 rumble  . . .  rumble . . . huh?  . . . ftp . . . blah, blah 
ASCII mode  . . . blah . . . what the *&%#@$ ?  
 Oh, it's you! Another phan of our phine phriends Phish. Hello,  
glad to see you. There's just one thing . . . um . . . pull up close & 
I'll whisper it to you . . .  
 
 COULDN'T YOU HAVE PAID THE FIRST CLASS PLANE FARE???? 
 
 mumble . . . ftp is a hell of a way to travel. Broken up into 
little packets of 0's & 1's & shoved through a goddamned phone line with 
a gazillion bits of other random trash. . . cheap ass . . . I'll phone 
YOU to Aunt  Martha next Thanksgiving!  . . . damned computer 
geeks. .  
 Ah, but where's my manners? Please excuse my colorful little 
outburst there. Sorry - I really am glad to see you. I couldn't be 
happier  . . .  really! 
 Now on to the Phishtory. The honest to Icculus true story of the 
pre-history of Gamehendge (so far), as posted on the glorious Phish.net  
Jan - May 1993  
 
 I have taken the liberty to do some minor editing on the Phishtory. 
Mainly, I have corrected typos (in particular, I have finally corrected 
the spelling of Gamehendge). Besides that I have only changed a few  
words & phrases. 
 Please write me if you have any comments. 
 
      ...Allan Keeton 
      akeeton@euclid.ucsd.edu 
  
May 16, 1993 - stay tuned this file will be updated when new installments 
are posted.. 
 
 I've got to phone myself home now   . .  . let's see ...  
mail 
To: akeeton@euclid.ucsd.edu 
Subject: Allan Keeton 
send 
____________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   Phishtory (A Phish Story)  
 
      Special Blue Plate of Contents  
 
 
I: From Silicon to Water (Si --> H2O)  
 
II: An Ocean Becomes You  
 
III: Feets Don't Fail Me Now  
 
Phishtory.Intermission  
 
IV: A Day in the Life  
 
V: An Interlude in Briefs  
 
VI: A god is Born  
 
Meandering Meaning (A Phishtory Aside) 
 
VII: Dark Night of the Soles  
 
VIII: Destiny Knocks  
 
IX: Prelude to a Book  
 
X: A Literary Conception  
 
XI: Fall from Rapture  
 
A Phishtory Primer 
 
?Foow? 
 
XII: Poly & Esther Possum  
 
XIII: Ceremonial Confusion 
 
XIV: Don't Whizz on the Lava Lamp 
 
XV: Possum Pie 
 
XVI: Possum Pie in Your (My?) Eye 
 
XVII: A god on the Verge of a Corporeal Breakdown 
 
XVIII: There's a Pottae Going On  
 
XIX: A Mor(t)al Dilemma?  
 
 
__________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   I: From Silicon to Water  
 
 
 Gather around dear sweet sisters & brothers. Come all ye Glides, 
Aphishianados, Chum, Phreaks, Cubists, & any of the many kinds of heads,  
while I tell you the honest & true - 
save for the parts I made up ;-) ;-) ;-) - pre-history of Gamehendge. 
 Imagine now that your terminal is begining to buzzz.  
 
   BUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZZZZ 
     BUUZZZZZZZ 
 BUUUUUUUUUUZZZZ ZZZZZ ZZ ZZZZZ 
 
 The subatomic particles of which you & your terminal & 
indeed all of Phish.net are composed are begining to twitch & sway as if 
they are dancing to some long lost, forgotten song. A song with an 
incredible GrrrooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooOOOOOOOOOoooooooooove & a 
powerful backbeat . . . boom shikka boom shikka 
boom BAM    boom.  the words on your monitor begin to 
 
   Shift 
and  
 
   S 
    W 
       
 
            L        I  
 
        R  
         
  
Looking around you find it hard to distiguish yourself 
from your monitor, from the playful dance of photons & electrons that is 
the bloodlife of Phish.net; indeed from all of existence. You feel as if 
you were existence itself with its feet (the ever miraculus feet!) draped into  
the deep & tranquil pool of transcendance - the void. 
You feel the unending creation & annihilation of 
particle antiparticle pairs & are comforted by the wild dance. Now, 
things begin to shift again & you feel the dance slowing & as things 
start to come into focus you notice that you are flying 
 
  FLYING 
       FLYING 
 
 
over a lush verdant (or pehaps it is an inadvertent) forest. This is Gamehendge. 
You see the majestic mountain in 
the distance. Gravity, that incestuous love of matter for itself, 
reaches out & calls to you. It calls you friend, it calls you demon-lover it 
wraps its hot & heavy arms around you &  
            You start to D 
    R 
      
         O 
      
     P 
 
  D 
    
    O 
       D  
       W 
         O  
   N    D  
            W 
           O 
        N  
               W 
 
           N 
 
 
 
 
Suddenly, you notice an ocean 
 
                                                   U!!! 
                                               O 
                                           Y 
                                 to hit  
 
                           P 
                Moving   U 
   
      y  
   
   l  
 
       k  
 
     i  
 
   u  
 
 Q 
 
 
Help . . . . . . arrrrrrrrrrrgh   .... help!!!!!!! 
 
 
 
S 
       H 
  P 
                                         S 
   L              
    A 
 
 
. . . End of part 1 . . . Future installments to follow . . . stay tuned 
& we'll roll them die (pair of die = 2 cubes). 
 
 
__________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   II: An Ocean Becomes You  
 
 
 When last we met, oh gentle one. You were in the throws of the 
intense unrequited lust the quarks & fermions that are the essense of 
your corporeal self have for those of the planet (but let us not speak 
of orgies - just yet!). A  seemingly long distance love. The gravitons 
are the consanants 
& vowels of your exchanged love letters & your mail 
carrier is the void itself. (BTW this is way tape trades used to be 
conducted. The VOID - faster than priority mail! More powerful than 
nothing has any right to be!)     
  
 
You had just fallen below the water line  
  
 Down, down, down 
  between beams 
   to the gloom room 
    amoung the seaweed & the slime . . . 
 
(oops that's another story) 
 
& now find yourself in the gentle warm waters of a primordial ocean off the 
Gamehendge coast - the coast being the best place to look for oceans.  
 You notice that the ocean is teeming with  
 
 
 
      G 
   R 
 S       E   
 
      T 
    A 
 
      N 
 
& colorful creatures. You begin to hear music - more, you feel as if you 
are immersed in music. You realize that this ocean is rife with musical 
currents (so called  . . . current music) & that the denizens of the not 
so silent deep seem to be absorbing tones, and sounds through their 
gills & transforming them into a rich tapestry of music. 
 There are tiny 1-note creatures twinkling in the waters 
 
 
        plink 
      / 
     @   
  
  * 
   \ 
    plonk     & - plunk 
       
You also hear the Sliiiiiiiiiiide guitar stylings of the seahorse, 
the feedback drenched glowing translucent fish of the deep sea channels 
(98.2 on your FM dial), the 
 
 
 
 
 
l  
 o  
  n                i 
    g           k     n         s 
 s    a           g     e 
   n                   g                      n 
    u                 i 
       i            l 
          t    r 
      a 
     
of the slithering eels, the grunge noises of the crabs & the quickly 
 
    shifting patterns  
 &    gaping       holes  
 
of the Thelonius Monk school of Phish. You think to yourself 
boy-man-god-shit! I love these Phish. As your immersion in this saline 
symphony continues (now I know you are saying to yourself that this ocean  
seems mighty acidic - but in truth it is alkeline - base - that 
electromagnetic version of the opposite gender - where gravitional love 
is homosexual, electromagnetic love is hetero) you find 
yourself dissolving into the waters. Your bones become the rocks of 
Gamehendge & your blood merges with its rivers & oceans. It appears that you  
will remain in this state of symbiosis until the rest of the epic 
pre-history of Gamehendge resolves itself. 
 
