In my opinion, Kevin may go "deedle-deedle queep" whenever Fat reads or quotes from his tractate, but Fat is onto something. Fat sees a cosmic phagocytosis in progress, one in which in micro-form we are each involved. A toxic metal particle is lodged in each of us: "That which is above (the macrocosm) is that which is below (the microcosm or man)." We are all wounded and we all need a physician -- Elijah for the Jews, Asklepios for the Greeks, Christ for the Christians, Zoroaster for the Gnostics, the followers of Mani, and so forth. We die because we are born sick -- born with a heavy metal splinter in us, a wound like Amfortas's wound. And when we are healed we will be immortal; this is how it was supposed to be, but the toxic metal splinter entered the macrocosm and simultaneously entered each of its microcosmic pluriforms: ourselves.
Consider the cat dozing on your lap. He is wounded, but the wound does not yet show. Like Sherri, something is eating him away. Do you want to gamble against this statement? Laminate all the cat's images in linear time into one entity; what you get is pierced, injured and dead. But a miracle occurs. An invisible physician restores the cat.
"So everything lingers but a moment, and hastens on to death. The plant and the insect die at the end of summer, the brute and the man after a few years: death reaps unweariedly. Yet notwithstanding this, nay, as if this were not so at all, everything is always there and in its place, just as if everything were imperishable...
This is temporal immortality. In consequence of this, notwithstanding thousands of years of death and decay, nothing has been lost, not an atom of the matter, still less anything of the inner being, that exhibits itself as nature. Therefore every moment we can cheerfully cry, 'In spite of time, death and decay, we are still all together!'" (Schopenhauer.)
Somewhere Schopenhauer says that the cat which you see playing in the yard is the cat which played three hundred years ago. This is what Fat had encountered in Thomas, in the three-eyed people, and most of all in Zebra who had no body. An ancient argument for immortality goes like this: if every creature really dies -- as it appears to -- then life continually passes out of the universe, passes out of being; and so eventually all life will have passed out of being, since there are no known exceptions to this. Ergo, despite what we see, life somehow must not turn to death.
Along with Gloria and Sherri, Fat had died, but Fat still lived on, as the Savior he now proposed to seek.
9
Wordsworth's "Ode" carries the sub-title: "Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." In Fat's case, the "intimations of immortality" were based on recollections of a future life.
In addition, Fat could not write poetry worth shit, despite his best efforts. He loved Wordsworth's "Ode," and wished he could come up with its equal. He never did.
Anyhow, Fat's thoughts had turned to travel. These thoughts had acquired a specific nature; one day he drove to Wide-World Travel Bureau (Santa Ana branch) and conferred with the lady behind the counter, the lady and her computer terminal.
"Yes, we can put you on a slow boat to China," the lady said cheerfully.
"How about a fast plane?" Fat said.
"Are you going to China for medical reasons?" the lady asked.
Fat was surprised at the question.
"A number of people from Western countries are flying to China for medical services," the lady said. "Even from Sweden, I'm given to understand. Medical costs in China are exceptionally low... but perhaps you already know that. Do you know that? Major operations run approximately thirty dollars in some cases." She rummaged among pamphlets, smiling cheerfully.
"I guess so," Fat said.
"Then you can deduct iton your income tax," the lady said. "You see how we help you here at Wide-World Travel?"
The irony of this side-issue struck Fat forcefully -- that he, who sought the fifth Savior, could write his quest off on his state and Federal Income Tax. That night when Kevin dropped over he mentioned it to him, expecting Kevin to be wryly amused.
Kevin, however, had other fish to fry. In an enigmatic tone Kevin said, "What about going to the movies tomorrow night?"
"To see what?" Fat had caught the dark current in his friend's voice. It meant Kevin was up to something. But of course, true to his nature, Kevin would not amplify.
"It's a science fiction film," Kevin said, and that was all he would say.
"Okay," Fat said.
The next night, he and I and Kevin drove up Tustin Avenue to a small walk-in theater; since they intended to see a science fiction film I felt that for professional reasons I should go along.
As Kevin parked his little red Honda Civic we caught sight of the theater marquee.
"Valis," Fat said, reading the words. "With Mother Goose. What's 'Mother Goose'?"
"A rock group," I said, disappointed; it did not appear to me to be something I'd like. Kevin had odd tastes, both in films and in music; evidently he had managed to combine the two tonight.
"I've seen it," Kevin said cryptically. "Bear with me. You won't be disappointed."
"You've seen it?" Fat said, "and you want to see it again?"
"Bear with me," Kevin repeated.
As we sat in our seats inside the small theater we noticed that the audience seemed to be mostly teen - agers.
"Mother Goose is Eric Lampton," Kevin said. "He wrote the screenplay for Valis and he stars in it."
"He sings?" I said.
"Nope," Kevin said, and that was all he had to say; he then lapsed into silence.
"Why are we here?" Fat said.
Kevin glanced at him without answering.
"Isthis like your belch record?" Fat said. One time, when he'd been especially depressed, Kevin had brought over an album which he, Kevin, assured him, Fat, would cheer him up. Fat had to put on his electrostatic Stax headphones and really crank it up. The track turned out to consist of belching.
"Nope," Kevin said.
The lights dimmed; the audience of teen-agers fell silent; the titles and credits appeared.
"Does Brent Mini mean anything to you?" Kevin said. "He did the music. Mini works with computer-created random sounds which he calls 'Synchronicity Music.' He's got three lps out. I've got the second two, but I can't find the first."
"Then this is serious stuff," Fat said.
"Just watch," Kevin said.
Electronic noises sounded.
"God," I said, with aversion. On the screen a vast blob of colors appeared, exploding in all directions; the camera panned in for a tight shot. Low budget sci-fi flick, I said to myself. This is what gives the field a bad reputation.
The drama started abruptly; all at once the credits vanished. An open field, parched, brown, with a few weeds here and there, appeared. Well, I said to myself, here is what we'll see. A jeep with two soldiers in it, bumping across the field. Then something vivid flashes across the sky.