The False is the From of The True, Series 1 Wrench Boy's Face was like a Mask: Concentrated, as if to transmute Distraction. What gets the Gold must retain a Black Box. Each Mask its own Initiation. Each of us occasionally must return to our own Black Box. But we do find Wrench Boy suddenly without a Face. His entire apparent being a gleaming Mask redolent with a fabulous Concentration as if Infinity had donned a Jaguar to contain it-- an African Rattle rattling from The Infinite: Such was the Concentration of Wrench Boy, unless a Face were a Mask, but not even Wrench Boy's Syzygy could discern it, not even his Jaguar: with a fist full of Violets stashed behind his wrench, his entire apparatus mask-like.  For an instant someone took the form of a Black Box and knocked on the thick oak doors of the Old Hotel. This was an abstract reduction, or essentialization or representation of the front of the Old Hotel -- FLASH FLASH.  The old concierge answered the black knock. He squinted hard. "The place is full," he muttered. "The likes of you will not find room tonight in The Old Hotel."  But it wasn't night. The man in the form of Black Box for an instant had stunned the world (Flash Flash). All was gone. There was only one Crystal at the nut in the center of a Violet. A moment of Initiation-- a kind of Dream in the on-going trick-set of trickster Wrench Boy, who will not let you forget all phenomena are like a mask that hangs on a wall in a room that is full of the sound of your Dream.  The Mole crept in the dirt where even Jaguar groveled.  "Each of us-- another Mask," they intimated. "Even in a Dream a Fence may force the Nation to take form across from The Old Hotel."  It's going to be a Long River I opined. Neither Distraction nor Fullness nor a fist full of Violets will disperse the perpetuity of Distraction and unperplex a terribly vexed old Jaguar.  Melee required no Mask to be diverse from her own seeming.  Black Lake provided a kind of map to every Mask and Drum.  African Rattle's sound absorbed itself into its own Distraction.  When the person in the form of Black Box apparently vanished, out popped Hammerhead. His Glob had been dried up, summarily, by the sound of an African Rattle.  Distraction took form as a megaphone proclaiming: "All tongues are talking in tongues." The False is The Form of The True: 2 I said: "O Person with a Black Box in place of a head, your fullness is a proper problem for me. I hear a distant Drum roll coming as if from inside you Masking impending Distraction. I don't imagine that you are Hammerhead-- Jaguar is far more likely to propagate such a Drum roll in the place of a face than he. Jaguar is past master of Black Box. O silent, impetuosity, of a person. But my quest and inquiry would so saturate Fullness and its--let's say 'magical' Drummery that the very sonorities of The Manifest bode but Mask and Dream-- and shimmering Crystals, lineaments of gold, delineate that mask. O Black Box person. I need to do something with or else, terribly, to the Fullness of The Manifest-- return that very Drum to Black Box, for Crystal is rooted in the dark and Wrench Boy, though potentially an emanation of anywhere must beat his own Drum. Words are my face, African Rattles stashed in my green boudoir proliferate a system of archaic tongues familiar only to Wrench Boy and the others whose faces have been replaced by living Crystal from their having spent perhaps far too many lifetimes by the side of Black Lake." "Is the manifest world a distracting dream?" Asks Wrench Boy. "Must we put up a Fence around our Dream? And must we Face up to Crystal?" Melee's Face was already her own Dream; Crystal entirely a lattice of small Fences.  We initiate inquiry perpetually. Abstraction, though an aid to Concentration, cannot describe what actually arrives in the mind of Wrench Boy; nor does Abstraction qualify the ubiquity of suddenly sparkling Crystal.  Infinity titillates Wrench Boy.  Black Box, whether on one's head or elsewhere, can be anything, but it cannot by itself dissuade Distraction. Do you not see then, O Hammerhead, your wish to Abstract the Nation and just float away down white-water ecstasies of Long River, will not Distract your necessary Dreaming. You have yet to encourage familiarity with your own gray Mole and cease to perpetrate your vision of that zoo and its taxonomical attitudes. The Old Hotel is no Dream. You Dream of Violet, but even she has mooted her Face. Can you imagine becoming a Jaguar? His face sustains his Dream inside a real enough forest of African Rattles. The False Is The Form of The True: 3 Jaguar Concentrates his own form holding within a four-square Fence-- a resonant Drum. The Old Hotel stands fierce above Long River. Crystal has a removable head. Well, even the Fence about Fullness gets pulled up, but the principle of Crystal is immovable. Who'd move it? When Jaguar Concentrates the Fence about his Drum is made of spikes and rattles. Hold your tongue! Hammerhead challenges all principles save the ones he doesn't understand to be principles . . . African Rattle team up with a Drum? Unthinkable. And Jaguar Concentrate to remove an invisible Fence? He had found his form and was summoning all the Jaguars from local zoos: All Tongues loosed from their own Black Box. They started to jabber and sing of a world where the Fence was extinct.  