 
 -- - - End of Part II --- Whew!!! - You thought it would never end --- 
 
 
 
   III: Feets Don't Fail Me Now 
 
 
 Good day gentle net.pholk. During the first part of (the soon to be 
epic) saga of the pre-history (Phishtory) of Gamehendge you were 
summarily ripped out of your cozy silicon-based world & thrown into a 
passionate love affair. Each new letter that you received from your 
beloved tugged ever more insistently at your heart ( & your eyebrows & 
shins & ...). Any reluctance on your part (which was very great indeed) was 
of no significance. All that mattered was that that your body was 
chock full of it (matter that is). The combined effect of these letters was that 
you were thrown crashing into the moist arms of your erstwhile lover. 
 Part II found you dissolving into a symbiotic relationship with 
Gamehendge itself (to the accompaniment of crashing guitar noises made by plaid  
crabs). You no longer exist as such & must await the complete 
devolement of the saga before you can return to your normal life.  
  
....................................................................... 
 
 
 The sea begins to  
 
      B 
 T 
   E       L 
  R      E  
     M 
 
with the deep thundering tones of a frightened herd of (electric) sea 
bass. Something is happening. The sea begins to toss & roll as if it 
were trying to scratch a mighty itch. It twitches & turns  
trying to scratch itself - but to no avail - it has no hands!  
Out then, OUT 
 they must be 
   driven  
 
     OUT 
The horrible Phishy crackers in its bed. They are the ones - they are 
causing this trauma. They must leave. Driven against their natures & 
their better judgement the life of the sea is herded towards the 
shoreline. The first phish to reach the bank flaps its sorry ass (yes, 
Phish have asses) out of 
the venging waters & onto the sandy shore. It promptly dies. Now, hordes 
(yes, that H.O.R.D.E) of phish reach the shore & they too die.  
 This madness will be the end of life on the planet for sure. 
 
 
 Slowly, at first, & then with severe intensity. The great process of 
evolution digs its heels in the shallow tidepools & leans its weighty 
shoulders against the imponderably massive field which defines the 
Phishes physical being. 
 
 H E A V I N G  
  &  
     G R U U U U N T I N G 
 
G R U N T I N G  
  & 
     H E A V V V V V I N G 
 
 
 Evolution manages to force a small tear in the field, not much, but it 
is an opening. Now, into this tear rushes the cosmic hands of 
evolutionary necessity. Hands withered & knarled with the effects of innumerable 
similar efforts on innumerable planets. The hands begin to work & rub 
the wounded area of the field, making it soft & pliable.  In what 
amounts to a geological second the small nubs of limbs are formed & then 
feet - wonderful feet - marvelous feet with toes. TOES!!! Three 
beautiful toes on each foot. The skin begins to dry out & take on a 
greenish hue as scales are formed. A long forked tongue is all that 
remains to add. That completed, the evolutionary forces withdraw, collapsing, 
into some forgotten corner of the universe until necessity calls again. 
 The newly transformed lizards (yes! the Lizards!) rest now 
on a myriad of rocks absorbing sunlight. Rest now little ones you 
deserve it. Today, nothing can harm you. But tommorrow is a new day & we 
will see what its inevitable advent brings. 
 
 
__________________________________________________________________________ 
 
           Intermission 
 
  
  All rights to the Phishtory are left. None are reserved. You are 
 encouraged to change the names to protect your shoes. After all, you are 
 participating in the saga. Yes, you personally. Your involvment is much 
 greater than you probably know. In fact it is crucial - the crux of the 
 matter. 
  But let's not let our heads get in front of our feet. Some 
 things are better circumambulated. We will 
 stumble upon that most profound of mysteries when the time is ripe. 
 Right now, the time is just begining to bud. 
  
     . . . allan 
           akeeton@euclid.ucsd.edu 
  
  The shortest path between two points is not always the truest. 
  
 
_________________________________________________________________________ 
 
      IV: A Day in the Life  
 
 
 When last we met the Phish had just been urged out of the primal 
soup &  - wiping the soup from their shoes - were transformed into 
lizards (please mark this as Phish -> Lizards on your tapes). Although, 
this transformation occured in a cosmic instant it was a very long & 
painful process indeed for our slimy friends. Tragic really, for years 
there were reams of dead & dying Phish-zards on the beaches & in the 
coastal cafes & bars of Gamehendge (There were many Dead Phish in the 
early years of the great change. Although most of them are gone now, you 
can still stumble across one if you know where to look). 
 The solid earthy world of the Gamehendge mainland took a little 
getting used to for the ex-wet ones. They came to discover, in time, that it has 
its own beauty . . . 
 Floating gently on the breeze are gorgeous Mozart-esque sounds  
 
    
 
     R 
 
 
   P 
         I 
 
             G 
     V 
       Z 
  A 
 
          I  
     O 
 
           N 
 
out of the now gentle sea. The main river (mainstream) through Gamehendge, 
after having absorbed divers musical currents at its confluence, swings 
majestically with the sounds of 40's era jazz. Every now & 
then breaking into a small dissonant eddy of avante-garde expression or 
crashing across some rocks (your bones!!!!) with the 
percussive beat of strange time signatures. 
 
 
Rat - Tat - Tat - Tat - Tat - Tat - Tat - Tat - Tat -Tat -Tata - Rat 
 
Up near the summit of the glorious mountain, at a spring - the mouth of one of  
the most vivacious brooks in Gamehendge, the Legendary Tape Tree grows. Its 
roots gaining sustenance from the acapella bubblings of the spring.  
 
SWEET 
 ADELINE 
 
   SWEEEEEEEEET 
  
    ADELIIIIIIIIIIINE 
 
(trad. originally entitled Sweet Alkeline)   
 
The spring, despite its small size - or perhaps because of it - is of universal  
importance.. 
The Axis Mundi around which the whole saga will revolve - more - 
 
 
   P 
  S 
    I 
   
    
    
   N 
 
 
Dance . . . Sing 
 
 
           /\ 
          /  @  - yodel - le - eeeee - ooooo 
         /    \ 
        /       \ 
       /         \ 
      /           \ 
 
 
 
 
 Meanwhile, on the banks of the river the Lizards are lazily 
exploring their new surroundings. They dig their feet into the fertile  
surface of the planet, 
letting the schloopy mud squish between their newborn toes. Man, this 
is a wonderful feeling!!! 
 
