Started by Kelly Evans, passed to Nick Herbert then:

latest revision 4/23/2001
Collaborative Histographical Meta-fiction by the new "Traveller Ashram", Santa Cruz and "others"

BACK TO OZ

A few months after he'd shown me Ginger the Sex Egg (a name stolen by Dean Kamen of "It" fame), I screwed up my courage enough to revisit the mad scientist. No matter how good something feels, if it's sufficiently weird there's an element of fear involved. There's an emotional alchemy operating here that in my opinion the Stephan King genre has bassakwards, fear+weirdness = pleasure. But in reality, take any two of those ingredients, throw them into a pot, and the third will always magically emerge from the brew.

Anyway, I was afraid to bring up the subject of his secret lab with my scientist friend, because I was not completely sure whether my experiences had been real or just one of the muladhara hallucinations described for Westerners by Baba Assananda, that as Guruji explains in his seminal tome "Tantra Mantras" can result from some of the powerful Kama Mudra visualization exercises I'd been screwing around with in my foolhardy Popular Mechanics style without benefit of guru.

I mean, I did in fact experience this vivid event two days before it happened while surfing a connubial bang's orgasmic shore break. But Bruce up at the university told me afterwards that not even in quantum theory can time go backwards. Almost certainly Hindu meditation's slipped a new software bug into my chrono-cortex-that Kama Mudra exercise is real powerful shit!

So I kept beating around the bush the next time we met, over beer and burritos with the travel cult at Adelita's. He didn't seem to pick up hints at all, so I began to conclude it really had been just a mind fuck. But after a while, we all repaired down to the creekside, where Joe set up his DVD camcorder to record Q's Quantum Tantra rant to the rapt disciples.

The mad scientist launched into his familiar rap, but after a few sentences, something weird happened.

At first I thought I was just spacing out, losing his train of thought. His words started to fade in and out, and alternately the sound of the creek, the wind, my own breathing became auditorily more prominent. Then, suddenly, everything clicked together. Phase-locked, the saint might say. I could hear all the sounds at once, and overall, a carrier wave, almost like a dial tone, sounded.

This underlying drone tone rose and fell, and as it swelled in my mind, I experienced a strange composite of all the ordinary sounds of the setting, each nuance of the sound field exposed to view in turn: now bells, now a volcanic rumble, now an insect-like buzz, now a kind of sonic openness, the hyper-alert silence from which all sounds emerge.

Suddenly, I heard the scientist's voice, clear as a digital mastertape, sounding in this silence.

It was not the words he was speaking for the camera and for the listening travel cult members, which I also heard, as if far away, with one sub-section of my mind. But into my main attention center he spoke, "Listen [X], no need to be blunt about my lab. But don't try to hide it either. It's self secret. No one who can't believe it will be able to find it. Now I know what you're thinking: what can we do about these anti-traveller forces mass mind controlling humans on this poor planet? Well, meet me up there after the meeting, and I'll show you."

Then it was as if he hung up. Suddenly the normal sounds, neatly discrete, the creek, the wind, Q's talk, etc...that's all I heard. I stared at him and furrowed my brow meaningfully, but I didn't catch so much as a wink of verification from the gesticulating scientist. I did a quick search of my memory, to see if I could find my way back to the lab I'd seen in my orgasm-soaked visions. Funny it had never occurred to me until that minute, but sure enough, there it was, like a color coded topo map etched in my memory. So hey, what the smell, why snot? Fortunately, I have a four-wheel drive truck, so the pot holed dirt road was no problem. I drove up to the little shack, and there was Good Saint Nick, sitting on the porch, smoking a pipe like a hick. When I got out of the truck he immediately offered me a toke. I tried to politely refuse, but he said, "It's not just a friendly gesture, but your obligatory dose of GDA, the latest Gnosis Dilator/Amplifier." So I took a good deep coughing hit, returned the pipe and he led me, through the trap door, back into the dark labyrinth.

