Chapter One (December 24, 1968) (Draft)

Tuesday, December 24, 1968

(Lunar Orbit)

Commander Frank Borman, Command Module Pilot Jim Lovell, and Lunar Module Pilot William Anders broadcast live from Apollo 8, the first manned mission to the Moon, showing pictures of the Earth and Moon.

Lovell says, "The vast loneliness is awe-inspiring, and it makes you realize just what you have back there on Earth."

"For all the people on Earth," William Anders says, "The crew of Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send you."

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

Jim Lovell:

And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.

And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.

And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

Frank Borman:

And God said, Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.

And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.

And from the crew of Apollo 8," Borman adds, "We close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you–all of you on the good Earth." (1)

____________________

(Hollywood, California)

As I lie on the kitchen floor, the dots on the linoleum rise up and float all around, enveloping me, a blanket of dots: blue, red, yellow, green, purple, orange planets swirling around, bursting into balls of hard rock colors.

The birth of many galaxies, bursting into points of life...

Out of sight....

Maybe God felt the same awe...

A burst of light: I am the creator of these galaxies, I am responsible for all these millions and billions of new lives–they’re my responsibility, and if they go bad, it’s my fault.

Oh-my-god. I’m God.

I must destroy them, before they spread viruses.

A butterfly net appears in my hand, my mission clear: capture these galaxies, trap them in a mayonnaise jar, smother them before they have a chance to destroy me, their creator. Because they will, just as we have destroyed our God.

Is God dead?

Define "dead."

Is God Death itself?

To believe is to die.

Is Death God?

Why not?

Who is God?

How.

When is God?

Past.

Does he have a butterfly net?

?????

What color is God?

The color of essence.

What is essence?

The color of God.

What is God?

Why?

That smell? Black, dusty smell, like old rubber boots, first smell, primal scent, tangy licorice love drizzling my body, luscious rum balls, velvet lust, heated past boil, consummated lust, melting, savored again and again and again.

Is God dead?

To believe is to die.

Is God Death itself?

How.

Is Death God?

The color of God.

Who is God?

Why not?

When is God?

If not now, never.

Does he have a butterfly net?

The color of essence.

What color is God?

Define "dead."

What is essence?

Who?????

What is God?

The man.

The man.

The man.

What’s that?

A siren.

Stoney?

The room wavers–nothing has substance. Man, how can nothing have substance? Can something have nothing?

What is nothing, anyway? If it has a name, then it has to be something, because nothing would not have a name, if it were truly nothing. Are there empty spaces in something, nothing places to hide? My head spins into a loop–a lot of nothing places, black licorice dots swirling around and around.

Two sirens.

Stoney? Stoney?

No one exists but me.

I know that now.

I am truly alone.

All you people are clowns, and clowns are not real; therefore, you were not, are not, and never will be.

Stoney?

Why are you smiling?

Yellow haze flows out your mouth when you whisper, Winesap apples when you sing "White Rabbit," orange flames when you shout.

"Fuck you!" Orange and blue flames blast from your lips, tickling my thighs.

Blink. Blue butterflies flutter from your eyes, flicker all around, land on my triangle–pure geometry.

Yes, fuck me.

You ram the needle into your pulse–amber liquid whooshes through veins and arteries to your heart, back through your circulatory system, every branch, down to the smallest capillary, racing through your body, up stream to your brain, down river to your fingertips, speeding down to your toes, looping all around and around...

You light up like fireworks, a star burst covering the sky with a flash of red, gold, white, green, purple, blue, silver and then fading, whirling diamond chips, crackling and descending, descending, descending, disappearing behind the ocean waves.

Your eyes, paisley.

Your heart, a rainbow.

Your body: granite, a quake.

An Odyssey.

As you come, a single red rose bursts from your penis.

I catch petals as they drop, wine red and smooth and cold as polished stone.

Stoney.

Oh, Stoney.

Warm as barberry oil.

You’re solid, but it’s a trick…

You cannot be.

Three sirens.

The police!

No, just me in you.

Yes.

As I stand–at least I think I’m standing–Stoney fizzles, soft as a mother’s breast.

The room zigzags, my legs turn to jelly, congeal to the floor, yet I move, even as my legs melt into the dead dots. I don’t need them–the room has turned to sea.

I have grown gills.

I’m back in my mother’s uterus, only she isn’t the mother I knew–this mother is all wise–her name is Venus, and she offers to hurtle me through the galaxy because she is the galaxy.

For hours, we zip through one million galaxies–my head fills with sights, sounds, aromas, music, textures only known to a God.

She is my God–

I am her daughter.

I am the child of God.

____________________

(1) Text modified slightly from The Apollo 8 Christmas Eve Broadcast (NASA).