The Enunciation

Being, quite literally, a cynic—the word originally means dog, dontcha know? —I was chatting with the universe the other day about what an awful mess human beings have got themselves into and asking it why it lets things continually slide into hell in a hand basket with earth and its people.

It turns out the universe is a fan of handicrafts, which, it has noted, are a dying art among human beings; and furthermore that of all the crafts it likes basketmaking perhaps the most because of the meditative properties of the activity and the fact that baskets, unlike oil paintings, can actually be used for something.

It r turns out furthermore that hand baskets are by far the best vehicle for getting to hell in, and that human beings actually like going to hell. Both Gurdjieff and Swedenborg told me this about humans, mind you, but the idea seems perverse to me and I am still resistant to it.

So, the universe explained, encouraging humans to go to hell in a hand basket (as it does) is not technically unethical. It helps support indigenous native human handicrafts, and it gives them an incentive; they weave their hand baskets and then as a reward, when they’re done, they get to go straight to hell in them. Once done the universe collects the baskets (fact is no one in hell has any use whatsoever for baskets) in a case and brings them back to earth. Everyone’s needs are met in this way.

I pointed out to the universe that this leaves earth in worse and worse shape and it just shrugged its shoulders which produced an accessory supernova.

“It’s just earth,” it pointed out, “I’ve got trillions of them.”  The supernova burned about a thousand planets up right there as it was speaking as though just to make its point.

“Yes,” I replied, “but it’s my earth and you keep reincarnating me down there and it’s worse every time.”

“Perhaps it’s just your attitude,” came the reply.

“It’s NOT my attitude,” I insisted. “You’re fucking the place up big time. Global Warming. Plastic pollution. War, famine, drought, plague, media.”

The universe sighed a long weary sigh of the type emitted by one who is worn out by the sheer complication of everything. “All right,” it conceded. “Maybe you have a point. We’ll send you down to fix things up a bit.”

I should have known right then that troubles were a-comin.’ But like the idiot I always am (we dogs are trained to accept our fates with good cheer) I just soldiered up and prepared for the next incarnation, not even asking for a primer because again like an idiot I keep trusting the universe even though it proves over and over again to be a mistake.

This was the first time he sent me back to Jesus; and I say the first time because it turned out to be a bit of a repeating assignment. He started me out with the annunciation for which he had me accompany the angel Gabrielle down to earth as a messenger service.