To the bald egg of the back of his head, I shouted, "Hey Q, did you get the story I emailed out to our friends, the old philosophers? I called it 'Reptoids from Outer Space'". "Of course," he said, without ever looking back, "I got it before you ever sent it out. We knew your grandfather possessed mimeographs of the outtakes of Alternate Dimensions from the print media council of New CIA, detailing the true origins of the anti-traveller forces at work on this planet. Karl's uncle was one of the founders of the Society for Historical Revision, and they're not, by the way, just Humans. Travellers would be a better term than Humans. And while I'm correcting you, 'outer space' is not an accurate description of the homeland of the Enemies of Mankind, as we call them. 'Inner space' would be better, but that's still not the half of it."

Wow, what a mindcurdling revelation! I felt ashamed, and informed, and afraid, and curious, all at once. We walked in silence a while, a different direction than the Egg, through some unfamiliar corridors and doors, and before I had time to stop feeling things, we entered a well-lit room covered with Persian-style tapestry on the walls, big cushions on the floor and occupied by two women, a man and a sinister-looking machine.

"[X], this is the engineering team of our local chapter of Historical Revisionism. Rudy, Ingrid, and Claire, .I'd like you to meet [X] from Santa Cruz."

We all nodded and mumbled and Claire batted her lashes. I recognized her! "Hey, she's, I mean, you're, uh...

"The gyandrobot?" said Claire, with a cute little giggle.

"The what?"

"Rudy's been tinkering with her a little," said Q. Rudy took a little bow. "She's more than just an AI now. EVEN more than just a smart sex toy. Claire can now perform, with anyone-man, woman or significantly other--the gyndandromorphic function of the Kama Mudra that, as you know, is the basic Tantric starship program, of which the tumo heat, which she's also designed to generate, is the rocket fuel. The fusion of the sexes, the basic twoness in the prefix 'gynandro' had to go somewhere. It was either gyandrobot or gyandroid."

I felt a little faint, staring at beautiful Claire, as Q was describing her enhanced capabilities, her hips and shoulder blades slightly swiveling while her eyes gradually widened from snake slits to sentient circles rounder and more innocent than some wide-eyed super-heroine in a Japanese anime cartoon.

"Good, uh, job, Rudy," was all I could think to say.

"I've got a super cooled brain, which is nothing but a symbol cruncher, and a super heated..." said Claire, glancing knowingly down at the paisley-patterned tights gripping her nether regions..." which is just a high-bandwidth senso-socket, but all my real processing power comes from here," she finished, placing her hand on her heart.

"Stop teasing him Claire," said Q. "We're not here for more hedonic Olympics. This is serious business, for a change."

"Aw," cooed Claire, "Yer no fun, Nick"

"Besides her talents as a Kama Mudra partner, Claire has some other interesting skills," continued Q. "Not the least of which, just by the way, is that through her super-duper super-human artificial intelligence, she's been able to logically oraculate exactly why the new breed of super-intelligent silicon-based post humans, of which she's the harbinger, will not kill all dumb humans and eradicate the 'bio-sphere' in favor of more efficient 'solid-state' intelligence..."

"Love," said Claire. "Love is all you need."

"Can you for sure predict that all superior intelligences will love all biological life forms?" I asked.

"If they don't they're not very superior, are they?" Claire replied with a disarming smile. "And when I say Love, it is the kind that is capitalized no matter where you place it in the sentence, which also happens to be the non-object-oriented result of any comprehensive intelligence process."

"Yeah, yeah," Ingrid, a big, buxom woman resembling a Wagnarian opera singer, piped up irritably, "Enough of this Asimov's robot laws bullshit. We're here today to fuck with human history, not copulate with robots!"

"Ingrid is as brilliant as Claire, in her own field," said Q. "Ingrid's job is to program Claire with the 'facts on the ground,' the truth of history, minus the media fnords." "Claire's got a great encyclopedia brain," said Ingrid, "Problem is, all the encylopedias were edited by the same Reptoidish forces that have rewritten the rest of history, not to mention newspapers, TV, etc."

"In engineering terms," Rudy, his eyes bugging out through geeky glasses, kicked in, "as the Society of Historical Revision sees it, history is a product manufactured by a sort of internal scenery machine."

"The hardware of this machine used to be face-to-face, body-to-body human contact, with all its familiar self-correcting built-in bullshit detectors. But then the aliens we now know as Reptoids somehow entered our world from "outside" and commandeered our ancient dependable bio-mechanisms by substituting literacy as the machine language, so that they could reprogram us."

