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Authors: Tom Robbins
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that bangs its knobs in the closet of our race.
Why wasn’t Ellen Cherry aware of all this? Why wasn’t the mass of humankind aware of it? Because veils of ignorance, disinformation, and illusion separate us from that which is imperative to our understanding of our evolutionary journey, shield us from the Mystery that is central to being.
The first of those veils conceals the repression of the Goddess, masks the sexual face of the planet, drapes the ancient foundation stone of erotic terror that props up modern man’s religion.
But, listen now. If Painted Stick and Conch Shell are permitted to leave the cave where they’ve been sleeping—and what stands in their path but a spoon, a smelly old sock, and a can of beans?—Salome might dance in the Temple again. And if nobody stops Salome from dancing, that first veil may one day soon be dropping.
The Second Veil
"WHY IS IT," Boomer asked, “that beer goes to your head faster in the daytime than it does after dark?"
The man to whom he had addressed the question tugged at his scraggly beard, nodded, said nothing.
“It’s a fact,” Boomer went on. “I can drink triple after sundown what I can hold in the afternoon. You notice that, too?”
Ellen Cherry was in a Speedy Wash doing their laundry. From now on, she insisted, Boomer would go forth into the world attired in the freshest, most sanitary footwear that detergent and hot water could provide. Should ever she break that vow, he would have only to remind her of the sock he’d left in the cave the previous day, the one whose foulness was offending, they half-kiddingly suspected, some chthonian spirit creature whose hospitality they had violated after it stood guard over their marvelous fuck. While she watched the stockings and underwear flap and churn, dive and surface in the suds, directing her eye game through the porthole in the washer door, Boomer had repaired to a tavern across the street.
“It’s a common phenomenon,” Boomer said, “but I’ve never heard it explained on the education channel or anywheres. How ’bout you?”
There were only three people at the bar: Boomer, the man to his left, and the man to his left. Boomer’s neighbor was large and seedy looking, shirted in wrinkled plaid flannel that gave the impression it had been repeatedly run over by farm machinery. His beard might have endured an identical ordeal. He nodded at Boomer but did not speak. His pal, obscured from Boomer’s view by the first man’s bulk, stared straight ahead. The bartender, an elderly woman, was at the far end, assiduously polishing, inspecting, and repolishing cheap glassware, as if the Queen of England and her entourage were due by any moment for a round of brews. From its lonesome perch, an unwatched TV set flicked frizzy pictures of a soap-opera character weeping for her boyfriend who had been dispatched to help keep peace in the Middle East. The girl on the show was wondering why the Arabs and the Jews couldn’t learn to live in harmony.
Boomer, like most Americans, had wondered about that himself once or twice. Today he was wondering about something else. “Must have something to do with light. The alcohol refracts the sunlight somehow, causing a reaction in the brain. Bang! Right behind the eyes.”
Still the big man was reticent. Boomer leaned toward him.
“Of course, the effect might be different up here in the Rockies for all I know. Altitude. I understand that peacocks can’t squawk above five thousand feet. Altitude makes ’em mute as doorknobs. I’m assuming that doorknobs are mute. They’re widely acknowledged to be deaf. Regular little Helen Kellers.” Boomer flashed an understanding grin. “Say, maybe that’s your problem.” Placing his mouth close to the fellow’s ear, he screamed, “Annie Sullivan calling!", confident that the man would recognize the name of the therapist who taught Ms. Keller to speak.
With one slow but unavoidable paw, the man flung Boomer from the bar
Why wasn’t Ellen Cherry aware of all this? Why wasn’t the mass of humankind aware of it? Because veils of ignorance, disinformation, and illusion separate us from that which is imperative to our understanding of our evolutionary journey, shield us from the Mystery that is central to being.
The first of those veils conceals the repression of the Goddess, masks the sexual face of the planet, drapes the ancient foundation stone of erotic terror that props up modern man’s religion.
But, listen now. If Painted Stick and Conch Shell are permitted to leave the cave where they’ve been sleeping—and what stands in their path but a spoon, a smelly old sock, and a can of beans?—Salome might dance in the Temple again. And if nobody stops Salome from dancing, that first veil may one day soon be dropping.
The Second Veil
"WHY IS IT," Boomer asked, “that beer goes to your head faster in the daytime than it does after dark?"
The man to whom he had addressed the question tugged at his scraggly beard, nodded, said nothing.
“It’s a fact,” Boomer went on. “I can drink triple after sundown what I can hold in the afternoon. You notice that, too?”
Ellen Cherry was in a Speedy Wash doing their laundry. From now on, she insisted, Boomer would go forth into the world attired in the freshest, most sanitary footwear that detergent and hot water could provide. Should ever she break that vow, he would have only to remind her of the sock he’d left in the cave the previous day, the one whose foulness was offending, they half-kiddingly suspected, some chthonian spirit creature whose hospitality they had violated after it stood guard over their marvelous fuck. While she watched the stockings and underwear flap and churn, dive and surface in the suds, directing her eye game through the porthole in the washer door, Boomer had repaired to a tavern across the street.
“It’s a common phenomenon,” Boomer said, “but I’ve never heard it explained on the education channel or anywheres. How ’bout you?”
There were only three people at the bar: Boomer, the man to his left, and the man to his left. Boomer’s neighbor was large and seedy looking, shirted in wrinkled plaid flannel that gave the impression it had been repeatedly run over by farm machinery. His beard might have endured an identical ordeal. He nodded at Boomer but did not speak. His pal, obscured from Boomer’s view by the first man’s bulk, stared straight ahead. The bartender, an elderly woman, was at the far end, assiduously polishing, inspecting, and repolishing cheap glassware, as if the Queen of England and her entourage were due by any moment for a round of brews. From its lonesome perch, an unwatched TV set flicked frizzy pictures of a soap-opera character weeping for her boyfriend who had been dispatched to help keep peace in the Middle East. The girl on the show was wondering why the Arabs and the Jews couldn’t learn to live in harmony.
Boomer, like most Americans, had wondered about that himself once or twice. Today he was wondering about something else. “Must have something to do with light. The alcohol refracts the sunlight somehow, causing a reaction in the brain. Bang! Right behind the eyes.”
Still the big man was reticent. Boomer leaned toward him.
“Of course, the effect might be different up here in the Rockies for all I know. Altitude. I understand that peacocks can’t squawk above five thousand feet. Altitude makes ’em mute as doorknobs. I’m assuming that doorknobs are mute. They’re widely acknowledged to be deaf. Regular little Helen Kellers.” Boomer flashed an understanding grin. “Say, maybe that’s your problem.” Placing his mouth close to the fellow’s ear, he screamed, “Annie Sullivan calling!", confident that the man would recognize the name of the therapist who taught Ms. Keller to speak.
With one slow but unavoidable paw, the man flung Boomer from the bar
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