 Slooooop 
  Squish 
    Squishy - Schlooooop 
 
(Onomatopoeia in proximity ya' rearrange my brain in a strange cacophony) 
 
Soon they discover that their toes are good for other things than just 
mud-schlooping. They discover architecture & they learn how to build 
musical instruments. This latter achievement is the more significant 
one. You see, lizards have no gills. Moreover, The intensity & richness of the  
airborne music pales in comparison the musical immersion they 
experienced in their previous home. They seemed to have lost their 
ability to absorb music from their surroundings & weave it into an 
auditory tapestry. 
 
 
----see you next time - Same Phish time - Same Phish.net ------ 
 
 Consider the first 4 installments of the Phishtory as the 
preamble. The post-amble will follow. What you are reading now is, of 
course,  the 
amble (I do have a tendency to amble on). 
    . . . allan 
          akeeton@euclid.ucsd.edu 
 
__________________________________________________________________________ 
 
        V: An Interlude in Briefs   
 
  
  It was a lonely night for Icculus up on the mountain - far away 
 from the purposeful goings on down in the Lizard villages. He looked up 
 (up being defined locally as the direction of his head lust - an escape 
 route if he ever wanted to end his gravitational relationship with the 
 planet) & took 
 note of the factoid that the stars above Gamehendge sucked like an old 
Electrolux. He meandered down to his favorite spring & gently placed his 
 swollen feet into the mouth of that wonderful brook. It soothed him most 
 outrageously to have his digitless podiatrical pods licked, kissed & YES 
 sucked by the musical utterings of the spring. 
  Many moons had gone by (& a couple of hunks of satelite debris) when 
 his eyes received the fair scattered moonlight off of the wildest 
 looking woman he had ever seen. He guessed that this must be an 
 extraordinary woman for no-one had ever come up the mountain before - this 
 is in the days, months & years before the good Col. made his fateful 
 climb. She was, of course, Eris the goddess of chaos. The two poured 
 (yes poured) into each others eyes. Never had they experienced so much 
 freedom in another being - real or imagined.  
  Their raucous goings on that night (the full details of which are 
 yet to be revealed - but I think some good sbd copies of tapes exist) 
 changed the rotational axes of several galaxies & disturbed the sleep of 
 not a few catapillers! Down in the villages shoes sizes were 
 mysteriously changed by 1/2 a size & the next day tools & eating 
 utensils were not where the Lizards had left them the night before. 
  The lizards were quite unaware of the dramatic change this night 
 would make in their lives. 
  But we are getting ahead of our neighbors again . . .  for we 
 have yet to met the Great & Powerful Icculus! 
  
 
_________________________________________________________________________ 
  
       VI: A God is Born 
 
 . . . "2^3" he murmured, "23" said she.  
         
       - Icculus & Eris on the mountain -  
 
 
 Not all events follow a linear path towards a pre-determined 
goal; some are forced to wander the backroads & bywaters of experience. 
Perhaps, however, there is some hidden teleological thrust behind even 
the most inadvertant of accidents.  
Maybe,  
those responsible for the weaving of destiny seek not perfection but rather  
wholeness.   
Like the ancient Persian rugweavers  it may be that they leave in a flaw. 
 A wound - an 
opening - through which the spirit can enter & leave at will. 
 
  Maybe so 
    & maybe not.  
 
In any case, who are we to second guess existence; to say what is tragic  
& what is truly  
 
   miraculous? 
  
 So it goes with our beloved  god of the mountain. Back in the time of  
the great  
change when the blind heel of evolutionary design planted itself in the 
shallow tidepools off the Gamehendge coast it caught the tail of one 
Phish by the name of Icculus. And whilst the rest of Phishdom was 
experiencing a triumphant transformation into Lizardhood, poor Icculus 
was getting crushed beyond recognition.  
 While the Lizards were having their first schloopy experiences 
with terra - firma (& terra - not - so - firma)  
Icculus was soothing his aching swollen feet in the surf. 
 Ah yes, his feet; they were - ARE - how should we say this?  
His feet are significant  . . .  er, grandiose.  
   They are large. 
 
 Hu  
  Fucking 
    Mungous!!! 
 
 
   Huge & tender.  
 This, as you can imagine made 
him the butt (or perhaps foot) of many a lizard joke. That & the fact 
that he wasn't exactly a lizard - no-one was quite sure what he was - 
but it sure as hell wasn't lizard & that was enough for them. So Icculus 
left the lizard villages & gently padded into the forest alone.  
 Over time the lizards forgot completely about the podiatrical 
one. Icculus' feet, however, forgot nothing. In fact Icculus discovered 
something truly amazing about his feet. The pressure from being under 
cosmic heels (only $29.99 at finer shoe shops) had  
softened the soles until they where unbelievably flexible. As he walked 
or stood on the planet's thin but fertile crust, his feet could hear the 
mumblings of all the past life on the planet in their decayings remains 
on the planetary floor. Oh yes, & while most feet experience the 
electromagnetic fistfight of like vs like that keeps the loose bag of 
particles which are the planet & the body from incoveniently passing 
through each other as mute; Icculus' feet were at a roadside inn 
conversing with passing strangers about realms past & present. Gossiping 
& communing with the hot spinning heart of the planet - the core. 
 Most gloriously of all, Icculus' feet could still hear the 
music!!! When he placed his foot-pads in a creek, river or THE SEA his world  
danced, cried & exploded  
with the most wonderful music unimaginable. 
 In contrast, the lizards having just developed top 40 were 
succombing to the likes of Kenny G.  
  Most of them, that is  . . . 
   
__________________________________________________________________________ 
 
       Meandering Meaning 
 
 Hi everyone!! 
  
 I have been asked in email about the origins & meaning of the 
Phishtory. The origins are simple. I am in backwards telapathic 
communication with Marley. Of course my ancient Phoenician is rusty . . 
 Actually, the saga started out as a playful attempt to answer 
the burning question . . . Why is the mockingbird so friggin' famous. 
I thought that if I couldn't get a decent answer then I would invent an 
indecent one. That question is still raging at this moment.  
 For those new to Phish 
all the imagery relates to Gamehendge. A saga in song by Phish. 
Hopefully, those who have written papers on Gamehenge will either post 
them or archive them (Sean McKenzie's fabulous paper is now archived at 
the same site from whence you got this dribble - Allan) - even bettter - both!  
 As for meaning, this is a tough one. I might be able to tell you 
what I meant but I have no possibility of telling you what it means. Meaning 
is participatory & it either forces its way into your home & demands a 
meal & a glass of port. Or you construct it & polish it until it gleems. 
You 
take meaning home & it kicks YOU out of bed for eating crackers. 
 In fact, I was hoping someone out there would tell me what it means. The 
way I feel about it is this. There are all these incredible images lying 
around the Phish scene. I think it is just plain fun to go on a treasure 
hunt - picking up fragments of brick-a-brack (I love that word) & 
complete masterpieces & take them back to my (virtual) garage. There I hastily  
(very 
hastily indeed - I'm a busy Gus) toss 
them all together & hope the thing hangs. In any case it is now on the 
wall in my living room & I can't avoid it even if I choose to.  
 I had originally thought that this would take one post, three 
tops!  
 
