Archive for the 'La Musica' Category
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
Philip Seymour Hoffman, the other day, he died.
And all the eager scoured-brain skull-lickers, they are all, now, over all and every tube, telling us just how awfully, awfully Wrong, it was, the way, that he died.
He died, apparently, with a needle in his arm. Shooting heroin.
So. Striving. He was. Yassa yassa massa massa. For: the great wide open.
But why, cry the ur-humans, who these days are the all and every of “the press,” though they are knuckledraggers who have never even once gazed upon the monolith . . . why, would ol’ Phil, why would he knock hisself off, even inadvertently, with the ol’ Big Horse?
They do crocodile-weep, these ur-people: faux-crying what they never would say when he was alive—that he was perhaps the finest, most sensitive actor, of his generation.
And in this, they do answer their own question.
Phil, he was, with the needle in his arm, to try to bring the sweet peak understanding surcease release, to both body and mind, just, just, just:
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, projectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.
Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”
Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”
And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.
Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.
The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, once upon a time, he served as governor of the spice planet, Arrakis.
But never did he figure out the sandworms.
And so he lost the ring.
When things, there on Arrakis, got very, very dark for him, the baron, he stage-managed his own supposed “death”—stabbed and poisoned (so the tale, to this day is told) by his own toddler grand-daughter.
Though, in truth, the baron really escaped hisself, slinking aboard a nearby space-freighter. Which whisked him off Arrakis. And transported him to this here planet. To rudely dump him in New Jersey.
A fate, many would say, actually worse, than death.
The baron, ever adaptable and ambitious, did, in the course of things, emerge from the fetid swamplands of New Jersey. As Chris “Meaty, Beaty, Big, And Bouncy” Christie.
Under which rubric he eventually—through bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble—managed to get himself elected governor of the state.
Next, the baron transformed into Captain LapBand. A persona with which he expected to attain the presidency of the United States. So he could preside over—and jeebus knows why he’d wanna—the further crumbling of a terminally failed nation-state.
But now, in recent days, has come a Problem. The baron has become confronted with Horrors unseen since those dark Arrakis days when the sandworms came a-flowing through the Shield Wall.
For—yea, verily—it has been j’accused, that he, Captain LapBand, and/or his people, deliberately snarled into four-day stasis chaos, traffic on the George Washington Bridge. The busiest, and therefore most insane, bridge, into the busiest, and therefore most insane, city in all North America—New York City.
And all but to punish the mayor of a tiny New Jersey burg. Who wouldn’t endorse the LapBand for re-election to the governorship.
A mayor sprung from long-ago Atreides loins: the same Atreides with which the baron did long-ago war, there on Arrakis.
Confucius, it is said, that once upon a time, he did say: “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
And this is why, today, earthmovers, from all over the nation, are steaming avidly to New Jersey. There to dig, somewhere in the stinking poisoned superfund sites which comprise the vast majority of that state, a vast and yawning pit, capacious enough in which to lay the bursting bloating remains, of Captain LapBand.
For when you tip the scales at roughly 400 pounds, and you exclusively travel hither and yon in a stretch limo flanked by domestic serial killers on motorbikes with sirens, who blast any and all traffic out of your way, it is daylight madness to get caught lifting your chubby sausage-like fingers to intentionally and terminally fuck with the way mere mortals get about in their automobiles.
For everyone who has ever once been sentenced to living in a city has experienced the Warp 10 impotence and rage of being stuck in a traffic jam.
And, since cities are currently nearing maddened frenzied colony-collapse—see the already-happened non-fiction tome City, which traces the blessed death of cities—said cities are more crowded than ever before.
And, thus, more Americans, than ever before, are thereby daily beset, by said traffic-jam impotence and rage.
Because we have not yet reached. The blessed place. Where the de-evolved colony of the scrambled-brain city collapses.
Where let it be written. Where let it be done.
I’ll try to keep this particular tangent down to the below seven-paragraph minimum.
To wit: the bridge that Captain LapBand fucked, the George Washington, the busiest bridge in the nation, it feeds into the howling fetid terminal insanity-vector known as New York City.
When white people arrived on this continent, not that many years ago, the NYC area was home to some 15,000 native people, the Lanape.