Even without a head Crystal exulted. Infinitely fresh was the breeze released through the geometrical aether from which she derived her morphology.  Black Box cried out: "I Am The Old Hotel! My Tongue is loosed at last, no longer defined by a virtual Fence." (But which tongue was it?)  Abstraction's Fence Fences in Black Lake with a black self-ravishing Fence.  The Time of Abstraction is not dead: Long River is on fire that the Old Hotel provide a rich man's Distraction to recombine your thoughts, prepare for or stave off your next Initiation.  Long River runs through everything-- surely we know that.  The Old Hotel Initiates its motley guests only with Ideal numbers for their room suites, which irradiate but do not count the luminous pickets in the Fence that defines its grounds.  The Nation! The Nation! Don't Fence my Abstractions in to the Mind of a Nation!  The Face of The Old Hotel was just a facade: a Mask plucked out of a closet IN The Old Hotel. Its real Face holds its Tongue.  Its real Tongue, angry, melodious, emanates Songs of Fullness.  Wrench Boy and Syzygy were Fencing with their Tongues.  Crystal has a theory about the Mole: He burrows below Black Lake and emanates imageries that emerge when skriers gaze. The Mole wears a Mask made of wax in the form of a Mole.  Only the Violets in the windows of The Old Hotel comprised an escape from this Melee. But all objects were now petrified into suitably molded ingots of Gold. The Old Hotel stocked with gilded Jaguars was full. The concierge had to shake his rattle: the establishment had enough Gold. And that turned out to be, for a time, an avatar of the enemy of money, not the miscreants that ravaged the Bank.  Crystal pellets ricocheted through the Dream of Fullness-- that aspect of Initiation to be performed within the cyncture of a Golden Fence. First Interval "So many mysteries and we're all smack dab in the middle of them," worried Jaguar. "The Mole is The Body burrowing snug in the Earth. It has to get from thought to thought without returning too soon to its Glob. Must Ideal Numbers-- inscrutable (intelligible) exist? -- The headless Light-- the Light Blast in place of a Head--Nobody's Face-- Black Box will not be illumined. You must swear to it or return and lose the fee and token for your last Initiation. The Old Hotel sits on its hill and is angry. It wasn't enough to frustrate The Bank. What will you do when the well runs dry? Try to go back home and gaze long and deep in the waters of Black Lake and draw the image out that fills you name, O Crystal . . . The False Is The Form Of The True: 4 Not only the head replaced by luminous crystal-- the whole corpus of Being-- like a Mask. The Nation and its inveterate Fences-- the Institution of Black Lake that will not waive its questionable hegemony over its own Initiation-- the many tongues of the Nation-- if you Concentrate the Light in place of a loose Tongue, the pulsations peculiar to your Crystal specify the properties of your Mask. Is it really you? Your Nation wants You to set up its Fence. The lure of Gold--not just money: an Infinite access to Long River. Can you say what true Gold is and bring it to your Fence? Weird little crystals twinkle insidiously in the twitchings and crevices that crinkle your Mask. Instruction: Dissolve the Nation in a rude bath of Crystals-- an Infinite lustration under the eye of virtual Jaguars to qualify and quantify the Nation.  Wrench Boy and Syzygy keep themselves submerged in Black Lake till the present situation reverts to perfect Concentration, till Black Box blacks out and Nation-wide surveillance-- has never been seen.  Abstract Gold is quite invisible to Hammerhead. His history's got him by his Tongue. Now when he tries to speak an African Rattle pops up outside his window. He inverts a Nation of Violets to a truck full of Jaguars flashing by in the noon heat. His project now must be to reanimate his Tongue.  You cannot hear the Drum from a Chariot of Gold as you prepare for the next Initiation. All sorts of Distractions, naturally, pump through your Dream.  