The Televisionary Oracle (53 page)

As I obeyed her suggestions, we synchronized our long, slow breathing. Rippling swells of liquid velvet textures glimmered up and down the length of my body. Soon I felt like a syrupy slow-motion waterfall cascading into Jumbler and then spiraling back into myself.

So gradually I wasn’t aware of the moment when I crossed over the threshold, I found myself in the Drivetime. It was a familiar yet strange place. I was lying down inside the husk of my old lightning-struck redwood tree on the grounds of the Pomegranate Grail. Jumbler was sprawled on top of me but just lifting herself off. We were naked.

The first thing I noticed was that the woods were missing. My redwood sanctuary looked and felt like it always had except for the fact that there were only a few yards of wild nature around it. Now it was inside a building with a high roof punctuated by a large skylight. In front of us a few yards away, visible through the “door” of the redwood husk, was a sizable image screen, maybe eight feet square, which I guessed was a Televisionary Oracle. At the moment, the screen was filled with a line of naked men snaking up to the back door of a red and black double-decker bus that bore a sign saying, “Global Initiatrix of Fuckissimus.”

Suddenly, Madame Blavatsky’s stout form trundled in front of the screen, blocking my view. She was clad in a black conical witch’s hat,
pearl necklace, red cashmere mini-slip, and burgundy satin bra. The latter was far too small for her corpulent breasts.

Smoking a cigarette and chewing gum, she was sitting on a giant red tricycle that had a basket attached to the handlebars. Her saturnine face peered in at us.

“Wake up, sleepyheads,” she snorted. “It is high time for your next Drivetime University class. But first put on your sacred underwear.” She removed her gum so she could stuff her mouth with a spoonful of what looked like mashed potatoes from a bowl in her basket. Then she hurled a bunch of clothes towards us. It was the same stuff from before: for me, the Grail-shaped bra and the panties decorated with replicas of my birthmark; for Jumbler, the flesh-colored leotard painted with the realistic likeness of breasts and a penis.

I put on my costume and strode out of the redwood husk to survey my surroundings. It was a cross between a temple, a toy store, and the studio of a sculptor who uses junk as raw materials. I saw three majestic altars crammed with elaborate candelabra, big bouquets, and tiny, brightly colored UFOs, some of which were hovering in mid-air. A giant metal and wood scarecrow with glowing eyes and many arms was clapping in rhythm to a guttural melody that was flowing from her mouth. Next to a “garden” of fantastic Salvador Dali-like flowers and vegetables made of painted dishes and kitchen utensils, a miniature roller coaster reeled along a wooden track. Its cars were filled with puppet versions of fanged Tibetan deities and crones.

“Where are we?” I asked Madame Blavatsky.

“Glorious Universal Diddlemaster,” Madame Blavatsky replied, taking another spoonful of mashed potatoes from her bowl, “I am glad you asked. You are on the grounds of the Menstrual Temple of the Funky Grail, the mystery school with which you will replace the Pomegranate Grail. We are visiting the future again so as to further instill in you the confidence you will need to oversee the many mutations it will be your fate to initiate.”

Jumbler had joined me as I stood with Madame Blavatsky.

“We did it again, baby,” she grinned as she took my hand. “We’re pioneers of Drivetime collaboration.”

“You must be a very skillful tantric magician, my love,” I said admiringly, kissing her on the mouth.

“I am not nearly as experienced as you might imagine,” she replied, “although it’s true I have received an extensive education. But I swear I have never before done a shamanic journey together with anyone to the Drivetime. You and I must have a natural talent that we bring out in each other.”

“I’d like to claim a bit of credit, too, if you don’t mind,” a familiar voice called out from behind us. I turned to behold a shocking but welcome sight. Rumbler was walking towards us. “It’s not as if Rapunzel is a virgin in these collaborative out-of-body experiences, after all.”

He strode over to Madame Blavatsky and handed her a blue popsicle. She seized it eagerly and began to slurp. Then he glided over to Jumbler and me and offered one to both of us. I took mine and hugged him, unable to speak. After a moment, I partially broke away, grabbed Jumbler, and pulled her into a three-way embrace. I was aware that neither of them knew who the other was—I had included only a bare mention about Rumbler when I told Jumbler the story of my life—but I fantasized that both of them loved me so much they would just naturally love each other.