So sorry, but that, then, provably, is the maximum number of humans that the land can support.
The other 8 million or so folks currently living there—they’ll just have to move.
But that’s okay. They’ll sunnily be better off elsewhere. The certifiably crazed and unbelievably twisted mad-scientist BF Skinner experiment of NYC: it’s just over.
So let it go.
To settle, with Captain LapBand, into the grave.
So anyway. Human Americans, sitting there in their cars, in a traffic jam, hearing that the Harkonnen human-zeppelin intentionally let them stew for four days in non-moving traffic—they will pound their fists through their horns, and loudly vow, with spittle spewing from their lips, blood vengeance.
Americans, they will put up with a lot. Slavering murder, random bomb-rain, unsane wars, sniffing through the underpants of their intertubes, literal vaginal and anal probes.
But—jeebus christie—don’t fuck with their cars.
A guy who, like the baron, needs one or more cement-reinforced dollys, to move him merely from this vehicle to that, he simply cannot afford to be seen to slow, even an iota, any of them, his, ‘Mericans, moving mobile.
‘Less he wants to be lynched.
Though, it is true, considering the baron’s poundage, said lynching would probably require at least three, and possibly four, ropes. And, no doubt, moving his blubbery carcass, out of state.
Because I don’t think New Jersey, it, any longer, grows, anywhere, a tree, strong and sturdy enough, to bear his burdensome weight.
Too bad for you, baron: still too suffused with Arrakis-think. For this is ‘Merica. Where all, must always be free, to go, unfettered and free, mobile.
Captain LapBand’s bumbling sausage-fingered thumbs-down on all the vehicular traffic burbling up from the town of the cursed Atreides-spawn: it reminds me of the 1994 foam-flecked frenzy over the “House banking scandal.”
That is when it was learned that legislators in the United States House of Representatives could blissfully and recurrently avail themselves of the round-heeled services of a special House “bank,” one that allowed them to bounce, oh say, 200 or 300 checks a year, for which they would not be expected to pay any penalty fees, checks they could pay off two or three or four years down the line.
Americans, en masse, when once this became news, went insane.
Back in that day, you could turn on your television, at any hour of the day or the night, and see brown South American people who, right before your very eyes, were being viciously and maniacally tortured, killed, and raped, by US serial killers. But all the foam that did fleck from North American lips, it concerned but the fact that their congresscritter had a bank, that would do for him, what a bank wouldn’t do for the Normal North American.
See, the Normal North American, the bank gives s/he, no mercy. And the Normal North American, deals with said merciless bank, every day.
And then, for a Normal North American, to see a congresscritter, lying naked, upon a perfumed couch, being suckled and serviced, by such a very same bank: this made the Normal North American—yea verily—want to Stab, and Shoot.
And the result of this, was that 77 serving members of the House of Representatives were thrown out on their rears. And, as consequence, the Publicans took control of the House. For the first time in 40 years.
And it’s basically been their place, ever since. Unto the dawn of today. When the House of Representatives is dominated by pre-monolith retroverts who would outlaw the human orgasm, and command that all publicly laugh, whenever any poor person dies.
I guess it’s too bad about the baron, really. At heart, he’s just a Jersey fat boy. Who, like just about every Jersey boy of his era—fat or no—wanted nothing more than to be Bruce Springsteen.
And, in this, Barack Obama, shrewdly, gifted the Cap’n. Giving Bruce onto Cap’n Fatband; as close as the Cap’n'll will ever get, to Bruce.
For when the Cap’n agreed to snuggle up close to the president, in exchange for aid for Hurricane Sandy, The Bruce, The Boss, thereby agreed to come into the presence, of the Cap’n.
And, so it was written, and then it was done. The Bruce, and the Cap’n, they did speak. And, then, they did—yea, verily—embrace.
That, now, it is clear, will stand as the highlight of Meaty, Beaty, Big And Bouncy’s, very life.
He could, then, have settled.
But he did not. He tried to strive higher.
Too much time spent on Arrakis, my fat not-friend. You never sufficiently absorbed, the human touch.
For a human, a real human, a feeling human, s/he doesn’t let another human, sit, stewing, sweating, swearing, in an unmoving vehicle. For four days. For no Real reason.
But you: you did that.
And so: you’re done.
