BLUEY & GO: PARTS 1-8
Bluey and Go-Go are finite beings in a finite world, but after enough transcendental meditation + rock crystals they soon come to see themselves otherwise. This would normally be a huge mistake, except that I (God) have taken a chance and granted them eternal life, albeit with a few formal limitations:
One: They have total free will as I imagine it to be.
Two: Their limitations are limitless within the limitations of their own reality.
Three: Should I grow tired of them, they will not die, but merely cease to exist in their contemporary serialized form, each day fading ever further from the present until at last the memories containing them are so far in the past of other even further, even more distant memories that you might call it death, but no: some trace always remains, is unerasable, will persist in ever more diffuse paragons of itself, inevitably returning again, reconstructed from pure probability, begging at least three or four if not more unanswerable questions on the idiosyncrasy and inevitability of being.
Four: TBD.
Five: Bluey and a Go-Go go for a drink. It is a tuesday in the late of summer, and there is that feeling in the air of something like loss which you feel both in spite of and because of the endless edenic gold of August which makes you wonder if Paradise might be getting a bit boring, and Bluey is two drinks deep before he turns and starts to ramble, as he is wont to:
You know Go-Go (if that really is your name, haha) the real problem with this whole anxiety thing is that it’s become just another fashion, you know? Like, ok, there’s definitely something there beneath it, you know, like that sense we all have that maybe what we’re doing isn’t quite right or good, and beneath that the guilt that we know we know it too but won’t do anything about it because, well (we don’t know why, we just won’t, not right now) we say, tomorrow – and well, what’s weird is we’ve clearly identified something, at least the uppermost, most iceberg-y tip of it, but then in the same gesture we’ve managed to make it a sort of something archetypal and grand ‘to be,’ a something which we know in some small hidden part of us is actually making it worse, driving us deeper down the rabbit hole, but once again, it’s like –
– Bluey, you know, yesterday I looked out the window over a street , and it was the third floor so it looked out high, and I saw a telephone pole with an electric box so large and so shaped that I thought to myself, if it isn’t was Ronald McDonald! We’re running a wire through the head of Ronald McDonald, I thought, haha. I guess america really does RUN on Dunkin... or no...that’s McDonalds...
They sit in awkward silence. They each reflect on their revelations, trying to connect the two, as can always be done if its suggested they can. Tomato-Tomato? Or Potato-Potato? Woof. Blue realizes he doesn’t care, and it really doesn’t matter, anyway, and walks out the bar door. Go-Go finishes his drink, and does the same.
Six: Bluey and Go-GO enter two bathroom stalls next to one another. Across the world two similarly fictional characters do the same. All four of them take a shit at precisely the same time, purely coincidentally.
Seven: Bluey and Go-Go go to a live concert of Richard Lloyd’s band at a small bar with probably 20 or so 50 year old white men, some of them with wives. The band that opens them plays “Pump it Up” very enthusiastically, and then some other songs you think you might recognize. Bluey and Go-Go go play pool in the back until Richard Lloyd comes onto the stage, old and greyed and a little gone in a fedora-looking hat and a classy psychedelic shirt.
In the front as he plays there are some young people who dance with a lot of energy and pomp and sense of them being there at a concert like this. There is one tall-skinny skin-headed fellow and he sticks to himself and seems very happy with it. His friend wears a white button up shirt with stars and symbols on it tucked into his jeans rolled up over his black boots. His hair is white with black roots and curled and he shakes it very dramatically and very seriously and seems very happy that he can record something like this so close up on his phone and have been here. Bluey turns to Go-Go and suggests, quietly, that they are in a Tarantino Film and about to be killed in some gruesomely erotic and playful way while the skinny boy with his cheschire cat girlfriend twirl and grind on in eachother to some old music you thought you had forgotten even if maybe it shouldnt have.
It’s good, really, but sad because of this, too. It is hard to say why, but you think it has something to do with them, and the way they like that they are here. Richard Lloyd also doesn’t look that happy, and you’re not sure if it’s better or worse had you had expected that or had you hadn’t. It’s very very loud, too, and your ears hurt. When they finish is it not much, and they thank you, and Lloyd leaves the stage very quickly and seriously.
Eight: Bluey and Go Go dream that they are waking only to find upon waking that in fact they are still dreaming. Here they encounter a room with infinite sides that they cannot help but see as having only four, and filled with infinite possibilities that they cannot help but see as being divided into the categories of finite, infinite, possible, and impossible. Confronted with this, they scream in fear and kill themselves seventy-two times, after which they begin to fear the very real and impossible possibility of encountering infinity, and so choose to stop. Sometime later, they wake back up.
Nine: Bluey and Gogo awake in a field of white houses. The day is blue and white and yellow, and the clouds are puffied like birds preparing for flight. Feeling good, they go for a walk, but as they walk they begin to notice that there is no end to the white houses. What once seemed to mirror the soft glow white of the clouds, now takes on a deathley hew, and the branches overhead suddenly seem to gnarl like the ribs of this a giant skeleton, a corpse centuries old. A sense of doom and uncertainy looms over our two titular heros. What are theses houses doing here, they wonder? They appear uninhabited, but their presence bespeaks presence? And why are they arranged so regularly, like that of a trees, or clouds, or blades of glass? Did their makers have nature in mind in making them, or is there a deeper pattern, a pattern blind to questions of history or consequence or the matter of ‘first.’
Bluey