The talking clock said I was in the Universal Joint recovering from disorientation.

"This orientation?"

"No, disorientation, said the clock face, you were disoriented and lost your place in the universe. It's not uncommon for that to happen to developing minds after trauma."

"Well, it looks like jail; there are bars on the window, and there's no exit."

"What you see in the Universal Joint is what you expect to see. In Non-Spacetime we are what our eyes want to eat, optometrically speaking."

"I wasn't arrested?"

"No, you were detained until your many selves could regroup. They got separated in the confusion.

"So what is this place, if it isn't a jail cell?"

"The universal joint is a waiting room between reality and the great Naw. What you see is a smoky, pulsing, slightly askew hangout that is midway between the drive shaft and the orgasm. Your personality determines the appearance."

"I don't get it."

"You are not ready to understand. You haven't learned to see the subtle; all you see is the gross, so to speak."

"What time is it?"

"It's not time yet. When it is time, you will be the first to know."

Hi Tim

I was arrested and detained in the Universal Joint. I met Napoleon; then, for a while I was Napoleon. I talked to a few nice angels on their way to a bowling tournament. I made friends with a monk from the fifteenth century. I argued metaphysics with a talking clock. I played Monopoly with God. I studied Sybil's eyes for days and days. I reviewed the war plans of the Seventh Red Army Ant Division. Then I blinked, the Joint disappeared, and presto I had a migraine headache. I looked around. I was in infinity with a group of green dwarfs.

They called the first year lecture hall, the "Palace of Infinite Spectacles" (PIS, for short). The walls were highly polished mirrors. We looked like the famous Endless Sea of Green Dwarfs. Even the ceiling was a large mirror. The classroom made you feel trapped in infinity.

Never stare at eternity. I tried it a few times and I panicked. Don't try this at home, but what I do is, I look in the direction of forever, and as I do this, eternity starts to rush towards me.

I get this exponentially exploding awareness that there is no way I can die. Everything and anything must be true if eternity is true. There never was a beginning. There can never be an end. It must be true or we could not be here. But we are here, aren't we?

Dr. Plutus told me I have to gargle crap and swallow red pills because I won't stop tormenting the nurses. He says I am costing the hospital too much money in torn sheets and nurses going to therapy. He said I tried to look at eternity with Mann glasses; you are not supposed to do that, I guess. That's what I told the clock when I was in jail. The clock said "That wasn't infinity, that was death you tried to see."

By the way, Plutus, eternity is not a place where God looks like your grandpa. It is a terrifying awareness. A big guy like you should have a more sophisticated God.

That's why some guys drop over dead while teaching school, pointing at the map of the universe, talking about the multiple google verses, and then they just freeze, get glassy eyed, gasp for breath, and drop over dead; forever dead. Forever.

Only, that's not possible. You can't die even if you really badly need to. In the Naw, living and not living do not exist. If you stare at eternity, you see the Naw staring back. It's kind of like staring at the sun- the few who do it lose their vision. Stare at eternity long enough and your body dies; but not you.

"I need my red pills. Where are my little red pills?! Get my Fucking pills!"

Never mind. I'm unconscious again. I looked away. That's where most humans live; in the "unconscious about infinity mode". It's on the same level as their "feed me" mode, and "taking a crap" mode, and "watching Matlock reruns" mode. Half the people in nut houses are there because they stared into eternity.

Where was I?

In the first year lecture hall, right? Namtar was introducing our opening day guest speaker.

"Fellow alumni, distinguished faculties, lowly Potentials. It is my privilege to introduce the emperor of organized optometry, the Great Marduk.

No one farted loudly. No one shot the lights out and screamed. No one urinated in the aisle. We were mesmerized by an infinity of Marduks.

He started talking in this booming voice before he even got to the acoustic zone.

"Remember, said the Great Marduk, to charge the innocent. That's what I said. You heard correctly. Take their money. It isn't garbage bags you're selling. You are in the vision business. God given sight does not come cheaply. Charge the bastards until they are weak. Charge them every time your educated snot drips on their nylons. Be tough, lads. Be professional.

"Your leadership has a plan. It is called "Creative fees." In five short years, we will have every gesture, every wince, every cough, every gulp, every blink will be on the bill. Your patients will waltz in with rings on their fingers and bells on their toes, and they will exit stage left with a towel around their naked fat asses. We are going to make you rich, lads. Richer than even your parents hoped.

"If you don't learn one damn thing in this institution, and many of us didn't, just remember this one little gem of wisdom: "Lust for gluttony". Why else would you endure four years of this vision crap if it wasn't for excess remuneration? You have to drip dry the peasants. And remember, there are dentists in the next pew spouting bullshit about tooth decay.

"I hope my message is clear. If we find out that you gave away spectacles to a street person or an orphan, we will revoke your license and release pictures of you and your nude secretary. Don't get caught with tears in your eyes and poetry in the desk drawer. Empty their bank accounts.

"I know you will find this hard to believe, but I was Potential myself once. It makes me want to barf remembering all that vision shit. I had to kiss so much ass to get out of this hell hole that my lips are permanently puckered. My face froze up in this professional mask. I never could smile again. But take a look at this suit. Three million silk worms gave their lives so I could impress the ladies, and let's face it lads; it's not just about money, well, yes it is, but there is also the strange nookie that leaps out from behind parked cars and sticks to you at the country club.

"Okay, do you get the picture? Vision is the service we provide for mankind. No pay, no see. It's as simple as that. You deserve a condo. Buy it. Get yourself a big assed airplane with seating for half the city. Go to Babylon. Eat until you puke. Then eat some more. Keep a herd of whores out back in the shed. I have, for example, a solid gold shed for my whores. That's the way it should be. It's our God given right.