Just think. Baron. Of what you might have had.
Oh well. Too bad. All over now.
There are no nations, no parties, no ideologies.
There are only queens. And kings.
It was a test. And there were people that passed, and there were people that didn’t pass.
When we did the show up in Portland—to give you an idea of someone who passed—some businessman, just walkin’ around on the street, came in; we charged a buck, and for a buck you got to see us make all our noise, and the Dead make all their noise, and anything else that happened.
This guy was in a suit, and he had an umbrella. He got the customary cup of stuff. And about midnight, you could see him really get ripped. Somebody who’d probably never been anything but drunk on beer. But he looked around, and he saw all these strange people, and he looked down, and the spotlight was showing down on him, and he saw his shadow.
And he stands up straight, puts that umbrella over his shoulder, and he says:
“The king walks.”
“The king turns around.”
“Now the king will dance.”
Let’s have a little break here, so that we don’t get too tired. Do you have any questions or problems? First issue: very often after the fourth beat there is a feeling of waiting for something. We wait for the fourth note . . . and the flow of the music stops . . . Or maybe my heart stops.
I have stage fright when I face you. I do not do this every day. Instead I listen to music, and I’m more interested in playing myself, than conducting.
But I will improve before tomorrow. If I live that long.
The most important problem for me at the end of the twentieth century is the continual lack of time. We are always in an awful hurry and still we waste an incredible amount of time, for instance in front of the TV or in a car. While I do like some aspects of our “fast” civilization—I love to fly in airplanes, I am fascinated with cosmic adventures, trips to the moon or Mars—and we do live in astounding times, still, here, in this music, we have to surrender ourselves to this other dimension of time. We have to slow down. Only then the sonority will be fantastic: the higher the music will go, the more distinctly it will sound. I dream of writing such tranquil music. I do not want to compose anything that echoes the modern “rush”—the cell phones, the telephones and faxes. It has to be calm. Life is too beautiful to be wasted in this way, by rushing things so much.
How should I explain it to you? Perhaps you should think about an elevator: you leave behind the basement of everyday life, filled with noises, distractions and anxieties, and you take the elevator up to the tenth floor, or even into the sky of timelessness. When you are in this music, time slows down, it is as if you were in heaven, it is like eternity. Do you understand what I want to achieve there? Total calm.
Let us play it again.
This is a mother’s song. This song has to be expressed both by the orchestra and the soloist. It has to be contemplative in mood, but still maintain the tempo. It approximates the speed of slow walking, when one walks alone, lost in thought. We have to enter into this mood. It is as if we were walking, or even slowly dancing. You have to think about walking here.
For me it is a very difficult movement because I do not usually engage in conducting and I do not know how to enchant you with my hand movements. But music carries me away and I may at some spots—and please forgive me if I do—make a wrong movement at a certain time. But you know the score and could play on. So then do not look at me, at what I am doing, but listen to each other, listen to what happens around you.
I am sorry for these mistakes. But I think that we will be able to communicate soon.
Alpha and omega, the beginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and which is to come.
On those stepping into rivers staying the same other and other waters flow.
The chemical composition of seawater, the Science Men tell us, is identical to that of human tears.
And seawater, they tell us, is from where, on this planet, all life did grow.
I believe that, in a mobius strip of time, the tears shed by us, created the oceans, from which came us.
So. Don’t hold back. Let them flow. All your tears. Like water flow.
And upon them, someday, you may sail. Sail to Caledonia.
I want to tell my daughter not to be afraid. Instead I’ll tell her to be vigilant, and to look to her dreams and nightmares for clues and signs of progress. I’ll tell her to be open-minded about the spirit world, and if it feels right, to call upon the spirits for help. I will also tell her to seek out communities embarked on meaningful and noble acts. The acts need not be as large as the Sword of Heaven, for any act that makes the world a better place is worthy. Above all, I’ll tell her that all action, big or small, must always be accompanied by the opening of one’s heart. As the Sword of Heaven taught me, ritual only takes one to the door. To get through to the other side, there must be love.
The afternoon light moves from the end of my desk and for a moment illuminates the letters on my keyboard. From my window, I can see a huge ship passing beneath the Golden Gate Bridge on its way to dock. I lean back and take it all in. I wonder where the ship is going next. I wonder where the light will fall now.