     . . . allan 
     akeeton@euclid.ucsd.edu 
 
"What do you mean you can't step in the same river twice - you can't 
step into the same river ONCE!" 
 
- a quote from someone somewhere. I just can't recall who or where." 
 
Meaning is in the head of the meanist 
 
- a stupid quote from me. 
____________________________________________________________________________ 
 
     VII: Dark Night of the Soles 
 
 Icculus wanders tenderly into the great forests of 
Gamehendge......... 
 
 Finding there a fig tree by a stream; weary - he sits down, leans back 
against the tree & falls asleep. 
 
 Ssssssssssssshhhhh 
   
  he is sleeping even now. 
 sleeping, yes - but resting? - hardly! For the clamor of a 
hundred billion voices from as many eons 
are rising through the fecund soil & into the soles of his feet. Your 
voice is one of the many too. For Icculus happened to have propped his 
feet upon a rather common looking rock. 
 
 YOUR 
 
   BONES!!!!!!!!!!! 
 
 And boy-man-god-shit do your bones rattle! 
 They rattle with the dreams of love & youth; with the harsh pain 
of coldness taught you by a stranger, a neighbor, or most crushingly, a 
member of your own family. Icculus' soles suffer your tragedies, dance 
& sing with your estatic JOY & grow weary with the world's weight on 
your shoulderblades.  
  His feet are in your shoes.  
 They become you in your room at age 6 as you are reduced to tears  
after your sibling punched you in 
the eye & your mother blamed you. They are also there groooving as you 
bounce around the room at your first Phish show. 
 
 YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS!! 
 Rattle them Bones. 
 
 Icculus dreams . . .  
 
 The history & future of Gamehendge are laid out in a line 
stretching into the mists. The line begins to curl up into a circle. 
Past, present & future become confused    . . . who is Janice? . . . herds of 
two-toned multi-beasts rush by . . . Love, Joy . . . trauma  . . .   
letters form in his feet HPB   
HPB . . . what the hell is the HPB? . . . HPB . .  DRE . . . ABC, 1-2-3 
Baby you & me . . . The circle starts to roll down a . . . MOUNTAIN!!! 
Faster, looser  . . . uh . . .  wetter. Peace & molly.  
 
  The Colonel 
TELA        AARON  
      Ian's Farm 
  Amy's Farm  
     Go WILD No-one will stop you here! 
 rooof - bark   ... bark                          woof  
    
    MARLEY!!!! 
The Unit Monster 
   Home - brew 
        Lurkers 
every where LURKERS 
   Uncontrolled smilers 
  LOVE  . . . .  
   SHOES! 
    FEET  . . . TOES! 
A  
  S             R 
    Q     I  
      U            M 
     I          G 
           N 
 
   coil????? 
23         2^3 
   SQUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUISH  
    
    POSSUM!!!!!!!!!! 
________________________________________________________________________ 
 
      VIII: Destiny Knocks  
 
 Down in the Lizard villages, our reptilian friends have lost all 
touch with the aquatic music that was their birthright. Indeed, they 
have taken to wearing two-toned shoes made from the hide of the 
multi-beasts that they hunt for food. Now, these shoes are practical but 
they aren't very. . . um . . . magical. They tend to seperate the 
lizard's feet & hence their soles from the living crust of the planet. 
 They have set goals & achieved them & for this they are 
immensely proud. And well they should be - I suppose.  
It is just that, well. . .  it is hard to explain . . . 
something must be missing. This is how it appears to a small band of 
of young lizards. These strange-zards - or rebels as the rest of Lizardom 
calls them - spend their spare time at the bank of the river or at the 
shore with their bare feet calmly draped into the water. There they speak of 
fun & inspiration or they 
play some music. Well at least that is what they call the strange 
noises coming from their instruments. This group of lizards which 
includes the great-great-great-grandfather of Aaron Wolfe are just 
begining to surrender to the flow. . . . 
 
 
   Icculus is still dreaming . . .  
 
 The circle of time has stopped rolling & is spinning in front of 
him. From the center of the circle comes the unmistakable strains of 
 
 
   AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! 
 
  DIVIDED    SKY  
 
The wind blows high . . . . 
 
 
 Icculus steps into the circle. He experiences the most 
incredulous feeling. He is at the center  & around him 
spins all of Gamehendge, your life, Phish, the net - everything. 
 
   Heeee hee    
 Haw haw     Possum!!! 
   
   Snicker snicker   
     hee hoo 
 Laugh  
   &  
   Laughing   
  F 
 A   
 
      L 
    
   L 
 
 
 
                   R  
   A 
 
    P 
    
      A   
 
 
        T 
Hee hee  
 Laughing heartily at the absurdity of it all, Icculus makes his 
way up the brook. Drawn by some unkown destiny toward the mountain's 
summit & the spring. 
 
 Groooooovin'                                 Laughin'  
 
  hee                                  woof  
    POSSUM!!!!!!!!! 
        
     MARLEY!! 
________________________________________________________________________ 
 
      IX: Prelude to a Book 
 
 Our dear friend Icculus waddles his way towards a destiny - THE 
DESTINY - that is only now a sparkle in his eyes, heart & feet. Even 
though Icculus' feet are as ripe & tender as mangoes (mangoes are the 
things on his legs which make contact with the soil . . . ) he dances up 
the creekbed - giggling & splashing - as he is still entranced by the 
circle of time which continues to spin around him as he walks.  
 
 Aaaaaahhhhhhh!!!! 
  
   DIVIDED                         SKY 
    The wind blows high 
 
 
 Protected by the circle, & with his heart light & his Italian 
dancing shoes on, Icculus makes relatively easy work of the treacherous 
climb up the mountain.  
 Icculus spent many years alone on the mountain. Laughing, 
grumbling & soaking his feet in the juicy mouth of the most vivacous 
brook in Gamehenge.  
 Down in the villages word grew of a god on the mountain. Some 
 even claimed that they had heard his laugh. And they sure enough did & 
you did as well - you do - in your bones you can feel it even now. 
Something absolutely incredulous is gonna happen & soon! 
_______________________________________________________________________ 
 
      X: A Literary Conception 
 
 Well, gentle phriends, the time is now ripe. Full & 
incredibly juicy. Events out of all proportion are about to happen, did 
happen, ARE happening. The stars above Gamehendge are 
sucking & Icculus' ripe tropical fruit (Mangoes!) are at this moment 
being soothed by the glorious spring at the feet of the legendary tape 
tree. The circle of time is spinning around our dear god & with it all 
of Gamehendge - past, present & future, the net, your life,  
 
    a possum!! 
 