Our legislative team has been busy working to make the world a better place for professionals. Last month we introduced legislation making it a crime to miss your eye appointment. We also passed a bill last year making it mandatory for all workers to spend at least ten hours a day staring at tiny print from a distance of one inch using only candle light. We also suggest using yellow print on white paper. Since that legislation our numbers are up 700%. Mount Money is as high as it has ever been. Finally, we are working to increase your vacation leave to 256 days a year and to increase the work week of the peons from 52 hours to 75 hours a week. We also are proposing adding three new work days to the week and dropping Saturdays. We call this the Saint Marduk Calendar

Did you know that the League of Optometric Philanthropy gives away more money every year than the Sumerian government spends on child welfare? You didn't know that, did you? Get out your spare change, lads. You are going to practice student philanthropy. Dump all your shekels in the collection plates as they pass down the rows. Be generous. Don't hold back. Give all your money to charity.

There is a serious disorder that destroys families and devastates human souls. All the money we raise goes to one and only one charity. It is called "The Battle Against Status Anxiety Disorder"(BASAD).

The disease comes on with no warning. The attack is always acute. Victims freeze and are unable to move. Their lips stick in a horrible grimace. They stare vacantly into space and make long, low, cat moans. Like race horses with broken legs, the stiff statues must be hoisted up and taken to vacant fields and shot dead. There is no cure. BASAD covers all the burial fees. Go ahead and applaud.

Every year hundreds of professionals rise up cheerfully in the morning, waltz into their huge wardrobe closets to pick out the days grossly expensive shoes and slacks. As they stand before their massive collection of silk shirts, they are suddenly stricken, cut down by piercing heart stopping anxiety. A sudden awareness seizes the trembling brain; the knowledge that no matter how many silk shirts they own, it is only possible (and tasteful) to wear one at a time.

The terrible awareness also comes on in the garage trying to figure out how to drive more than one expensive car at a time. Or it happens even in bed, daydreaming about the starter castle on the hill. It strikes without warning.

No matter how many skyscraping mansions you own, it is only possible through the laws of physics to be in one of those monster houses at a time. Even inside the palace the attack can strike; the knowledge that you cannot be in the master bedroom and the master bathroom at the same time. No matter how many shekels you have, you can only be in one space at a time. Oh, sure, digitally you can see four hundred tiny screens at the same time- sort of, but your body is stuck in the boring moment.

Another form of the disease happens when the professional opens his newest, state of the art, god-awfully expensive, supercharged widget. His hand shakes as he unwraps the huge bow, and there it is, custom made, the best there ever was. Then a chill creeps up the back of the neck, the hairs bristle on the head, the body shivers with uncontrolled anxiety. Oh my God! This widget is older than it was three minutes ago. Something somewhere is coming off the production line that is better, more expensive, larger, and exponentially more wonderful than the shitty little widget sitting next to the huge bow.

Sometimes after the cat moans and the statue is completely frozen, the body is taken to a field, shot, and then buried in the very finest, shit-kicking, outrageously expensive cemetery on the planet. The out-dated widget is buried alongside the stricken professional.

BASAD pays to bury both the dead professional and his embarrassing old widget. Learn a lesson here, lads. Just on the shallow side of gluttony lies status anxiety disorder and sudden death syndrome. So, be tasteful about your gluttony. Lease your widgets.

Now I must tell you something very important for your future. You have entered the greatest professional school in Sumeria. We own the future of mankind. Your license will not just say "Optometric Professional". Your diploma will refer to you as "The Savior". The future is exponentially optometric. Let me explain.

"It will be eye doctors, like you, who will prescribe the Nanolenses which will change forever the way people perceive their worlds. We call these spectacles "Mann Glasses." They are digital. They are connected to the hive brain. They have channels only you and God can view. Oh sure, it's true that they are not fully developed yet and have a few glitches. But only a small fraction of patients actually die from the glasses, maybe thirty percent. But the fatalities are dropping fast, so to speak. And that reminds me of you who signed the papers during the drunken orgy following orientation that few of you now remember; you signed the papers you sorry bastards and you will now take part in the optical experiments. You will wear your glasses at all times; in the shower, while sleeping, with or without vivid migraine headaches. Actually, we melt them biochemically into your skulls so they, so to speak, become you.

"Let us pray: Lord, please preserve enough of these fine students so that our numbers are statistically significant. Amen."

Before the applause died down, my attorney was standing at the podium. He had a message to read, a document of great importance, unparalleled in the history of optometry school: "Thank you. Thank you. Let's hear it one more time for the Magnificent Marduk. That's good. That's enough.

"As with all great ideas, there is occasional dissention, often one lone voice, a poetic, innocent, adolescent voice, rises to be heard. We have such a man in our audience today. He is Sumeria's newest poet, a first year Potential with the balls and inexperience to pen a cutting rebuttal to the established tradition. It is my duty, as president of the Sumerian Poets Society to read this brave poets moving words. I just want to make it very clear that neither I, nor the Poets Society have any legal connection with this outrageous document. Brave as he is, this poet will have to be drawn and quartered while we stand on the sidelines in silence. I shall now read a poem entitled "Barbary College" by first year poet Steven Timothy Ishmael.

Just for the record, Tim. I didn't write the poem. I was framed. I'm innocent.

That's when the first really serious giggling attack happened. All those angry, accusing faces starting at me from all those mirrors, multiple infinities outraged; I got this involuntary smirk, then a kind of high pitched Jerry Lewis laugh broke out, then the giggling started, slow at first, but then out of control crazy giggling hysteria. They carried me out and tossed me in the Sacred Parking Lot. My camel would have kicked some serious ass, if I had a camel. I used to have a camel. Where's my camel?