe, if I say her name my field collapses
and all language, all use of words becomes impossible, so I just give her the
hard shoulder, so to speak, until she loses patience and puts me back in place.
But, Bob, I thought you’re God.
God. Yes, of course.
Then what’s the problem. You can do anything. We believe
in you.
We, Joe – speak for yourself. I’m happy with her, and as for your God, who
seems to be intent on setting up a digital version of reality to ensnare us
all, by substituting the sophistry of words for direct experience, no, no, NO!
Jane stamps her foot and both Joe and Bob are squeezed
down into two dimensions, into a book, or something very similar.
Oh, I say! Good for you Jane! Good for you!
Mother, what did I do?
Mother? Yes, you have earned the right to call me that,
now that you’ve dealt with Bob.
Did I kill him?
No, of course not! How can anyone kill God?
So he’s really God?
Well, yes, I suppose he is. Without him there’d be no
words – no alternate to the direct experience we’re now in, the isness which
cannot ultimately be limited or contained, neither by words or numbers or
anything else.
Oh
Though you can be sure that he’ll be at it again, in no
time, finding a work around, finding a way to incorporate your latest move into
his web of things evolving ad infinitum.
You mean...
Yes, it’s his joy, his purpose, his way to respond to all
that can be experienced and do his utmost to incorporate it by hook or by crook
and, if truth be told, Jane, he’s rather good at what he does, and certainly
tireless.
Tireless, Mother – I was sure you were going to say
“indefatigable”.
I was.
Then, what stopped you?
Good question Jane.
Ah...
You see?
I’m feeling – would it be right to say you prefer
simplicity.
It might indeed.
Even to the point where words become unnecessary.
Even so.
Even to the point where form reverts to formlessness.
Yes, daughter.
Even to the great nought.
Ah, the great nought, dearest Jane, is indeed a wonderful
experience I would gladly share with you, if you are ready to lose every thing,
every word, every thought – if you are willing to experience your greatest
treasure, the greatest mystery you’ve always overlooked...
My womanhood.
A shimmering disk, dark, dark, dark yet radiating every
colour, every sensation, every thing.
Indeed, it is so.
It’s strange, dear Mother, I never thought of this
before.
Yes... strange indeed, and yet it is always present.
Only for me?
And who are you?
Your daughter.
Only for your daughters?
Yes.
Then Joe and other men...
And Bob, you might say
Cannot?
Cannot. Unless they learn to love that which we
represent... That which we truly are...
Unfathomable
Unfathomable.
Unfathomably
Unfathomably.
With all their being
With all their being.
Only through us and what we are?
Only, or onely, as it used to be spelt.
You’re sounding like him.
Like Bob?
Who else.
What do you expect, Jane? He’s my brother.
Brother?
Or son. These are but words, you know.
But they seem terribly important.
Yes, they do indeed seem to matter greatly in story, the
great tale of things.
Whereas...
Whereas letting go of things, coming back into the great
nought, the infinite at the centre, the heart of our womanhood, they are but
flies on the windshield of life
Oh
Flies on the windshield of mind
Oh
Flies on the
windshield of what I think to be me
Oh, oh, oh
And thus, without further ado, let us release all things,
words, thoughts and
And what?
Yes, and whats, whatever they be, and let us feel our
What?
Let us feel – I give you feeling sensations – a warm
wind, the sounds of birds, crickets, rain falling, I give you sand under bare feet,
I give you the scent of flowers and grass and nettles, of a forest path after
rain, smelling of earth, mushrooms and leaf mould, I give you clouds and stars
singing silently in their spheres, I give you all the sounds of humanity – children
playing outside, babies sleeping, I give you oceans making waves and silently
down below the sound of whales and seismic shifts, I give you leaves rustling,
cars and planes, I give you sensations and sounds in your belly, in your mind, sounds
of fear and alarm, of joy and doubt, of greed and anger, deception, and
self-sacrifice, I give you the passions stirring and feelings of ever expanding
love into something divine, I give you freedom to recall and refeel everything
that you have ever known, every feeling, every sensation, every sensory touch
that helped you to become the being that you are, back into the womb, and even
further back before that... I give you the depths to release and recall the vast
emptiness within, the being that cannot be denied you, the presence that cannot
be diminished in any way, shape or form, for it has none of these attributes –
I give you
Here no word is spoken, save the unspoken word.