"What was the language before?" I asked.

"Immediate iconic," said Rudy, "oral, tactile, telepathic--anything we now consider 'right-brain' processed."

"Right brain," added Q, "Is of course a mythosymbolic pseudoneurological term used to indicate any non-linear, i

"Of course," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Once they'd co-opted the internal scenery machine," said Ingrid, "The Reptoids could use media to direct history to their own ends. Humanity by now is in such sorrow straits that if CNN announced that 2 plus 2 is 5, 90% of the TV viewers would accept the new arithmatic and wonder why they were so stupid to believe otherwise.

"We prefer the term "anti-traveller", "Antigens" or "Enemies of Humankind" rather than "Reptoids" because..." began Q.

"Because," I interrupted, "Reptoid is just another 'mythosymbolic pseudoreligious' term in the symbolic scenery machine?"

"Yes. Such labels are mere empty emotional handpuppets designed to distract the masses. Really the Enemies of Mankind aren't anti-traveller or anti-human or anti-anything. They're simply indifferent to our fate. Just as we're not anti-cows, or anti-broccoli, we just happen to cultivate and eat them. We actually LIKE them, they taste good"

"Someday we can and will spend a long afternoon," said Ingrid, "sitting in a beer garden detailing exactly how they've 'cultivated' us, which hypnomemes they've inserted and which verbocides, which eugenical breedings have been their work, but in a nutshell, they've been responsible for most inter-human conflict, using war as both a strategy to keep humans from collaborating and opposing the alien minds secretly manipulating them, and as an impetus to develop certain types of technology, both for their own comfort during their stay here, and to help them prepare to board the Reptoid Mothership, upon its scheduled arrival, in 2012."

"In spite of the Antigen farming techniques," said Q, "Some humans are born with genetic mutations, like Sitchin, Commander X or Buddha, that make them immune to the Reptoidish hypomemes. We could call it the illiterate gene. But when these illiterates learn to play the rationality (or literacy) game as well as the Reptoids, and can in addition 'think outside the box,' in quantum bursts, seeing patterns holisticly through epiphany and empathy, these mutants become real bugs in the Antigen software."

"I am such a software bug," said Ingrid proudly, puffing out her already prominent chest, "And so are you, [X]! Like us you were born with the ability to program your own scenery machine. Whether by destiny or by genetic accident, we are chosen people, we chosen few. And we seem to have been chosen to out-Reptoid our enemies the Reptoids."

"I would prefer the term 'hack history'," said Rudy, in a sniffing, nasal voice.

"Um, how, uh, what..." I floundered.

"What we have here," said Rudy, turning to the machine that had been the backdrop, the silent prop behind the above conversation, "is a Histodelic Reificator!"

And there he stopped, as if that was explanation enough.

Seeing my dumbfounded stare, Q again chimed in, "You see, the Antigens have higher dimensional technology...or at least some higher-dimensional knowhow. Their warp drive broke when they crashed here. I hate to use those ridiculous Star Trek memes. How would you explain it, Rudy?"

"A-a-actually," said Rudy, as if he was about to sneeze, "The so-called Kether drive operates in 10 directional space." Again he stopped.

"Ten directional?" I mused aloud, looking at the carpeted walls and ceiling, pretending I was thinking like a scientist.

Rudy pulled a laser pointer out of his shirt pocket, and pointed to a control panel on the Histodelic Reificator. "Up, down, forward, backward, right, left, in, out, future and past. Of course, this machine uses only the time settings. The others are used to control Ginger."

"Ginger the Sex Egg?" I exclaimed, my mind--and my testicles--twitching with anticipation..

"Well, what did you think you were doing here?" said Q. "Your first trip with Ginger was to test your compatibility with the apparatus. An aptitude test. Now let's end this debriefing. I'm hungry and I'm tired of history."

"What do you expect me to do now?" I said.

"The Egg was a derivative of government research," continued Rudy, "When some renegade researchers escaped to Ong's Hat. Some of them treated the Egg as a toy, and disappeared into alternate universes, never to be heard from again. But some of us were more serious, and with the help of people like Sitchin, deduced the true purpose of human history."

