post 142

By anders pearson 17 Oct 2000

in Robert Anton Wilson’s quantum mechanical novel Schrödinger’s Cat, there is a recurring scene throughout that takes place at a party and bits and pieces of out of context dialogue from various conversations in the room mix in with the narrative, including one monologue (i think it’s being spoken by Simon Moon, but i don’t have a copy with me to check) that is either strongly garbled or drug-induced or both. a while ago, i was bored so i went through the whole book piecing together the bits of the monologue to see if i could make some sense of it. i still don’t understand it, but it is a beautiful piece of non-linear prose nonetheless:

Thee gauls simper at his tyrant power, He is ghoon with this seven-week booths and his mickeyed mausers into mistory. His eyes did seem auld glowery. Elverun, past Nova’s atoms from mayan builders to monads of goo, brings us by a divinely karmic Tao-Jones leverage back past tall chief tactics and aztlantean tooltechs to Louses in the Skidrow dimehaunts. This way the Humpy Theatre. Wet with garrison statements, oswilde shores, daily blazers, tochus culbook depositories, middlesexed villains and fumes. Fict! The most unkennedest of all. Fogt. Veiny? V.D? Wacky? His bruttus gypper. By loop Shore and Dellingersgangers, where yippies yip and doves duz nothing. to the hawkfullest convention ever. Upper guns thou wilt, marxafactors. A gnew gnu cries nixnix on your loin ardors [O my am I?] as the great Jehoover fouls his files [Seminole cowhand] with marching looter congs. What a loop in the evening, bloody fouled loop! Lawn ordures for crookbacked Dick, pig-bastchard of the world. See, it’s the stinking onion coop. Say, it’s the slimey deepsea doodler. By the wampum of capooney. O turnig on, Duke Daleyswine, lardsmayor of burning-town! They’ll chip away yore homohawks.