TOMORROW: it’s about time.
(Sexual references, unorthodox theology)
Chapter One
At long last tomorrow had arrived. Tomorrow, today would be yesterday and he’d be off on his long-awaited holiday.
It was going to be a long long journey. Gruelling even. But worth it. “A tropical island paradise. Full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that bring delight and hurt not. A thousand twangling instruments shall hum about your ears.” That’s what the brochure said, anyway. He looked out the window at the great pile of ordure that had slowly accumulated one small sausage at a time like grains of smelly sand over the past three thousand yesterdays. That’s a metaphor for my life, he thought. Maybe that’s the purpose of life. Seems to be what we all, all humanity that is, has in common. In common with each other and with the animals. We’re here to turn food into shit. The brochure also said that on the island there would be no more shit. That’s what I call a real holiday. He’s worked damn hard. Worked his arse off for three years non-stop. He deserved a break. No more shit. Paradise.
Apart from the sun, the sea, the sand, the beach, the cool lagoons, and the birds, it was the food he yearned most for. A fusion, it said, of the very best in French, Indian, and Chinese. Ah, Bistro! That’s what he’d’ve called his restaurant if he hadn’t chosen theolo-psych at uni. What about tender boeuf sautéed in chilli oil, gently simmered in rice wine seasoned with a sweet-sour curry sauce served on a nest of crispy deep-fried noodles?
His iPhone played the Ode to Joy and popped his bubble. Maisie! Ah, Maisie! That face. That perfect visage. And that petite body. Small but perfectly formed — like an almond croissant. Those cheeky little mandorla eyes peering inquisitively, (God was she inquisitive!) from behind the arras of those twin epicanthic folds. He could hardly bear to think of that body sublime. Maisie was also half French, half Chinese, and half cut. Wonder what she wants? He wants her, that’s for sure. But she? She didn’t play hard to get. She was hard to get. And he was hard for her. He got even harder and, due to the blood engorging that which is in his underpants, he was breathless as he pressed the little green tick. Can I come over, please, cherie, she said. Cherie? Moi? Yes! Yes! Bien sure. He spluttered, his face turning puce. Wo ai ni, she slurred — the only Chinese words he knew apart from Chop Suey. Cuando cuando cuando? He sang desperately into her ear. Tomorrow! I come tomorrow and we make love all day long and deep into the night. Oui?
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow may very well creep in its petty pace from day to day till the last syllable of recorded time. But not now. Not tomorrow tomorrow. Some other tomorrow, surely.
I can’t wait another day. Today? Make it today? Today is my last day. Let’s make it our first day?
I no can do today cherry-pie, can only do tomorrow. Come with me, then. Come with me tomorrow. I juss tell you that. No, no, come with me to the island. Paradise. Across the sea the sea. I’ll pay. I’ll pay for everything. No, no, I sea sick. I bring paradise you. No need go nowhere. I come you.
He checked his ticket. He had to check-in by midday. A window. Perhaps he could have it all? Come for breakfast. Early. Eight AM? Yes! Yes? Please say yes.
No. No. I not early bird. Like sleepy morning. I come twelve. Midday Ok?
He put his phone on FaceTime and showed her his massive bulge. You see this? It’s for you. I’ve been saving it up for you for three years. It’s ready now. It needs you now.
I cann see much fro’ here. Show me him all. Lem me see him.
He rent asunder his zipper and the mortal coiled spring of the serpent sprang out like a Jack-in-the-box. Ooh-la-la, oui-oui, I want suckee-suckee. I got wet pussy.
This was too much for the poor bastard. A gallon of hot sweet-and-sour drenched his phone to squeals of delight coming through the tiny tinny microphone. See you tomorrow, okie-doke? You muss ress now make lots more jingye Maisie.
Ping. Nothing.
Now what? Bastard God makes hell out of heaven. Everything he always wanted all coming tomorrow in one fell mutually exclusive swoop. Why did he choose theolo-psyche? Why seek truth when lies are so much more appealing? The Bible. It must have the answer. Somewhere. Old Testament or New? He grabbed ahold of King James by the scruff. Flipped a coin. Caesar’s head on one side, his arse the other. The hand of God holding it all. It landed on its rim. Wobbled a bit. Then stood there defiantly in rock solid perfect balance. He must banish all thoughts of Maisie and the island. To have it all, he must focus only on the here and now to find the answer. When is a day not a day? He’d have to begin at the beginning.
His erstwhile theology professor had professed that the Bible was coded to protect the great wisdom within from abuse. Aka, all written in symbols. He had set him the task of developing a thesis, a theory of everything, no less, as it were, that transcended the dilemmas presented by quantum physics. He told him he sensed in him the quirky way of seeing things that could make him the greatest theological genius of all time. But he lacked the motivation to use his exceptional talents to the full. What he really lacked was the resilience and thickness of skin to withstand the slings and arrows of outraged holy-men notorious for killing one in slow agony if you saw the world differently. He lacked the motivation to be crucified, say, or even hung, drawn and quartered. He might have been a genius, but he was also a pussy when it came to violent grizzly deaths.