You will, of course, at this juncture, think you are a Jaguar. You prowl about Black Lake-- you actually do do this-- and Initiate practical tactics to further Concentration, put up a spiked Fence to prevent an abject Melee.  Who are you. Infinite velocity internal to each Jaguar. No, you're not that. Identity itself, Distraction. Nation looms before The Old Hotel. Insidious laughter. Black Lake and Crystal-- an impervious Mask.  African Rattles silent Jaguars specially constructed to impede Initiation. Tongues of flame chatter about the rim of Black Lake-- become crystalline Concentrations of Golden elixirs. "Hammerhead!  Your Tongue is Melee-- Mole is right there next to Melee's great Drum. Melee's Face is a Nation--A Nation of African Rattles.  Fullness is there for the taking-- take it. You are no jaguar, yet O Hammerhead. Abstraction stacks up Crystals in Jaguar's rain-gear pouches-- divide, repel, return to force The Nation." Second Interval They tear themselves apart, tear each other apart, that the unencumbered, the unconditioned . . . the light indifferent to the Mole and his intra-terrestrial intelligences . . . The Syzygetical takes precedence over the selves and their isolate, squamous questing. The Vault explodes with inexplicable Rattles and Drums-- as the surface of the Globe bursts with Rattling forests-- the earth is packed with Crystal-- that's how light is-- willy nilly-- existence rives with apparency-- the Long River flows through everything--we know that-- but it flows both ways-- we don't know that. You say it with perfect lucidity but the utterance sits in its place as the weird tongues multiply and drift centrifugally from the charged Nut at the source of adequate utterance. The energy Fields roil from the general sexual body, its qualities filtered by the Being types of each, of each its particular Distraction in the Nations' effort to derive a proper Concentration. The False Is The Form of The True: 5 You cannot hold your Tongue when The Drum in your being throbs beyond Distraction-- The Nation is riven by burrowing Mind Moles-- the Infinite Distraction Masks Infinity whose Tongue is like a throbbing Drum. Misdirection is the form of the Nation. Hammerhead's heads are beating out a Dream of Initiation. Hammerhead has learned this much-- to mistrust utterly the formative thrusts of The Nation. Stick out your tongue. Milk it, let it curl back and beat in the center of your skull, beat out Distraction that the Tongues assuage The Dream till it rescue Crystal-- she sparkles Distracted in fertile Misdirection . . .  Black Lake heals, so does Crystal. Dream reveals or Dream confounds-- Hammerhead has learned this much. He puts Crystals in his cabinets. Judiciously he fixes zones with Fences. He sets his Drum. Quiet now his Face Mask fixes Fullness so intimately the interval between Distraction and Abstraction becomes as it must a gate for puissant Dreams. One Crystal form instructs Initiation into an Infinite system of Tongues-- you could say anything and do to don a pertinent Mask as you stroll into the lounge too consciously of The Old Hotel not angry now-- a promise of Fullness-- Golden balustrades and bright pendulations of Crystal-- no need to hold your Tongue or let it run on to Infinity. Is it a Dream? The Mask of a hidden Jaguar-- energy, Misdirection ever-again, the Long even permanent expedition down Long River that runs through a Nation that, however one mistrusts its many Masks-- puts up Wrench Boys at every district-- Distractions Infinite fingers caressing firm sweet throats arched whole bodies belly to belly in the night of African Rattles and is it you? Crystals exploding in the night trees a Mask of sweet delight happy Distraction your Tongue Long Rivers of shapely forces Hammerhead disencumbered the night like a Black Box Melee twinkling in the sexual forest of Hammerhead Long River everywhere forever Misdirection her own sexual forest as if to Infinity Third Interval Silent Night. Holy Night. Empty holy hush a covering and pregnant absence cracks open in a moment on what carnival! what Melee! African Rattles and Drums colored lights and population abusive of its own form Long River twisted into spinning tops whose noises pretend to body forth gods if you listen the Listener mounted on the Listener's Mount his mind a kind of gateway passed all piety all covering of silence to new zones of silence indeed the Globe of Being splits open and here stands Hammerhead wielding his hammer like a wand or lithe baton to smash or join. Nothing exists but that each phenomenon rides on trickster Jaguar avatar a jack-in-a-Black-Box or from one, its being is a sign, a world comprising signs, then they too shut off and all is The Light that but a moment since had formed them-- The Old Hotel composed of signs by which the world is strung. O Jaguar -- take out your notebook take down the signs in your mind. The False is The Form of The True: 9 A Golden Abstraction confuses the Mole. Black Lake as distinct from Black Box differentiates Drum sound. "Throbs, beats, and pulses." Thinks Hammerhead. Mole runs about attempting to repair the connection. Difference is vicious Distraction to him. "Gold throbs. Abstraction pulses. 