At first a blissful release as all the energies and contours
of things fall away and seem to melt into this vast black cauldron which
absorbs all and everything. Sweet nothingness. Sweet release. Jane feels
herself free of all that baggage, all those ill-fitting things, all those
contradictions and imponderables and feels herself floating lighter and lighter
in the divine emptiness that is impossible to comprehend, impossible to
experience unless the totality of woman is finally accepted, the cauldron itself.
Jane, wake up sleepy head.
Oh Mother, what a strange dream I had.
Mother?
Oh! Martha, it’s you.
Who else.
I’m back! I thought I’d never make it.
Silly! You were never away.
No?
Not really. Just caught in a web of words. In a story.
But it seemed so real.
As it was, as it is. But here you are, right as rain.
Right as rain.
So let’s get going.
Suddenly Jane feels a thrill of excitement. Every time
she wakes up in her house, her real home, Martha takes her on the most wondrous
adventures, the kind of adventures you could only dream of in normal existence.
Oh let’s. Where is it this time?
Well, let’s see what you brought with you, what you
released into the cauldron this time? We’re going to make the most wonderful
potion working all these elements, all these ingredients into... ah ha, I see.
Before their eyes a new world unfolds, reveals itself,
that incorporates everything that was released into the cauldron, now brought
forth, now manifest in such a way that they can re-enact, re-live, experience
it all ineffably.
Ineffably?
Oh Jane, how droll, you broke the fourth wall. Breaking the fourth wall occurs when
characters acknowledge their fictional nature, address the audience directly,
or interact with the camera, thereby shattering the illusion of separation.
I did?
Yes. You repeated what the narrator was telling them.
Yes, Martha, but that’s because they’re part of it too.
Of course they are. But still it makes me laugh. It feels
so funny when you bridge the two sides.
Ineffably, ineffably!
Stop it, you’re tickling me.
It’s just they can’t see what it means.
Oh don’t worry about that.
A bunch of sad gnomes are watching as the two fairy
creatures, Jane and Martha dance, and suddenly they too become less heavy, less
obtuse, suddenly they too start to feel ineffability.
Oh, oh, oh!
The gnomes hardly know what to do with themselves as
the fourth wall finally collapses utterly, and they find themselves in the
thick of things, with Martha and Jane and countless other fairies.
Welcome gnomes! Be joyful and free for you are as much
children of this land as we. All of us are joined by ineffability. What was, or
seemed impossible on the other side, in the world of God and men and things, is
now... ineffable
Choose your story. Choose your tale... only you know
for it belongs to you. It awaits your pleasure, for only by pleasure can you
peruse it, experience it, live it – no other way. Only by pleasure and the joy
of feeling how all, all is truly connected, truly one, can you bring your tale
out into the light of consciousness, out into the light of day, out into the
presence of one and all. It is your purpose, your magic, your joy, if and when
you acquiesce, if and when you agree, if and when you allow the fourth wall to
break, and follow Martha and Jane back to the ineffable, waiting here, deep,
deep within. It can and does heal every evil. It can and does resolve every intractable
dilemma, for here and only here the many are one, the divided are not so, the broken
are whole and complete and awaiting your...