Maybe Maisie would be his motivator. His muse. Having her could make it worth the risk. To have his holiday too, he needed a way to transcend time (and therefore also space) so he could have everything he really wanted in a kind of warm fuzzy nowness. The nowness was also a place those self-righteous and terrible guardians of ancient law and tradition could not reach him. Maybe he’d also bump into the Holy Grail on his mystical travels?
It was commonly understood that the Bible, Genesis, began with the absurd paradox that God created the world in six days. How could anyone with half a brain still believe such twaddle? Those days back in the day must have been very different from the twenty-four hours we know them now as. In fact, when he looked at the text, it didn’t actually say God created the world in six days, it only said he created six things that he then called ‘days’. He was also struck by the way Shakespeare’s poetry often used the polarities, the counterpoints of day and night.
Is’t Night’s predominance or the day’s shame that darkness does the world entomb when living light should kiss it? laments Ross after Macbeth murders and usurps the rightful king.
Hell and Night must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light, cackles Iago as he engenders his plan to usurp Othello’s mind and soul.
To cut a long ten thousand word thesis short, he’d postulated that the word ‘Day’ in Genesis was code for the sacred name of God. But he’d got a crap degree because he had no way of proving it, and while it might have held water for the first Day spelled traditionally with a cap ‘D’, he could not account for the other five lowercase days, let alone the seventh, the sabbath.
But now, having spent ten years skivvying in his uncle’s pseudo-french restaurant, his pure unbridled lust and deep abiding love fused together to push him to dig even deeper into his bruised and swollen psyche for the ultimate truth.
What if, he postulated, it’s not so much talking about the creation of the world, but of the creation of man. What we know about man is that we’re activated by nerves, electrical impulses, and atomic polarities. Heaven and Earth could well be a metaphor for the magnetic polarities and the fundamental forces of nature. Genesis was full of polarities. Heaven-Earth. Day-Night. Evening-Morning. Male-Female. Good-Evil. Et-Cetera.
The other paradox is John’s immortal: In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God. Does this contradict or elucidate Genesis?
What we also know about man is: we have six dimensions of consciousness. Coincidence? Un-bloody-likely! Consciousness comprises (1) soul; (2) unconscious mind; (3) conscious mind; (4) emotions; (5) imagination; and finally, (6) physical body. Genesis says specifically the soul is both male and female and is made in the image of God. And circumspectly that the other five levels were made under the aegis of Night, the ruler of the moon, the shadow, the darkness. One major polarity plus five lesser ones. If each of these dimensions was given a word, a name, a sound frequency, a harmonic, then, yes, in the beginning was indeed the Word and the Word was indeed ‘God’! All of these dimensions of our consciousness were created and given a name that together add up to the sacred sound of God’s name: aka, the Word!
Human consciousness in a nutshell!
When he published his book, he was so paranoid about a hooded assassin from Opus Dei jumping out from behind the arras and sticking a stiletto in his ribs, he created a pseudonym to hide his true self. When his work went unexpectedly viral he changed his name by deed pole to that very pseudonym.
Chapter Trois
He lay spread out cruciform on the warm sand soaking up the rays. As he counted the grains of sand running lazily through his hourglass fist, he was also enjoying the myriad sounds of delight promised in the brochure. He’d not yet heard the thousand twangling instruments hum in his ears, but there was more than enough to keep him in a state of wonderment.
Cherry-pie, my sweetest, the gardener, Meeser Nigh, want show us round. You come yes? As was he, Maisie is gloriously tanned and naked. She looms tantalisingly lovingly over him, one foot either side of his supine face. He opens his eyes and looks straight upwards through the Colossus to the most heavenly mandorla on this earth, a sublime vesica piscis opening its soft almandine smile to welcome him in. Paradise in paradise. He sees through the precious opening into the higher dimensions of spirit where the soul travels in-and-out of the Kingdom of God. He remembers himself being born over-and-over-again-and-again both as a body through the vagina, and as soul through the Canal of Rukmini, the cosmic divine feminine goddess, wife of Shiva, Lord of all the created worlds.
Something dripped into his eye from the holy sepulchre. One small droplet. That was all. It stung a little. He hooked it out with the knuckle of his right index finger, transported it to a nearby nostril, and gave it a sniff. It was intoxicatingly sweet and at the same time terrifyingly sour. He extruded his tongue. Tentatively, he touched the goo lightly with the uttermost tip where all the ganglions gang up to accentuate one’s sensitivity. Did he imagine it, or did his tongue tip really begin to bifurcate? Again, he experienced a sweet swooning sensation of being wafted away on a cloud of ecstasy brought crashing down to earth by a counterbalancing deep foreboding, an existential horror of being utterly abandoned and hopelessly lost.
