Fiction Thank You, Thank You Very Much Installment 5
Transmitting . . . By Peace Wilson Transmitting . . . Fried peanut butter 'n' banana sandwich . . . The King is dead, long live the King. Elmore and Birdie rapt in the field-o-dreams . . . ripe in a clearing outside of Hollywood, Miss., anticipating a rendezvous with Elvis. "Oh Elmore, the stars are so bright, it takes my breath away!" Birdie exclaims to the high heavens, that firmament non-fundamental in the slow-exploding Cosmos, despite the syncretic goo of pseudo-religious tradition. Southern Eros dyad writhes in the long green grass. Rapture of the 2nd Coming of Pelvis Grist. Bait of the peanut butter 'n' banana sandwich treat (SoCal made Memphis through the frying). Birdie/Elmore hotflesh tumble, X-rated X-file in the full moonlight. Expecting ghostflesh from Alpha Centauri. Or Visitation on the Cosmic Holodeck. Subjective murk and objective flatlandishness collide. Omnijectivity abides. The Californicative psi guy had pointed out the Elvis Costello/Elvis Presley songwriter/singer mojo from the ethers. The previously known EP died of up/down up/down up/down OUT self-caricaturization. He needed EC's neo-tinpanalley songwriting mojo. The subjective/objectivists wanted Dead Presley to re-materialize in extraterrestrial custody. The quantum omnijectivists burst the walls of time and space asunder. Parallel worldling clones of anything imaginable proliferate at the speed-o-light . . . If the rock (or anything at all) is not uncanny, one has not understood. Technoshamanism is where mind/matter mesh infinitum. What was it Keats said re "negative capability"? Something 'bout ability to navigate uncertainties, ambiguities, without irritably clinging to reductionist "certainty." When Birdie quakes in sync with Elmore's rocket to the stars, she muses on the astrological similarities between EP and JC, blushing at the pagan wickedness of synchronous star signs. Of course, everything interesting is the devil's work. Beyond east/west north/south provincialities is Void to Voice. "Capricorn, moon in Pisces — definitely Elvis, probably Jesus," buxom Birdie chirps postclimax. Elmore doesn't want to hear this, toeing the line of scientific materialism vs. mythic mumbo-jumbo. The infinite psiosphere, however, is indifferent to such false dichotomies. It's never this verses that, but a little of this, a little of that, plus something else. Splendor in the grass of a lost X-files rerun, goin' after 2nd helpings of sticky lovelust, Elmore and Birdie fail to notice the eerily quiet manifestation in their immediate vicinity of a classic luminous UFO orb. Defying categorizations of metallic object or etheric vision. UFO or horizontal aura. Turning to vertical, deftly delivering a glowing Vegas Elvis on a half-shell, in search of fried peanut-butter and banana sandwiches — and how could an astral entity crave physical food? That's why they call 'em "hungry ghosts" in Tibetan lore. And a more substantive Elvis duplicate from a parallel universe would naturally have a comparable visceral craving. Elvis in ambiguous form, WWF-style belt w/a guitar design straining to contain his gut, grabs the fab sandwich off a tree-stump greedily, munches and glides over to the love couple to thank them, but they are too engrossed in body sugar to notice as he belches out a "Thank you, thank you very much" — and his deadly weapon weighted belt pops loose and the buckle smites Elmore on the back of his head, causing his forehead to clout Birdie, knockin' 'em both out cold . . . Substantiality ripe for a Sliders episode. Elvis parallel worldling clone number 909, mayhaps . . . Jump to Installment 6 (coming soon). Review the rules here To submit your 500-word contribution, just type it up and e-mail it to mail@southerner.net. Please include the words Elvis Lives in the subject line in all caps, like this: ELVIS LIVES.
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