 Into the scene enters - goddess ex-machina - Eris, scattering 
fair moonlight as she walks. There was quite a struggle up on the moon - 
chaos it was - as 
to which moonlight photons would have the honor to be scattered by the 
beloved goddess.  
 As much as we might want to -indeed NEED to - know the raucous 
sexual details of their assorted (wasn't sordid in the least) love 
affair. I am not presently at liberty to disclose them. Suffice it to 
say that many pleasures were had & by the nights end the path down which 
Gamehendge was traversing had dissappeared in the tangled growth of 
erotic goddess-god lust. But as when you lose your mind only find 
another shinier mentality around the next bend so is Gamehendge now the 
proud owner of a nascent destiny. 
 It happened thusly; in a final orgasmic moment the circle of 
time which was encircling (natch!) our lovers shifted on its axis. You 
see the circle really was a conic section - a slice - through an  
extra-dimensional cone. When the shift occured the circle transformed 
into a parabola with our dear god's feet at the focal point. The time 
axis also collapsed to said point of parabolic focus. Every event was 
now happening simultaneously. Phythagorus was at this moment 
hypotenizing the correct angle, the brothers Set & Osiris were ocean 
deep in a sibling rivalry, the Watergate hotel was being broke into & of 
course some-Mark was posting "Maybe so & maybe not" in a foolish attempt 
to cure himself of a terminal case of Phish addiction.  
 And while Icculus lay stunned - not to  
mention lengthwise - at the edge of the spring an incredible wave of energy 
rushed its way from the very center of the planet up through the spring 
into Icculus' soles, through his loins, then his heart, & finally out through 
his pineal gland & disappeared into the vastness of  
space to play a pinball game with the gallatic gravitational forces. 
 Wow, mummbled Icculus - you would too! For a nano-instant Icculus 
felt suspended between the familiar & the cosmic. One pole of the beam 
had lain on down's doorstep - the planets core - where all downs turn 
to up. The other had dissapated itself along with the concept of up 
in the vast reaches of the universe. Icculus had been pierced by 
the Axis Mundi & for a few moments all he could manage to do was to  
drool - can you blame him?.  
 When el god - eventually - managed to focus on his surroundings 
he was lying diagonally by the spring. Yep, Eris had vanished  & with 
her went the parabolic dish of the dieties (they're more expensive than 
DAT machines from what I hear).  
 Well, well, all this sounds most monumental. It certainly left 
an impression with the Ridicculus One. In fact, it left much more than 
an impression for the next day Icculus was quite ill. And as they days wore 
into months he noticed that his foot  was growing even larger. Being 
born in strangeness, however, he paid it no mind. 
 He will not have this luxury for too many months longer! 
 
_______________________________________________________________________ 
 
      XI: Fall from Rapture 
 
 Let us reflect for a micro-moment on the macro-cosmic happenings 
on the mount. The circle of time, the Ouroboros, the serpent eating its 
own tail, had oped its clenched jaw. This due to an erotic interlude - a 
mysterium coniunctionis - the climax of which rotated the closed form of our  
 
       s   O   
  
                 o               u   
        
 
              r       r  
 
 
         o   o  
 
    b  
 
 
           into a parabola.   
  
 At the focal point of this parabola were Icculus' oft maligned 
feet. The parabola, of course, is the locus of points equidistant from 
Icculus' feet & a straight line - but here in Gamehendge nothing is as 
straight as it should be. Even that most linear of concepts, the arrow 
of time, had first gone orbital & then collapsed in delirium to a single point. 
 And then there is the mountain itself, the planetary point 
closest to the celestial vault. Here on this mountain Icculus was 
pierced against the firmament like a cosmic butterfly, by some type of  
telluric-pleromatic Kundalini rushing through the gallactic chakras. 
 And then it was all done - vanished. Without so much as a "thanks for  
the evening - here's my phone #, call me" the divine forces, Eris included, 
up & left. The only residue of this cosmic version of a one night stand is 
that it left the 
planet's axis (not to mention Icculus) shifted 23 degrees (or close enough for 
divine work) diagonally. That &  
something bizarre happening to la god's foot. It was now . . .  
 
           
   5 pounds, 6 pounds, 7 pounds, . . . 
 
 But the foot can wait. It is Icculus' present mood which worries 
me. When compared to the ambrosial moments of dewy rapture on 
the mount, his present Eris-less existence seems drab, dull & lifeless. 
In her poignant absence his heart feels like romantic roadkill.  
 Sullenly he makes his way off the mountain & down into the 
foothills. There he lives the life of a cantakerous gypsy & a drunken one at 
that. He sleeps the entire day while the local possum work. At night when they  
come out & get downright shitfaced (whilst hanging upside down of 
course) Icculus' face is the shittiest of all. The possum drink mead 
stored in the bladders of two-toned multibeasts. Nightly, Icculus quaffs 
a full bladder at one sitting & empties two more while lying diagonally in 
a semi-comatose state.  
 In the morning he commonly awakes to find that he has emptied 
his own bladder on himself in the night. 
 How long can this go on? He has a destiny to fulfill. He has a 
FUCKING book to write! The answer, most assuredly, is not for too many 
more months. 
 
________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   A Phishtory Primer 
 
 
 When students here at the Institut are introduced to the 
Phishtory in their coursework, they invaribly trip over the ubiquitous 
references to toes, shoes, & particularly feet. They suffer immeasurably 
trying to make feet  
or tails of the author's seemingly mindless compulsion with all things 
podiatrological. In their anthropology courses they learn that the Phishtory 
was discovered on the hard drive of a long abandoned early model 
workstation somewhere in Virginia.  
 Lying alongside was a cache of audio tapes & a 
short torso covering tunic of sorts with a multicolored Phish 
emblazoned upon it. There were no statues of feet nor even so much as a 
scrap of shoelace to aid a researcher in piecing together the import of this 
miraculous document. Moreover, due to the magnetic ravages of time, pertinent  
data appears to be missing  
including the author's name (if indeed there was a unique author).  
 This primer was written in the hopes that it would act as  
a metaphorical iron to smooth the mental throw-rug that is invaribly 
crumpled & kicked into the kitchen corner whenever feet are present.  
 In order to satisfactorily deal with question at foot we are 
forced to deal with the vertical. The early portion of the Phishtory is 
primarily concerned with matters pertaining to the vertical axis. Indeed 
the Phish make their way "up" out of the water. Icculus then extends this 
upward journey by surmounting the summit of the central mountain. After 
Eris & Icculus' brief flirtation with the horizontal, the epitome of the 
vertical - the Axis Mundi - plays the dominant role. Not able or willing 
to sustain this peak experince Icculus then "retreats" to the surrounding 
(foot)hills. 
 Up has traditionally been envisioned as the ultimate goal - the 
realm of the gods & the summer home of Jesus. In contrast, down is 
associated with the underworld & with persons who do things smart people 
don't do. By singing the praises of 
feet the Phishtory effectively inverts, like a possum, the habitual preference  
for up over down. Up is in reality only away; away from the 
planet & toward the quasi-stellar debris of an ancient explosion.  
Down on the other foot, is earthy, warm & familiar - it draws one close. 
Down is towards; towards the the planet, the center. While up struggles to  
escape, 
down surrenders to the gravitational phlow.  
 Feet are the pioneers of down, the ones deepest into the 
surrender - lovers of the planet. Feet snuggle their way into the  
soft folds of your lovers body in much the same way that   
they squish into terrestial mud - with joy & abandon. 
Want to talk locomotion? These little doggies are the royalty of the  
boogie crowd. The best a head can manage is is a dull thud - to be 
honest it can roll, but it must be removed first - this is not considered 
to be a pleasant experience by most.  
  