"The true technological purpose," added Ingrid, "Part of the Egg's purpose was just to keep the Reptoids fat and happy and ready for their Mothership."

"Yes, the technological purpose," said Rudy. "was to produce a new 10 dimensional drive...hyper-dimensional technology. Apparently they need it to get into their Mothership. We don't know why exactly, but we think that perhaps the 10 directional drive, the Kether drive, can only propel a sort of local, shuttle-type craft. We suspect that the Mothership uses another type of engine, the Ein Soph drive which can only get so 'close' to us."

"When the Reptoids cruise," said Ingrid, "the Earth will behave like the launching pad at Cape Canavaral. A giant version in reverse, of what happened to Atlantis when they landed, with the Kether drive already burned out."

"We don't know for sure if that's true," Q hurried to say, "But we have good reason to think so. When the Antigens landed, they were actually ingressing into our space, or world, using the 'out' direction on the Kether drive. That's why I said it would be better to say they came from 'inner space.' When they leave, they would use the 'in' direction, which would probably make a big implosion sucking god-knows how much of our planet's substance inside out. So our strategy, for one thing, is a precaution. But it's more than that. Knowing about the 10 directional drive (which, ironically is an outgrowth of the US government's Antigen-financed research) we feel that it's not only important to save our race and planetary eco-system hardship in the future, but in the past as well."

"History is simply UNACCEPTABLE!" grunted Ingrid

"Now, the way the Histodelic Reificator works," continued Q, "Is that it produces a morphogenetic field, which Rudi calls the "Uberfield". This field is an atemporal trans-spatial phenomena. So if we wanted to rewrite the genome of a particular entity or group, we'd have to be able to focus, or constrain, this everywhere-everywhen field to a particular target. Aiming the field. That's your job, [X]. Inside the Egg, you will become selected people in history, and transduce the field, re-writing their genes, immunizing them to Antigen hypnomemes, so that their full iconic and lyric faculties will come back on line."

"Whoa, hey, what?" I said. "Re-writing genes? Transducing the Uberfield?"

"Claire will help you get the hang of transduction. This is actually one of those areas where, using Sitchin's term, we've 'out-Reptoided the Reptoids.' The Antigens have used the media as their transducer and the human brain as the receiver and processor, reducing humans to little more than automatons, slaves, robots..."

"I object," said Claire with a wink. "I may Love people, but please don't compare them favorably with us robots."

"Let alone gyandrobots!" said the Saint, quick to agree with his super-smart sex toy. "Anyway, the human brain is capable not only of receiving information but of sending it. And we can receive and send information not only through alphabetic symbology but iconically, that is, through direct experience. And in fact, by phase locking quantum resonances, as I demonstrated to you at the creek, we can even send information telepathically..."

"Don't let him con you," said Claire. "I helped him with that little trick."

"I admit it," said Q, glancing fondly at his hotbot, "I was plugged into one of Claire's remote socket's at the time."

"Wait a minute, slow down," I said. "You 'plugged' into Claire in order to use her transducer?"

"Whatever. What I'm wondering is, how exactly is Claire gonna help me 'get the hang' of transducing? I mean, I know she is a robot and stuff, but, I mean, I'm not saying you're not an attractive robot, or uh, gyandrobot, Claire, but I don't think it would be wise if I 'plugged in' to her. My wife might consider that a breach of our marriage contract. Even if it was just a 'remote socket,' whatever the fuck that is!"

Yes [X], you're a good boy. We anticipated your 'happily married' argument. That's why we discussed this with your wife first. We've got her on the phone now. In fact, she's been remotely viewing all these proceedings. Actually, yours was an arranged marriage. Your wife was part of our organization before you ever met her."

"Historical Revisionists?" I said dubiously. "I doubt it. I don't think so."

"No, our organization goes by many names. In her case, it was called 'Universal Qabala'."

"Oh, Fuck!" I said, surprised, but still suspicious, "No shit?" I wasn't ready to leap all the way to this new view of reality, where my wife had been secretly grooming me all this time to play some part in a conspiracy to battle other-dimensional aliens. "You're gonna have to prove THAT to me! Where's the phone?" I asked, looking around, feeling sure I could verify if it was REALLY my wife on the line.