—Mikkel Aaland, The Sword of Heaven
I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.
A boy, so broken; broken from birth. So broken that, as he entered adolescence, he came to physically less resemble a human being, than a pop-eyed sketch of an extraterrestrial gray.
So, through weeks, and months, and years, he closed himself off, from all the world. Eventually sealing all the windows, of his room, and of his soul. His room, he sealed with desperate scratchy black plastic, and duct-tape. So he could freely crouch. Ape-like. Masturbating. Before his video screen. His hands on the controls. Sealing the cessation of his soul. As he ceaselessly engaged, there on his screen, in killing. Killing. And killing. And killing. And killing. Killing. Killing. And killing.
Till, one fine morn, he awoke. Took a face from the ancient gallery. And walked on down the hall.
To blow, with her own gun, his sleeping mother, into bloody chunks.
Killing, this time—at long last—for real.
Then, the broken boy, he went to school.
And rained death down upon them with the second amendment freedom discharge of his god-given-right weapons unrecognizable some they had no longer any face what so proudly we hailed upon twenty little children in the twilight’s last gleaming they were five-year-olds they were of the age of fairies and fingerpaints and a broken boy because he could because any freedom git yer gun git yer gun git yer gun broken boy in America can freedom freedom freedom came to them with a gun and he concealed carry freedom second amendment blew all their faces and their brains away.
They were shot and they were killed and they were buried in closed coffins because they no longer had faces. Their faces splattered all about the schoolroom. Traces of blasted faces among the fairies and the fingerpaints. Five years old. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Outta yer cold dead hands. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Sometimes. I. Feel. Like. A. Motherless. Child. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Hoo-rah. Semper fi. Aim high. Anchors aweigh. Because freedom. Clap your hands. Clap your hands. Clap your hands now.
A number of new laws—national, state, local—took effect January 1.
Many of these laws are Good. Such as the local ordinance that now permits me to deploy mammoth spike strips, both east and west, so that by the time these ludicrous motor vehicles lumber by The Manor, their tires are totally deflated, the infernally combusting sadsacks shrieking along, slowly, but on the rims, and thereby no longer posing any Menace, at all, to the squirrels.
Others of these laws are, to many people, Unknown.
Such as the Decision by the 60 Cro-Magnons of the United States Senate, back last spring when they were busy not being sane about the nation’s gun laws, to introduce and approve legislation designating American Warrior as the new national icon, and Ordering that he be depicted on both the nation’s money, and its flag.
You see, throughout many regions of this planet, there exists an iconic representation that is said to embody the essential nature and characteristics of a nation’s people.
In Britain, for example, there is John Bull—a stout, middle-aged, stuffy twit, with a Union Jack emblazoned across his ample and protruding midsection.
In France, meanwhile, there is Marianne, a comely, topless, determined lass, most often depicted leading the people against some Outrage or another.
In Bhutan, there is Druk, the dragon who speaks truth in gentle thunder.
In the United States, traditionally, there has been Uncle Sam. A tall, lanky, bewhiskered gent, with a penchant for scowling and pointing his finger at people, commonly as part of a demand that they go enlist in some wing of the death industry, so they can slog off to kill non-Americans somewhere.
But in the 1970s Uncle Sam was appropriated by the extraterrestrial anarchists of the Grateful Dead, transformed into a merry skeleton, and set about dancing and drugging and fornicating and astral-space-traveling and all sorts of other essential wonderfulness.
So, decided the Cro-Magnons of the US Senate, Uncle Sam, he is over. He has been soiled, besmirched, besmeared. He cannot be redeemed. And, moreover, the new, real, true, iconic representation, that nails, precisely, the essential nature and characteristics of the American people, these days, decreed they, is American Warrior. That is the fellow shown in the photo to the right.
He is America.
American Warrior, he is ugly, and he is obese. He has guns, and he has ammo. He has a computer, so he can howl, to all and every, on whatever might drag its knuckles through his brain, and without surcease, all of the day, and all of the night. He lives in a hole even a termite or scorpion would spurn. He is without sense. He is without taste. He is without grace. He is without shame.
He is America.
That is why he is going on the flag. The design for the new American flag, the American Warrior flag, the flag Mandated by Congress, it may be seen below.