     
   Prof. Poisson 
   Institut des Hautes Etudes Phishologique,  
   Paris 
______________________________________________________________________________ 
 
    ?Foow? 
 
 Whzzzzzzzz     Ffffuuuuuurrr  
   
krab        foow  
  
 Spinning delicately above the planet 
 
   H  O  V  E  R  I  N  G   
  
 Is a metalic saucer - looking like a pair of pie plates glued 
together. 
 Who is this? What does it have to do with the Phishtory?? Why am 
I here? 
      ...Allan 
      akeeton@euclid.ucsd.edu 
Ich bin der Fisch Fasch 
und zeige Euch meinen weissen Assch. 
___________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   XII: Poly & Esther Possum 
 
 Nestled deep in the foothills of the sublime central mountain 
we find our beloved god  
 
  tipsy  
     fuddled  
 
     z   
 
b   
   o 
 o  
 
        y 
 
 
  r 
 g 
     g      g  
        y 
     o 
 
 
 
        d   
       e 
      t 
     a 
    v 
   e 
  l  
 e   
 
 
 Gamehendge leisurely & imperceptably rotates into the solar 
shadow. The planet's choreographer must've been a sloth. Telluric 
aerobics! (each class takes a year to complete).  
 Relieved of his conciousness through the swirling mysteries of 
inebreation, Icculus becomes an honorary possum. When it comes to 
intoxication the only animal that can come close to the possum is a 
skunk. A drunk skunk is not a pretty sight (sight is not the worst of 
it, at a skunk party one is soon overwhelmed by the olfactory hues.) 
Icculus feels the self-conscious concerns of the day loosen & dissapate 
in the indolent tolerance of the night. Y'see, Ol' John Barleycorn has set up 
residence in the rift that remained when Eris vanished; leaving Icculus 
stranded & alone on this miserable excuse for a dustball. 
 But Eris is far from Icculus' thoughts now, for tonight is THE night.  
YES the night of the deep possum 
mysteries. An age old celebration of life & death that has taken on a 
new twist since the coming of the gleeming spirits of the road. And 
Icculus is the guest of honor! 
 Since that day on the mount the river of time has returned to 
it's normal phlowing state. We will be carried by it's currents to the  
culmination of the 
evening's events in due time - we are not in control here. So sit 
back, relax & bring on the Bachanalia! 
 There's a party going on  . . .  Ceeeeeeelebrate good times 
    COME ON!  
      (possum are not known for their taste in music!) 
                 S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT!!! 
 The local record shop closed years ago, so their bad music 
collection is not up to date....a pity that you didn't have some tapes in 
your pocket when you were ripped out of your world. C'est la vie, you 
can't go back & get them now! My suggestion is to have a home-brew, 
relax your finely honed critical abilities & shake your booooty...this may 
be a long night! 
  She's a Brick - Houuuse 
  She's the one, the only one 
  Built like an Amazon 
  Letting it all hang out 
  
 The possum have hung a mirrored ball from a pine tree & its 
laser enhanced rotation has transfixed a couple of possum well into 
their second bladder of the night. In the shadows at the fringe of the 
clearing, young possum are watching the local submarine races.  
The smell of musk is overwhelming. 
   
 
   Possum, Possum, Candlelight   
  Doing the town & doing it right 
  In the evening 
  It's pretty pleasing 
 
  Looks like Possum looooove! 
 
 Excuse me while I open a bottle of port, I don't know how much 
more of this I can take!  
 
___________________________________________________________________________ 
   XIII: Ceromonial Confusion   
 
 
 Ahhhhhhhhhh 
  
  slooooowly 
   S  i  p  p  i  n  g 
 a glass of mellow port, I survey the Possum Pre-Ceremony Party. 
They certainly are  
  getting   
   d 
     o 
       
       w 
    
         n 
 Suzy Wombat having just earned her PhD (pronounced Phudd) has wandered 
into the party & is now soaking 
in the bathtub gin with Poly & Esther Possum. Suzy occaisionally runs 
into the rebel lizards during her weekly trek to the surf. The last time 
one of them gave her an extremely rare copy of "Neil Diamond &  
Syd Barret; The Cellar Tapes" she brought it tonight & the party is proceeding  
quite nicely now. 
 There are possum  
 
  
 T                                                       G      
  
  A                                       N     
          N       G        O       I       
     
 
 
 
 
  W                                         T  
     G       H                                 G       W    
       
    N        I             &                N          I  
       
      I       R                                 I       R    
   L                                          L      
 
 
   
         &   
 
 
                 S                                   G   
         I                          N     
                N     G     I     
 
    
 
 
 In the surrounding woods the musk funk keeps getting thicker.   
 Icculus having lost his bearings hours ago has given up worrying 
about anything other than having a good time.  
 He is quite a sight as he boogies whilst  
dragging his now 20 lb. tropical phoot in the dirt. This causes Suzy, Poly & 
Esther to giggle extensively in the bathtub. 
 
 
 CLAP    CLAP       CLAP 
      CLAP   CLAP         CLAP              CLAP  
CLAP     CLAP    CLAP    CLAP        CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP 
 
 
 The ceremony is now starting!!!!!!!! 
  
 Faster & faster through countless time signatures the gathered 
possum clap. Running frantically out of the woods comes a possum holding 
two lanterns (one in each hand).  
 
 My Possum     My Possum 
                He's Got Headlights!!! 
   
 Screeeeeeeching  
    &  
      hooooooowling  
 He runs through the crowd  
 
    S   
       W      
          E   
              R  V  
         I   
              N  G     
  
 
 And almost colliding into the party goers, the trees & the rocks 
(your bones). The medicine possum barrels down on Icculus who stands stunned in  
the middle of the clearing, his foot is too heavy to move out of the way. 
At the last moment the possum plants his foot & turns  
 
 B O O O O O o o o o o o o o o o o o o m ! 
 
 He explodes out of the clearing & into the woods, sweeping the 
entire party with him. Icculus included. Our god is now running ... YES! 
RUNNING .... Icculus knows not why. It is as if Hurricane Possum has yanked 
him out of Kansas & is now hurtling him through the forest & towards the 
road leading from the mountain to the Lizard Villages. 
 
 
 The Cermony is now in full swing; what that means for the heavy 
footed one & for the destiny of Gamehendge remains to be seen. 
 
____________________________________________________________________________ 
 
       IV: Don't Whizz on the Lava Lamp  
 
        ? Foow ?    
 
 The spaceship is still spinning delicately above Gamehendge. 
  
 I join you in asking - Why? Who? What?   ..... Huh? I will  
enlighten you  
with the torch of my present knowledge (however dim that may be). After 
that we can only hope that the river of time will sweep us past the 
milky way & into full awareness of the strange sutures which keep the 
flesh of the universe united & functioning.  
  
    ? Krab ? 
 
