Winning and losing come in streaks. No such thing as coincidence. Mektoub, it is written. Dreams are as real as reality if not more so, and reality is a set-up long overdue for investigation. Algebra rules. Smack is like power is like smack. Dealing is a habit. Splice tape recordings of bombs detonating in Afghanistan with tape recordings of the terrified screams of Manhattan residents fleeing from the disaster as it happens: instant Nova. Things held in opposition are simultaneous, or near-as-dammit: alternate between Good Cop and Bad Cop at 50hz, and the true face of the invader is seen. In space, everything happens at once, for uncountable millenia across the wounded galaxies. The horror. The horror. In 1957 I wrote the autobiography of William Seward Burroughs, and in 2002 I write the biography of William Lee of the Nova Police, pasting together scraps of newspaper and fragments of occult texts, Mayan codices, soap opera dialogue, the same old story. So the thing with the priests and the centipedes was a done deal, centuries old, I have the contracts right here, keep the rolled up papyrus tucked away nice and warm somewhere about my person. That centipede script hurt the eyes to look at, like a million tiny hands writing a million times "experience is a hard school but fools will learn no other". I heard they had infiltrated the English public school system, tales of sinister late-night visits by the "beak", implacable insect lust writhing beneath the yellow skin. Johnny wakes up screaming "no! no!" meeting the glassy black eyes of the death doll at the foot of the bed (the doll is a present from his mother, to whom Johnny writes tearfully every night). Now from an early age Johnny had dreamt two dreams in strict alternation, dream one the sympatico English master is torn apart from inside by thousands of writhing insects while he continues to recite Keats dreamily in front of the class, dream two is a dream of endless blue desert, silence hanging in the air like obsidian chips falling through glucose, a boy in a hanglider passes soundlessly through the sky with a hunting-knife tucked into his rainbow jockstrap. On the far side of the desert is a place Johnny knows he must go to, but first he must escape his mother and his public school upbringing and find himself a rainbow jockstrap from somewhere...

----- Original Message -----

From: Richard Dillon

To: [log in to unmask]

Sent: Wednesday, January 16, 2002 1:44 AM

Subject: Re: A Responsibility to Awe

What else do you know about his theories apropos Synchronicity?

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