“Looks like I’m overdressed,” Rumbler said as we finally dissolved the hug. In contrast to the skimpy attire Jumbler and I had on, Rumbler was dressed like an actor I once saw playing Robin Hood in a movie: bright green linen tunic with a rough leather belt, deerskin pants and green wool cloak, and leather boots.

I was still having trouble making intelligible sounds. Cognitive dissonance ruled my brain. The first impossibility was seeing Rumbler in this place, the Drivetime, which was so much more like the daytime world than the Televisionarium landscapes he and I had always frequented. We were not lying beneath a lemony sky right now, afloat on an ocean of geraniums where giant flakes of orange snow that tasted like butterscotch fell on our delighted tongues.

The second impossibility was being with Rumbler in the company of an actual flesh-and-blood person from my waking life. In all my years of consorting with my male playmate, there had never been such a crossover. Our companions in the Televisionarium were creatures like Firenze the Musical Sasquatch, Snapdragon Dragonfly the Firefly, and Itchy Crunchy the Beautiful Empress of the Trolls. My shamanic travels and my life in ordinary waking reality were strictly segregated.

“I’m Rumbler,” he said to Jumbler, reaching out to shake hands. “Rapunzel might prefer to tell you I’m her muse or animus or her vivid imaginary stand-in for her dead twin brother, but I like to think I have an objective existence aside from her.”

I had rarely heard Rumbler be so wryly self-conscious. Back in the Televisionarium, he was usually such a
creature
—given instinctively to the feral poetry of the moment.

“I have to say that I can see a bit of a family resemblance, though,” Jumbler said. “Which is not to say that I don’t believe your version of the truth, too. It is the Drivetime, after all. Whenever contradictory statements pop up here, you can be sure that both are accurate.”

“And you are who?” Rumbler asked her. “I mean, I know who you are, but I want to hear your version of who you are.”

“I’m Jesus the Hermaphrodite Clown, also known as the Wealthy Anarchist Burning Heaven to the Ground. Rapunzel might prefer to tell you I’m her teacher or servant or fool, but I like to think of myself as her sexfriend.”

Jesus the Hermaphrodite Clown? What was that about, I wondered.

But Rumbler looked delighted at this nonsense from Jumbler. I was glad, because I wanted them to get along. But I was nervous, too, because—well—shouldn’t they be jealous of each other? I didn’t want them to be, and since they lived in different dimensions maybe the usual laws of human nature didn’t apply.

“Do you know Madame Blavatsky?” I asked him, trying to find a way to proceed. I gazed over at her. She was busy smoking her cigarette and devouring her popsicle, but she took a moment to give the thumbs-up signal to me with her cigarette hand.

“I’m proud to say,” Rumbler replied, “that Madame Helena Blavatsky—who, I should note, suffers from the same indignity as I do, being imagined by you as a split-off aspect of your own psyche rather than an autonomous spirit with a life apart from you—Madame Blavatsky has called on me to help administer your next crash course at Drivetime University. Aren’t you going to eat your popsicle?”

I was studying his face. Though it had not been so long since our last meeting, he looked older and stronger. He’d always been the embodiment of sensitivity, but now he emanated even more kindness than I remembered. A more mature, vigorous kindness.

“Let’s go climb into the Drivetime University classroom, shall we?” he exhorted. “Come on, Jesus. You too. Madame Blavatsky, you want to sit in?”

She shook her head and mumbled, “Maybe later.”

Jumbler was contentedly licking her popsicle, seemingly empty of her usual restless initiative. If there was any jealousy flickering here between Rumbler and Jumbler, it was well-hidden.

“You doing OK?” I asked Jumbler as we strolled.

“I’m on a mysterious tantric jaunt into the Drivetime with the lyrical creature I’ve loved for millennia. Couldn’t get any better than this.”

As we sat down inside the redwood husk, Rumbler arranged the three of us in a triangle with our legs splayed out, each person with a foot touching a foot of the other two.

“First off, I want you to know that in order to expand my service to your mission, Rapunzel, I have been tending to my fellow men with a new intensity lately,” Rumbler announced when we were in place.

“Men as in generic name for humanity?” I said, feigning dismay. “I thought you were free of sexist language, dear.”