 Let us recall that exeedingly cosmic moment on the mountain some 
four installments ago. At the "moment" of chronal collapse when time lay 
heaped & exhausted at the soles of the podiatrical one, Yelram was 
resting peacefully in his bean bag chair o' knowledge on a small moon 
orbiting a rather non-descript planet which was itself circumambulating 
the Dog Star Sirius. In the nano-instant when Osyrus, Pythagorus & Nixon 
conjoined Yelram's lava lamp began emitting auditory hues ...... ummmm 
...... music!!!! And such music! When he closed his eyes he saw images 
of mummies with wheat shafts growing out of them .... what could this 
mean? Probably nothing. But still that music was entrancing. As his life 
sniffing butts & whizzing on trees had begun to bore him, Yelram decided 
to make a trek in search of the source of the musical enchantment. 
 Luckily Yelram owned one of the few spaceships in the Sirian 
system (he had befriended its inventor who had given him a test model). 
Secretly he loaded his bean bag chair & lava lamp on board. And ... 
 
        ? WOW - WOB ?  
 
                ? Ffffuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr  ? 
 
... he was off! 
 
 The spaceship worked by gravitationally twisting the geometry 
of the universe. Creating warp where there once was woof & substituting woof 
for warp in the fabric of space-time, until the shortest path between 
here & there was but a joyride - the technical term for it is contracting 
the geodesic. 
 Yelram came skittering into the Gamehendge system - riding the 
planetary gravitational fields like an amateur surfer - just as the  
great possum party was about to begin. And as our lantern laden medicine 
possum came screeching through the meadow whisking the celebrants into 
the forest, Yelram stared out the port-hole of his high tech pie 
plates - as confused as our dear Gott at the evening's mysterious happenings. 
  
 
        ? Lworg ?   
 
         ? Fra ?  
___________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   XV: Possum Pie 
 
Institut des Hautes Etudes Phishologique Press 
Vol. XV #23     
 
   Possum Pie:   
  On the Great Possum Cermonies  
 
      Prof. Poisson 
      Paris  
 
 In this paper I will attempt both to bring into relief the 
shapes and nocturnal meaning of the great possum ceremonies by 
illuminating the event with the rational light of thought *and* to evoke 
the blood and body of the *experience* through mythic amplification.  
I do not consider the question of whether I have succeeded even in part, 
for that line of inquiry bears no weight in matters such as these. And 
it is weight that we seek, the mystery & expression of incarnation - of 
*being*. This somatic gnosis cannot be forced nor understood, it must 
rather be coaxed and expressed. 
 In the swirl of estatic abandon enveloping the ceremony one can 
envision the figure of Dionysus - the greek god who heals through 
estatic dismemberment. The crux of the ceremony turns on dismemberment, 
the guest of honor, the chosen one, is lead in revelry towards the realm 
of death & bodily end - the road. The road is not a metaphor for the 
underworld it is the actual abode of the spirits of death. The gleaming 
steel jawed daemons speeding along the suture between this world and the 
next. The spiritual leader of the possum mimics, and in the process 
becomes, one of the death spirits by rushing through the celebrants with 
two laterns in hand. The lanterns signify the spirit's fire-eyes which 
eternally seek sacrifice - possum flesh. If they are not appeased then 
they will leave and in so doing render the boundary between life and death 
impenetrable, locking the possum on this side of the boundary and thus 
leaving them stranded with no communication  between worlds.  
 The greatest honor a possum can obtain is to be chosen to become 
ceremonial roadkill. For in so doing she or he is squished through the 
boundary and into the other world. The possum's blood softens the suture 
maintaining its permeability. This allows the free flow of energy, 
love & information between the worlds. The possum believe that part of 
their soul lives in the other world as a disembodied spirit & thus it is 
crucial that the membrane remain porous. 
 In their cosmology, the living are dependent upon the love and 
wisdom of the dead. The dead are also bound to the living, for the dead 
are insignificant without the substance and experience of the living. In 
this way the universe is balanced. When one of the possum dies it in 
effect switches places with its twin darkly mirrored in the suture & 
soon its other half is birthed in blood & flesh in this world & so it 
goes....   
 
            P O S S U U U U M ! ! !  
 
____________________________________________________________________________ 
  
           XVI: Possum Pie in Your (My?) Eye  
 
 
 Although it is common & not unenjoyable to ascribe a romantic 
intimacy with this world & the next to those pre-civilized cultures such 
as that of the possum of Gamehendge, there is no hard data to support  
Prof. Poisson's (I.H.E.P. Press vol. XV #23) rather indulgent analysis of the  
great possum ceremonies. By all scholarly accounts the possum were 
rather brutish & ill-termpered drunks & not as the good professor seems 
to suggest, sophisticated metaphysicians.  
 Indeed, the ceremonies were clownish & harsh - reflecting the immense  
stupidity 
with which the possum approached life. A possum pie in the face of 
reason as it were.  
 The professor's incredible assertion that the ceremonies were 
the lynchpin of a profound and fully realized cosmology is just so much 
marsupial manure. A reasoned anthropologist is nearly dragged by the 
force of historical evidence to the incontravertable conclusion that the 
possum were, if you'll pardon my french, ignoramuses. The great 
ceremonies progressed as they did without any wit or reason.  
Just because they had always done so. 
It was looked on by the possum masses as a decent justification to 
get shitfaced drunk & to laugh at the fate of the *chosen one* (which 
was always someone else). As to the ignoble end of the guest of honor, 
it was just a thin layer of blood & fur signifying nothing. Good 
riddance! 
 
 
     Herr Fisch 
      Institut fuer Philosophie 
     Berlin 
  
___________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   XVII: A god on the Verge of a Corporeal Breakdown 
 
 Back in Gamehendge the river of time is behaving mysteriously 
again. The entire possum community, Icculus & if we can believe our ears, 
at least one alien visitor have been caught in its now turbulent 
currents. The river is rushing over itself, tumbling & roaring without 
hesitation or reflection towards 
the future as if in the throes of madness or  
   even  worse  
   religious ecstasy. .  
 
 Swirling as if circulating some tremendous & 
numinous toilet bowl (the Pottea Tremendum) - the river drives itself  
& the local  
possum flotsam towards the  
 
 
d              d  
   o            o  
       w             w  
           n       d         d      n   
                      o      o  
                         w         w  
                            n              n          
     
 
     CENTER  
 
 
 To what end? For what purposes? More importantly, who flushed 
the bowl?? These questions are best left to others; we have more 
immediate concerns.  
 Our favorite diety has fallen into   
the honored role in this dramatic evocation of obscure & enigmatic 
principles. But we have no great desire for principles at this juncture; 
obscure or otherwise. Icculus is in danger & with him the HPB & Gamehendge's 
transcendent destiny!!!  
 The celebrants have reached the edge of the long road leading 
down from the mountain & into the heart, mind & spleen of the lizard 
villages. While the lizards sleep - impassionately sated on corporately 
prepared & delivered "entertainment;" Icculus drags his foot onto the 
asphalt & towards the amber dividing line - the crack between the worlds 
in some reconstructions of possum cosmology.  
 The possum under the pull of genetic memory - instinct - begin 
chanting .... 
 
  My Possum    My Possum 
    He's Got Headlights!!! 
  