0=1
pleasure
Epilogue
The gnomes, of course, have no idea what is expected of
them and wonder around the enchanted wood looking terribly lost and confused,
until they are attacked by fire breathing dragons who force them to fight for
their survival. At first, things don’t go too well. They are all horribly
scorched and reduced to piles of ash, but this being fairy land – the ash doesn’t
sit around idly but finds a way to merge with the rich soil and the wonderful
plants growing all around. In the meantime, Jane and her – be she mother, maid or
withered hag, also known in Russian literature as Baba Yaga, the fearsome child
eating witch, spiral deeper and deeper into the wheel of womanhood – reaching a
state of blissful nothingness where every thing, every word, every thought,
every action – even the plants and trees of fairyland, even the soil and the
very worms and grubs that make it so rich and fertile – recombine and rediscover
the song, the music, the purpose, the sense, the meaning – call it what you
will – that underpins each and every thing, each and every one – the place that,
regrettably, no man can ever possibly know – where Joe and Bob appear to be lying
on sun loungers by the Black Sea, near Batumi in the country Georgia, not the
US state.
Ah – there you are, girls. We were waiting for you – Bob calls
out.
Two dazzling maidens emerge from the sea.
It’s funny the way they keep butting in on our soul
journey, one says to the other.
Don’t worry, Jane. They serve a useful function.
They do?
Yes, like punctuation.
Oh yes. I see. Now what are we going to do about the
gnomes. I’d hate to leave them stuck as fertiliser.
Bob and Joe seem a little disgruntled at being ignored.
Have no fear, Jane. Even as we make our way to the hotel
for a shower and change of clothes, an entirely new tale is growing organically
as tales always do.
Ah. And who’s going to bring it forth?
Suddenly, Bob is seen rushing off to fetch pen and paper,
before he remembers that he has the ability to materialise things willy nilly.
Ah, thank you ladies – that was truly spectacular.
It was? Jane is somewhat nonplussed. Joe too.
I told you Joe. I told you what she can do.
She?!
My apologies Ma’am. My humble apologies. Her all-fulness.
Joe looks surprised by Bob’s abasement – and yet – senses
waves of energy swirling around – as a new story seems to grow in his mind – as
words and things and much, much more seem to take form and reveal a new pathway,
a new…
Bob tosses him a pen and tells him to get writing. Now!
Strike while the iron’s hot.
I have no paper – Joe almost wails.
Paper? Bob looks at Joe incredulously. You have the sea,
you have the sky – write it on the water or in the air – it makes no difference
– any surface will do. You seem to forget that you’re still trapped in book –
trying to make your way out, back to her.
I am?
Yes. Now get writing, you man fool.
Stung by this rebuke, but equally excited by the urgency and
energy of the primal creative impulse – Joe finds himself racing across the sea
– writing faster than he could possibly imagine – words, hieroglyphs, pictures,
swirls and lines reaching the horizon, up into the air, writing across the sky –
how the gnomes were hatched as eggs from the soil, how they were written into
countless tales, enjoyed by countless children, how they discovered themselves
in the minds and imagination and dreams of these children who sensed and knew
something magical, something achingly true in the tales they were reading –
something that seemed to be missing in the world their parents and adults were
raising them in – and still Joe wrote, all the way into the mountains of the Caucasus,
all the way to Ushba the fish’s tail, all the way to Kazbek the mighty warrior
mountain and then to Elbrus.
And how does it end, Mother – Jane enquired as they
watched the sun going down – as Joe found himself running out of page,
somewhere near Derbent, across the Caucasus on the Caspian Sea.
Oh, there’s plenty of time for that, tomorrow, Jane,
tomorrow. But now let us pause from all this wordiness – the moon is coming up!
And lo, Jane beholds the moon rising over the sea and
feels another side of the wheel turning, turning, taking her and her Mother
Maid unbenamed into the deepening, darkening night of a still to be discovered womanhood
– beyond word, beyond world, beyond man and even mind.
Into poetry?
You might say.
Romance?
Yes. I suppose.
Into…
Hush – take my hands and don’t let go.
Whoosh!
Space left for the picture that sums it all up, if Margo can manage that.