“Men as in literal guys. Dudes. Fathers and brothers and sons. Who, by the way, gave me a message to send to you.” Rumbler blew two kisses, first in the direction of my navel, then towards my face.

“All the men in the world just kissed me?” I asked, holding my hand demurely to my face.

“No, no, no—not all. Just the lesbian men and macho feminists. A very select group, unfortunately. By Madame Blavatsky’s calculations, it represents point zero two percent of all men.”

“OK, Rumbler,” I said, exulting in the giddy sensation of feeling crisply logical in the midst of crazy fun. “Let me suspend my disbelief here for a moment and accept your implication that you have somehow been in communication with—how many would it be?—480,000 adult males all over the planet?

“Overwhelming majority are in North America,” Rumbler noted.

“So let me ask you: How did you get elected to be the representative of this elite group?”

“You are so modest, Rapunzel,” he replied. “Of course I got elected because of my close association with the Queen Bee of Orgasmic Liberation. Because I was the first male-type creature to be benevolently
infected by the Global Initiatrix of the Fuckissimus.”

“Rapunzel’s mothers would no doubt be skeptical,” Jumbler broke in, “to hear that half a million men are having erotic fantasies about the high priestess of their Goddess cult.”

Ignoring Jumbler’s kibitz, Rumbler moved to a kneeling position and prostrated himself so that his forehead rested on his outspread hands a few inches from my crotch. “My fellow men also wanted me to convey the following request.”

“Yes?” I said expectantly, glancing over at Jumbler. She seemed bemused. Her hands were stroking her inner thighs and she was sporting a grin.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” Rumbler said with a histrionic stage whisper. “Pull us all the way up to your menstrual hut, so that we can learn to menstruate too.”

I cackled hard, the result of being both incredulous and entertained. “I see,” I finally managed to sputter. “You lesbian men and macho feminists are envious of how we women have cornered the market on the glamorous fun of bleeding out our genitals. And you’re overwhelmed with yearning for the right to feel bloated and crampy and crabby four days out of every month.”

Jumbler’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. Brazenly, she reached over and applied a teasing spank to Rumbler’s upturned butt.

“We men want to master the art of regular self-abduction,” Rumbler continued seriously, not acknowledging the humorous effect of his previous statement. “We want to learn how to die a lot of little deaths so we don’t have to get crushed by huge annihilations.”

“Hey Rumbler, what’s in it for Rapunzel to let these guys climb up into her menstrual hut?” Jumbler blurted out mischievously. I was grateful, wanting to stall for time while I tried to digest what Rumbler was talking about. It certainly seemed connected to the tower and the long line of men in wedding dresses from our previous foray into the Drivetime.

“Rapunzel can’t kill the bad apocalypse without us,” Rumbler told Jumbler quickly and calmly. “She can’t resurrect the good apocalypse without us.”

“That’s not what my mommies told me,” I protested halfheartedly. “My mommies said the male of the species is a lost cause. A drain on
our resources I shouldn’t bother with. According to them, I’m not even supposed to get married.”

“Your mommies are wise and good and strong,” Rumbler said solemnly. “We bow to them with reverent devotion. But they don’t know everything.”

“But neither do you, of course,” I shot back affectionately. “Why should I listen to your advice?”

“Besides the fact that it was revealed to me by your eternal secretary, Madame Blavatsky, it also resonates with everything you know about yourself. All your instincts, for as long as you can remember, have told you to be inclusive, not separative. To embrace the contradictions, not reinforce their enmity. Preaching to the choir is not your destiny, Rapunzel. You need to expand your audience. A lot.”

“Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“Couldn’t meet you in the Drivetime till you kidnapped yourself. Them’s the rules. Couldn’t reveal the missing secrets till you rose up against the old ways and started making your own traditions.”

“By the logic you’re espousing, Rumbler,” Jumbler interjected, “Rapunzel would try to translate the esoteric wisdom of the Pomegranate Grail into a New Age self-help book and tour the world making personal appearances. ‘High Priestess of Ancient Mystery School Reveals Ten Practical Ways for Both Women and Men to Make the Menstrual Mysteries Work for Greater Health, Wealth, and Happiness.’ ”

“Not a bad idea, actually,” he replied.

“Well then, I hope Drivetime University has a marketing division,” Jumbler retorted, “because the education of our Supergirl here has probably not included much training in that area of human knowledge.”