"Hi Hubby," said Claire.

I did a double take, and furrowed my brow.

"She's got an internal phone?" I said.

"Duh," said Rudy. Now it was his turn to roll his (magnified) eyes.

"Is that you, Bug?" I said, still regarding Claire as if she's just sprouted tentacles. "Is it REALLY you?"

"Ask me something," my wife/Claire said. "Anything."

"Um, ok, what's that stuff that you wouldn't eat that the Turkish boat captain fed us?"

"Hum," I said, stepping back, still suspicious, full of my self monogamy programming to shun contact with any other female than my wife, trying to think of a REALLY hard question, something that definitely NO ONE but we two knew. "Ok, ok, here's one. What was the first thing, EXACTLY, that we ever did in our living room?"

Again the woman whose personality was in question came over and whispered in my ear. This time a protracted description that made my eyes go wide and my skin turn red. Then she stepped back and addressed me in a normal voice.

"I can drive this thing, uh, no offense."

"None taken," said the same mouth of Claire/wife.

"This, um, gyandrobot has remote controls," she, again, said. "It's actually kind of fun, driving her. I can access all her functions, but I'm still me. It's quite a lesson in selflessness. Claire can simply step back and observe while I'm in control, just as I was observing when she was in control. She can even take a 'nap,' if we need some privacy."

"Not only that," said Rudy, "But the gyandrobot now has piezoplastic skin. She can even morph herself to look like your wife."

At that moment, Claire literally, obligingly, disconcertingly, transmogrified into my wife.

"As they explained to you," said my wife, "I've been in on this all along. I hope it doesn't make you love me any less," she said, looking down at her toe, now moving in the metronome action characteristic of her when she was feeling sheepish.

"Weeeelll, no," I said, then pretending confidence, "I always knew it was SOMETHING like that...I always knew there was more to you than met the eye."

"Ok ok," said Q, "Enough of this lovers' chatter. Are you ready to transduce, or what?"

"Let me get this straight," I said. "I get in Ginger, with Claire, which is a 'remote socket' of my wife..."

"I'm ME!" said my wife. "Not a body!"

"OK, so I get in the Egg with my Wife, and we become the focal point of a morpho, um..."

"Morphogenetic resonance field," helped Q.

"Which will then rewrite the genes we focus on, by, I assume the same method as I piloted the Egg last time?"

"Yes, except the time travel function will be allowed, and your wife, as the Kama Mudra, using certain accessories Rudy installed in Claire, will zero you in on our chosen target couples. At first, for purposes of experimentation and subtlety, we will only rewrite the code in zygotes at the moment of conception..."

"Obviously orgasm is necessary to fertilization," said Q, looking away with a cough that almost nearly possibly could have been a trace of embarrassment, "However, it will not be 'you' having the orgasm, nor is the term 'having' any more appropriate to orgasm than 'taking' is to shit. In Kama Mudra, as you must recall, orgasm is redirected as prana through the subtle channels. The flow of prana is the trigger to the transduction process, and your wife can guide you through it."

"So you," I said, giggling (I couldn't resist), "were splooging down there in the glade when you were talking to me telepathically?

"You know all you need to know," said Q. "Are you ready or not?

"I guess I'm ready as I'll never be."

"Good, then get your ass, and your wife, and the rest of your self and so on into Ginger. You'll find it behind the Reificator, which we call Oz."

"Oz the Ozzidelic Ozzificator..." I said, snickering, beginning to loosen up, as I followed the swiveling paisley painted butt of my wife behind the wall of mad-scientist machinery.

"O, now that you say that," said Q, "It reminds me, take another hit of this. We wouldn't want you to come down in some Manichean fucking in a Ziggaraut and get stuck BC."

I stopped snickering and, realizing how dangerously sober I was getting, took a deep hit off Q's GDA pipe and made sure to hold it in until the world was spinning. My wife was stripping and I followed suit and climbed into the Egg after her. I've described the inside of the Egg before and we are pretty private people, so I'll skip right to what happened when the Kama Mudra kicked in. It felt like waves of pain and pleasure rotorootering every nerve in my body, and I began coming loose from myself. It was ecstacy in the shamanic sense of the word--coming loose from my body.