 Sloshy from the combined effects of the ritual & a god's sized 
portion of bathtub gin, Icculus does not sense the peril that he is 
evidently in.  
 
____________________________________________________________________________ 
 
       XVIII: There's a Pottae Going Down  
 
 Icculus is standing, slightly boozy & more than a little 
confused, on the dividing line of the mountain road. He was flushed from 
the great meadow & washed here by the Pottae Tremendum - a whirlpool of 
destiny. The river of 
time in its intense fated & focused aspect. We have passed through the 
mirror here folks. Indeed, the Pottea's shape is the inverse of the 
Central Mountain's; the impression left in the mold of the firmament when 
the mountain was created. The photographic negative, if you will, of the mount's 
positive. Icculus is destined not only to experience the grand heights 
of dewy rapture but also the intense self reflection of the pit. The tropical 
phooted one has purchased a ticket for the roller coaster of life & 
there is no exiting until the ride is over .... raise your hands & close 
your eyes we're in for a quick drop!  
 
 S  
     C  
        R  
          E  
     
     E  
 
      E 
 
       A 
 
               A 
 
    M 
 
        !  
  
 coming through the possum chanting we hear a rumble rising soft 
& low; now louder & deeper  
 
 
 rrrrrrrrrrrroooooOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR 
 
 It is a spirit deamon! The deamon is speeding down the road 
opening the suture like a zipper. The terrible growl is the voice of 
the incredible force that is 
released when the two worlds mix. It sounds to Icculus exactly like the 
hunger pains of a horrible beast. For the first time in his godly 
existence Icculus is shaken to his soles. Up until now Icculus has 
moved because events have moved, phlowed as Gamehendge had phlowed. 
All had gone well ... ambrosial moments of dewy rapture are hard to beat!  
But now Icculus 
had phlowed with the Pottea Tremendum & finds himself on the horn, 
tires & grillplate of a mortal dilemma. Icculus is introduced to 
self consciousness & as you well know this is a meeting one often 
lives (or dies) to regret.  
 He frantically reviews his life. . .  
 His experiences on the mount were like Parsifal's before the Grail 
Castle. He did not recognize their import. When the tsumani of 
improbable events whose whitecap was his spindling by the Axis Mundi 
had receeded into the greater ocean so too did Icculus retreat 
to the Gamehendge foothills. Now he is facing the depths & not 
the sublimity of the sky. The story has come full circle; he was 
born with a wound - his feet. He suffered greatly because of their 
tenderness, yet they were also the mark of his divinity - his 
participation in the greater life of the universe. His feet laughed, 
joked & gossiped with life & beyond that matter itself. It was at 
the urging of his feet that he surmounted the central peak. The very 
vunerability of his soles were what allowed his conjugal communion 
with Eris & the passage through his being of the Axis Mundi. Still & yet, 
this experience forced Icculus into the midst of the Possum and into 
his present predicament. Moreover, as a direct result of the 
happenings on the mount his foot was now swollen to the extent that 
he is frozen on the asphalt. He cannot move!!!!!!!  
 Icculus & Gamehendge are now within epsilon of  
the vertex of the inverted 
cone that is the Pottae Tremendum. Time behaves very strangely 
here. It rushes frantically at outrageous speeds, yet goes nowhere. 
In the few seconds before before the deamon reaches Icculus he has 
fretted & urgently worried for as close as one can get to eternity 
without being massless. At the vertex of the Pottea time moves 
with the speed of eternity. 
 
 
............RRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR 
 
__________________________________________________________________________ 
 
   XIX: A Mor(t)al Dilemma? 
 
 
 Icculus' newborn self-consciousness is screaming in the blank 
Gamehendge night 
 
          S C R E E E E E E A A A A A M M ! !  
The heavy footed one tries to suckle the distressed infant on moral 
doubts & recriminations. He thinks "I have wronged, I've phlowed 
were I shouldn't have. I have no business poking my drunken gills in 
the religious matters of strange creatures. From now on I will be watch 
my step & risk not for fear of failing"  
 
 .... the child  
 
                    W A I L S ! !   
 
 Icculus claims that he is blameless in this matter. "I did not 
know there was a ceremony going on, I only sought relief from the 
stress of ecstasy, which after all, I did not ask for. Both the Axis 
Mundi & the Pottae Tremendum came unsought; I renounce them both and 
thus should be freed from this terror." One only wonders whom it was 
that the heavy 
footed one expected to be his liberator. There are not many that will knowingly  
dip their hands into a giant toilet bowl.   
 The baby's face flushes a bright red as if it is engorged on 
beet juice  
 
  B A A A A A W W W W L ! ! !  
 
 Icculus vainly attempts self sacrifice. "I will face this terror with 
humility, take me deamon I will offer no resistance, I will be your 
dinner, and..." Icculus thinks now glowing with the warm pride of 
martyrs " in so doing I will save the possum from further torment. Take 
me and spare these dumb creatures from your savage hunger." 
 
   W A A U U G H ! ! ! 
 That did it, his self-consciousness is now throwing an epic 
tantrum. It's cherubic legs are flailing; great salty rivulets are 
cascading from its eyes. Icculus decides to abandon the child. He never had 
this sort of dilemma before he had self consciousness. "That's it, I'll 
sacrifice self awareness. As far as I can see it has nothing to 
reccomend it. The little brat is sure spoiling my fun." But despite a 
fierce desire for freedom, Icculus isn't able to loose the child from 
his being. Now as la god wrestles with the infant, tender feelings toward the  
child begin to grow.  
 He vows to protect the child from all future harm. "I will cater to 
your needs & protect you from harm." 
 
        W A A A A A A H H ! !   
 
 With parental determination Icculus tries to move off the road 
and out off danger. He attempts to draaaaaaaaag his foot, that blasted 
leaden anchor!! The more he strains & pulls the more his foot seems 
fastened to the road - his doom. Our favorite god resigns himself & the 
infant to fate. With a deep melancholia he collapses on the pavement to  
await the end.  
 
  S C R R E E E E E A A M ! ! !  
  
 A small bubble begins to form in Icculus' belly. Icculus' 
spirits rise with the bubbles ascent through his esophagus. 
   
  B U U u u u U U U R R R R P ! ! ! 
 
  BAHAAHAAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!!!!!!!!! 
 
 What a deliciously absurd dilemma!! 
        
hee hee        hoo hoo 
 Spirit deamons hungry for blood?   
 
    haw haw 
 
 A car with some lizards   
returning to the villages from a pinic in the foothills?   
 It is truly  
    RIDICCULUS! 
 Icculus roars with laughter  
 
  R R O O O O O A A A R R R ! ! ! ! 
 The lizard driven spirit deamon approaches 
  R R O O O O O A A A R R R ! ! ! ! 
 
 Poor Icculus! ...... Haw Haw Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa 
 the baby is now cooing  
 
  C O O                               C O O 
 
 and grinning & babbling. Icculus & the child are rolling around 
on the pavement giggling, tickling,  ....  
 
Laugh, & laughing, 
 
   R R R O O A A R R R R R ! ! 
 
      Fall apart? 
    
      ...Allan 
  
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