'To beat' performs a lot of things," thinks Mole. Black Lake and its special potentiality, though possibly vast is perfectly just what it is, but what issues out of it or what one descries by gazing in or at it-- probably not. The feeling of Fullness is after the fact, though in retrospect as Long River flows backwards and Black Lake surfaces out of time-- well, you do the math. The Golden Abstraction might be the Great Enigma for the Mole-- the motive for all that deliberative digging-- that there might be Gold at the source of Long River, a forest of African Rattles at its delta, where Mouth and Source are one-- if you are Mole.  Whereas for Black Box though specific to the point of naked singularity, that singularity manifests everywhere as that which in the instance withholds its own specification-- catch if catch can--  In any case Black Lake is distinct from Black Box. The intricate divagations negotiated on the Drum surface-- of small but problematical interest to Hammerhead.  The Mole digs deep for Abstraction-- a fact not distinct from his own Globular Fullness, but his Fullness itself, his multiplicity and motion, affines him to Melee--  Beat the drum. What Fullness. Concentrate all free force on The Old Hotel. Long River delivers Distraction but just as well delivers Dream. Mole seems quite crazy as he digs his way beneath Long River.  If Wrench Boy were not so crazy with Syzygy, Fullness itself would but hide in Black Box. No Violets would creep along the Fence.  Tricky-Crazy Wrench Boy illustrates Fullness with his fecund Tongue and his Face, that sometimes fixates on an African Rattle. For two nights in his dream he came upon a thoroughly transfigured Hammerhead. The Mole was amazed. Hammerhead had surpassed Initiation. African Rattle continued Distraction. What Gold truly is appeared to The Mole.  There just might be another kind of Nation. A Forest would be part of it, entirely for the trees-- each one affined to a particular African Rattle. Hammerhead at last would be at large to mollify Gold, Black Box returning to its recondite business.  To Jaguar and to Crystal-- an infinite legacy continuously bestowed from Black Box. An exigency of Crystal. Fourth Interval Hammerhead came to a Great Tree and awakened and went into The Tree and when he came out his protuberance was changed. It was no longer a hammer but a vast flowering arbor tucked up in his ethers; each tree an African Rattle enclosed in an aura of ethers, and incised in the aura were mouths made of cowries and the number of cowries was not constant but changed according to the number of ears a tree wished to address with its mouths. Hammerhead walked to the companions. They were gathered around Black Lake fading in and out of its absorptive topology, and Hammerhead assembled a Black Knock from his ethers and its vibrations passed across Black Lake as he knocked on his own tree, and the companions awakened toward their external morphological predicament and Hammerhead spoke in unison from as many cowrie mouths as there were companions-- Crystal and Violet and Melee and Wrench Boy and Syzygy and Jaguar and Mole and Sensei-San Infinity and Tongs and Bank Old Hotel and Long River and others of a more abstract nomination-- Exaggeration and Vapidity, Dsitraction, Infirmity, Aberration, Conflagration . . . and Hammerhead said: "Are we to be part of a Nation before we are fully human? humans before sentients? sentients as distinct from the rest of existence? Must we cut ourselves off from Being as a whole?" When Hammerhead finished his discourse, the companions gazed into Black Lake and Black Lake became Black Box and Black Box became The Stone and The Stone ceased all becoming and the companions had passed into their ethers like mists at dawn over Black Lake as the sun rose and the ethers were gone and The Old Hotel consumed The Bank and The Bank was The Nation and The Nation the Ghost of a new kind of Zoo and a Jaguar prowled in a circle and Long River flowed both ways and Europe had passed into its ethers And America sank into the sea . . . Hammerhead opened Red Book and closed his eyes.