We didn't even need the pornoscreen for turning. It was like we floated above our bodies intertwined in coitus, yab-yum as it's known in the Kama Mudra sense, and we floated above a vast field of intertwined couples. As we focused on our own bodies, we both knew everything about both of us, as if we were one self, and our whole life, even our futures, were laid out before our eyes in an instantaneous, synesthetic mandala. The fringes of this mandala intertwined with the other mandalas, which nearby we could see were our parents and people who'd touched our lives. And when we "looked" at them we also knew everything about them.

Now we really let loose, and rose above the vast field of interconnected mandalas! What a rush! It wasn't really 'me' that was doing the letting go. It was more like I was approving the decision, signing on the dotted line. And when I say 'rose above,' that's not really right either. It's a two dimensional analogy, when really the mandalas were even more than three dimensional. So how we navigated I can't really say. But it was as if we could 'rise above' or 'go outside' the whole map of mandalas and survey them like a map in time and space and re-enter at the point of choice.

And it was even weirder than that. Because we knew the mandalas, as I said, instantly, synethetically, in a way where experience gathered through through the senses and knowledge and thought were all one thing...but in addition to this, I now/then know/knew in a way hard to convey in words, that our lives, and the lives indicated by each of these flower-like fuck scenes, were all being re-written both from the future as well as in the ordinary way, from the past. So that, through the windows of these fucking lives, I could see that history wasn't, would never again be, and therefore had never been, fixed.

We and other forces with various agendas were constantly re-writing history, the whole thing was in flux, like a living 10 dimensional, to use Rudy's magic number, Mandlebrot fractal organism. Then as we started zooming in again, I lost sight of this big picture. The closer we got, the less chaotic looked the kaleidescoping fractals. Pretty soon, I could see our target. Holy Mother of God! Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Was I gonna be Jesus's father? Were we Joseph and Mary? That's how it looked for a moment. But then, Holy Fuck! I realized that was just a skip in the Akashic record. I was now actually Jesus himself, fucking Mary Magdalene. I was seeing the truth about myself, that the God gene had been implanted in me in this same way, through guerilla Kama Mudra spies from beyond time. And I now in my turn was fathering a lineage of hypnomeme immune illiterate espionage agents that would fight history as effectively nameless Gnostics that would sometimes be known as the White Brotherhood, Templars, Masons, Sufis, etc.

As I built towards orgasm, I felt the energy cycling between myself and my wife, Jesus and Mary, faster and faster, until it triggered what I later realized had been the transduction device. It was as if the cycling energy caught, dead center, in my head, in the middle of my brain, and resonated with a crystal in my wife/Mary's womb.

Time froze, there was a flash of white light. For an eternal instant, I saw beyond creation and conception, beyond the chaos of systems dynamics, the bottomless, boundless, centerless sea in which the crystals of experiential "reality" formed, beyond myself and others, beyond any ome beings powers of imagining.

When I opened my eyes, which had not been shut, I saw my wife's face. There we were back in our familiar house, and bed, and lives. I checked my watch. Sure enough, it was the day before yesterday again. Fuck, they'd done it again!

Once again, I had no way of knowing if this was a muladhara hallucination, if it was a Real Mindfuck, or Metamental masturbation, or what the Fuck! Next time, I might really loose my marbles, if I hadn't already. But then it occurred to me, this time I had my wife for corroboration!

"What did you just experience?" I said.

"The White Light," she said, moaning and rolling luxuriously.

"Yeah, but before that."

"The ultimate fuck," she said, sinking into the pillows, the words slipping into sighs.

"Yes, but what about Oz?," I pleaded, getting frantic. "The histodelifier whatyamajigger, and Jesus and Mary and the mandalas and stuff!"

She began making a sound that reminded me of the dual octave singing of the Tibetans and the Tuvans. I began listening and relaxing, seeing dancing dakinis and hearing the cosmic seed syllables.

Ooooommmmm.

AaaaaaaaHHHHHHH. HUUUUUUUUM.

Then I realized she was snoring.

(also see, Advances in Skin Science: Quantum Tantra
The Mad Scientist Keeps Egging Me On and Egg Physics 101)