The gardener was indescribably handsome and irresistibly charming. Had Michelangelo’s David come alive? His Rock of Gibraltar jutted out before him like the proud prow of a ferocious warship cutting through the tempest-tossed waters. Adam was unable to tear away his gaze. Does the charmer charm the snake or the snake charm the charmer? Nigh’s soft silken peerless hairless skin was a deep rustic bronze gleaming in the early evening sun. Maisie dangled like a golden bangle from the perfectly defined musculature of his extensor carpi radialis longus . Neither wore anything whatsoever save a smug self-satisfied all-knowing smirk. Maisie, sported the open wide gormless gullible starry-eyed heavenwards-gazing look of the suddenly-born-again EST-graduate.
As he led them towards the garden they left no footprints in the sand — only a slim trail of slime, that sticky greenish grey goo dripping constantly from Maisie’s divine mandorla.
With the great pride of one who has manifested his vision of perfection in the material world, he endowed them with the absolute freedom to feast upon any cow, deer, antelope, elephant, rhinoceros, hippopotamus, zebra, goat, calf, bull, boar, pig, eagle, budgie, woodcock, herb and fruit they so desired. No need to be a vegetarian, let alone a vegan, around here he winked. But please don’t eat the horses. I’ve a soft spot for horses. I’ll kick your ass if you touch my horses.
Adam asked Maisie how long she wanted to stay. Oh, juss for now.
The sun was about to set over the eastern horizon when they entered an oval clearing redolent of a massive cricket pitch. At the poles of this ovum stood two great trees. The tree at the pointy end was constantly being fed by a fountain of diamond white crystal water with purple flecks dancing in its spray. Flourishing, laughing and sighing with an unlimited abundance of infinite variety, it seemed to beckon them to come, tarry, and enjoy. Birds of every species, insects and bees sang, buzzed and hummed in sublime harmony in its branches among its leaves and on its flowers. As the flowing branches waved in the gentle breeze swirling round it, they rubbed together like a locust’s legs to make the divine twangling harmonies of a million viola.
At the roundy end stood a very different tree. It was grey, cold, and as dead as a toppled statue of Donald Trump. Its bed was a deep dark swamp of foul excrement. It stank literally to high heaven.
Wow! they exclaimed in unison. What are these trees? This one, he said, casually pointing to the pointy end, is the Shabdha tree. The Shabdha tree? They chimed again in unison. Yes, the Shabdha tree, he replied beginning to sound a little irritated. It’s not really that important. Which is why no one has ever heard about it. What’s it for then? They chorused. Oh, don’t bother yourselves, it’s just the life force, the source of all life, sound and spirit in the entire universe. A mere sound current, that’s all. We just leave it alone to do what it wants. Now this one (he said pointing to the roundy end) on the other hand, is much more my cup of tea.
But it’s disgustingly foul and stinky, they tintinabulated together. Ah, but its fruit….its fruit is the greatest prize on earth. To eat of the Shabdha tree is so easy-peasy. Any fool can do that. But to eat of the ego tree is to become imbued with the very power of God himself. The ego tree? They chanted in robotic discord like catholics in a mass. You don’t have to prove yourself worthy to eat Shabdh. But you must suffer to deserve the power and the glory of the ego. Come on, try it. It’s delightfully delicious. Thou shalt become both good and evil without ever realising they are both the same, become infatuated with thine own opinion, make great judgments and punish with a terrible vengeance those who sin against my diabolic laws. Come. Come. Come. It’s so much fun! He took them by the hand and led them over a hidden, secret, labyrinthine pathway of twisty-turny stepping stones to the base of the tree. He laughed out loud with a thunderous roar as they gagged and choked on the stench. It’s the test of the first threshold, he chuckled.
Hanging from the branches were scrips like swollen scrotums filled with the same greenish grey sticky stuff Adam had before tasted. Whosoever had described these toxic ball sacks as ‘apples’ should roast in hell for eternity.
Is this what the brochure warned us about? enquired Adam, earnestly. Said we’re always free to chose our destiny, but hinted that there could be dire consequences if we ate from a certain, vaguely-named tree? Is this that tree? Oh, you’re a big boy now aint’cha? Nigh whispered roughly leaning forward smiling encouragingly. You can make your own decisions. You don’t want to believe all they say in the brochure. They just want to keep it all for themselves. It’s part of the test. Are you a man or a moustache? Do you follow your own throbbing drumbeat or that faint rumble of the ones who claim authority over you? Are you a mere slave to those who will lie like the devil just to control you?
No thanks, he said sweeping away the wee bag with back of his hand. This is not for me. But it was too late. Maisie had grabbed a whole handful and was devouring them voraciously. Instantaneously, her breasts transformed from the soft gentle sylph-like swellings of a young virgin into the voluptuous lactating globes of the immediately post-partum woman. Her slender swaying hips became a curvaceous enticement to the honey trap mandorla twixt her milky silkinesses. She impaled herself upon the gardener’s outstanding tumescence and swivelling backwards to look into his eyes, pleaded with Adam to join in the fun. We going have twin tomorrow, she chirped. Two lovely little boy. They will rule all world. Is wonnerful, she de?
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