Expect to see it shining, in the rockets’ red glare, soon, from a flagpole near you.
And the money, henceforth, it shall read: “In God—And American Warrior—We Trust.”
American Warrior patches will also, by law, be sewn on to the uniforms of all the nation’s serial killers. And American Warrior decals will be placed upon all the vehicles employed in the American death industry.
Programs shall be introduced into the nation’s schools, to encourage American children to model themselves—physically, mentally, morally, spiritually—after American Warrior. Those children who do not so model themselves—they shall be Punished.
Hundreds of thousands of Americans costumed like American Warrior shall be dispatched across the land—like a sort of escape of characters from a satanic Disneyland—and those who do not salute American Warrior, as he passes by, shall be guilty of a felony, and will serve five years in the federal prison, after which they shall be deported.
It’s a new dawn.
“I would like to go to the Lion’s Gate,” Raziel told him.
Approaching the end of the Via Dolorosa, almost at the Lions’ Gate, above the shouting he heard a voice he knew. It was the voice of Adam De Kuff speaking from the upper quadrant of his interior universe, strong, unafraid, joyful, thoroughly delusional. Raziel shouldered his way through the ranks until he saw the man himself.
He wore what looked like an army jacket that fitted him so badly its cuffs stopped a little past his elbows. He had hugely baggy army trousers and untied muddy boots whose laces coiled around his ankles and twisted underfoot as he shuffled passionately from one end of the bench to the other like a dancing bear. There was a kippa on his head and a white scarf tied around his forehead like a turban and he crooned at the top of his voice.
Raziel kept trying to force his way closer to the old man. He had the notion of taking him away from there, before the thing failed utterly, before all spells and mercies were suspended, before whatever grace that had touched their pilgrimage was withdrawn and the violence and raw holiness of the place overwhelmed everyone.
De Kuff himself understood only that he was in the place he knew and loved best, the scene of his successes, the ancient Serapion and Pool of Israel. All that day he had been trying to reach the souls within himself as they weaved in and out of his consciousness. He had begun to think that everything he had ever believed about soul and mind was wrong. There was no way to exercise control.
But there at the Fountain, his souls were manifest and his heart was full, and in the completeness of his joy he had no choice but to tell about it. It was necessary to tell everyone, anyone, no matter how distressed or distracted they might be by politics or by the illusion of separateness and exile that burdened everyone. He felt elected and protected by God, ready to support the Ark in the holiest of places. He used the metaphors that were employed in this city, although, in a way, it might have been anywhere.
“Call me as you like,” he explained to the angry crowd. “I am the twelfth imam. I am the Bab al-Ulema. I am Jesus, Yeshi, Issa. I am the Mahdi. I am Moshiach. I have come to restore the world. I am all of you. I am no one.”
There were screams of terrible passion. “Perish he! Death!”
People began to throw stones.
“Death to the blasphemer!”
De Kuff opened his arms to them. For a moment those who were advancing on him stopped. Raziel, shouting, shoving, tried to get through.
“You don’t have to listen,” Raziel said to the crowd. “It’s all over. Rev,” he shouted to De Kuff, “it’s all over! Another time, man. Another soul. Another street.”
The men who were taking hold of De Kuff, pulling him down as he tottered on his bench, also laid hands on Raziel.
“I tell you, ” De Kuff informed them in his restrained Louisiana drawl. “That all was once One and will be and has always remained so. That God is One. And faith in Him is One. And all belief is One. And all believers in Him, regardless of sect, are One. Only the human heart divides. So it is written.
“See? Do you see?” De Kuff asked the men who were pulling him down. “Everyone’s waiting. And the separateness of things is false.”
He went on declaiming, using the images, the reversals, the metaphors everyone knew, expounding the souls, raising their voices, until the great holiness turned to fire and he lost consciousness.
—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate
Bobby Dylan is the most unusual dude I have ever known. You can’t really ever understand him completely. He is so much like a kid in a way. But you don’t think that when you’re around him. You think, “That son of a bitch is doin’ numbers on everybody.”
Once one’s eyes are opened to the thing, it becomes increasingly clear that the number of people, places, and things that are mucking with humans, teasing and tormenting them, yea, verily, that number is without limit.
First came the extraterrestrials who have foisted pseudo-humans upon Americans as if they were Real candidates for the presidency. Then there was whoever created an insect as big as a human hand. Now: Bob Dylan.
Dylan has always been something of a trickster. Most people figure this out eventually. But when in the autumn of 2009 he released the CD Christmas In The Heart, the thing was so cruel and unusual that nobody knew what to say. It was met mostly with stunned silence.
Only now, a couple years later, is the outrage starting to find its voice. Snatches from the work are appearing this holiday season on various and sundry radio programs, with commentators asking WTF?
Take the song embedded below. The backing musicians are bad enough, but Dylan himself sounds like a tubercular wino in the midst of a phlegm seizure. The man has smoked about 87.5 billion cigarettes in his life, and you can hear every one of them in this song. He had to know how bad it sounded. But he released it anyway. Why?
When asked why he recorded a CD of Christmas songs in such a “straightforward” style, Dylan replied: ”There wasn’t any other way to play it. These songs are part of my life, just like folk songs. You have to play them straight too.”
He is lying. He didn’t play this stuff “straight.” He is messing with our minds. Again.
(Another seasonal reprint. Originally appeared here in January of 2010.)
Dark wizard Albert Grossman deliberately assembled the folk-singing trio Peter, Paul, and Mary to rake in coin amid the urban folk-revival of the early 1960s. He wanted “a tall blonde, a funny guy, and a good looking guy”: that’s what he got.
But Peter Yarrow, Paul Stookey, and Mary Travers proved to be something more than a quick milk of the cash cow. They introduced millions of young people, including myself, to significant forms of American roots music. Their smooth and engaging arrangements allowed us to enter them, as through a door, and out the other side we encountered lifetimes of music that, without them, we might never have known.
I had not thought much about the group for many years until the “tall blonde,” Mary Travers, passed away in the fall of 2009, on September 16, of leukemia, at age 72. Just as Peter, Paul, and Mary became more than what Grossman had intended, so too did Travers. ”This was not,” recalled producer Phil Ramone to Rolling Stone, “a girl who was just going to be cutesy like lead singers had been in bands. She created a much bigger role. She took no prisoners when it was what she believed in.”
In the weeks following Travers’ death, the tubes rang with reprises of the group’s music. But nobody seemed much moved to post or discuss the Peter, Paul, and Mary song that had long most entranced me. So I guess I’ll gas on about it myself, there beyond the “furthur.”
(Something I reprint every now and again. Usually around this season. First appeared here.)
* * *
In my Father’s house are many mansions.
Christmastime again is here, and so be Santa, and so be Jesus.
A couple years ago, in contemplating Santa and Jesus, the two began to get confused in my mind. Santa Claus, for reasons that have never really been explained, devotes each year to overseeing minute laborers who fashion gifts which he annually delivers, in a single night, to all deserving children the world over. Jesus Christ, for reasons that have been variously explained, roamed for a short time across a relatively minute plot of land, uttering gnomic wisdoms, then was seized and subjected to excruciating suffering, so that all, deserving and undeserving alike, might be gifted with salvation.
When a sprout, I was taught that while Santa’s labors never end—a yearly, year-long grind—Jesus’ was a one-shot gig. Wander around Palestine, ascend the cross, into the tomb, three days later out again, brief appearances before various friends and lovers, then up to heaven for a well-deserved eternal rest.
I no longer believe that. I believe that, as is set forth here, “Jesus Christ suffers from now until the end. On the cross. He goes on suffering. Until the death of the last human being.” That is the mystic meaning of his tale: he suffers with all beings suffering in the exile of existence. And we are called upon to do the same—to grow to empathy, so that thy neighbor truly is thyself, and suffering everywhere, for everyone, may be eased. With this meaning there is no need for the resurrection. All of us are him, doing the same work; our work, his work, never ends.
For those who are wedded to the resurrection, the advances in science and philosophy in my lifetime, in the understanding of the multiple dimensions and multiple worlds about us, too mean that his work never ends. For the planets, it is now known, are innumerable, and so are the dimensional variations of this one. And if salvation is indeed his calling, he will forever be busy as twelve bastards, for there are those who need saving, inhabiting every one.