The CHRIST BROTHERS

UNIVERSAL

from

THE GOSPEL

ACCORDING TO

THE CHRIST BROTHERS

As we enter, the most unique sight appears before us. Gigantic metabolism of things to be, and those that were. The central processor of chance.

Large and small wheels suspended in the air forming stairways of logic and absurd, rotating in tireless rush outward, ever unable to break the gravity of meanings. Thick and thin cords connecting the wheels to allow the most unpredictable movements. All the mechanics on the level of imagination, none physical, none real, none unreal. Intermingled ideas and concepts, dissolved in the foam of anti-ideas. As we walk on, a voice is heard, coming from everywhere:

"Are you ready to play, or what?"

It is in vain that we search for the source of the sound: forget everything you've been accustomed to, turn your brain off, annihilate your senses, enter the Game as one of the Equals . . . Divine self-dissolvability.

The enormous billiard table of quick possibilities. We stand aside, marveling at the unfathomable ways everything is arranged here. No flaws, no shortcomings, no errors.

White ball white ball roll one two three. So there there so so, here there there difference not at all. Game Chance ball represent one movement one movement at a time. One of the Two hold hold hold the stick, as though tremble hand hand deranged vision of our our eyes. Move hand backward shoulder shoulder preparing to strike. Fast movement forward movement gunshot of ball ball fly fast fly fast in the air barely touch touch the surface. The Other One watch. Indifferent air air of mockery in stare.

A movementary creation of a careless hand, the ball whistles by, reflected by one of the glittering mirror sides, failing to hit another ball. Are there any rules? In the mirrors unsophisticated phenomena of the outside world is reflected: a man loses his chance, his fellow man gains one - death enters a home, leaves through the back door escaping through the kitchen, a pot of boiling water on the stove, random joke blow of air from lips kills the fire, sweet lazy rapture of gas filling the rooms. Runs down the stairway, turning over bowls with cat food dog food simplistic pet happiness. Out in the street, takes out the umbrella - square black mirror covering its face, the lips of a skull warn out in everlasting kiss. Mirror returning us back to the billiard table. One man lost his chance . . .

"Are you ready to play, or what?" Insists the voice, a whimsical acoustic paradox.

"But what are the rules?" We ask, helplessly palpating surroundings with slim fingers of supercharged eyes.

"Simple," One of Them replies, hands back in static awaiting, ready to strike another blow - a tall figure highlighted with invisible projectors of colors beyond spectrum. "You take one moment in one non-life, and put it on stake. Chose two directions, one to be, the other erased. Create the destiny of those who are in the Game."

"But . . . how can we do this?" We question, astonished. "How can we bear the responsibility?"

"There is none involved," the Other One replies, entering through a side door halfway hidden behind the rows of exquisite machinery, whose purpose is concealed from us yet - lights dancing sounds bubbling mumbling scratching parts moving other parts still, transparent wires running carrying charges of mental electricity, overheated vessels of a billion souls. "The choice is there to be made. It is either I, or He, or one of you two, or someone else, or something else. It doesn't make any difference. It's only a Game. My Brother and I - We play here all the time . . . We are a good team."

Encouraged by His words, we grasp the sticks that materialize in the air in front of us - ever available means to ruling the world.

"Choose the balls," They say in one voice, One addressing one of us, the Other addressing the other. Who is who, what is what?

In random eyes motion along the surface, we pick a ball, we aim, we strike. One ball, two strikes, who could have known . . .

"Uh, a double one," Both murmur with pleasure. The mirrors come alive, presenting the trajectory of the chance we have initiated. A widow in a lonely apartment, mourning the departure of the loved one. He opens the door, comes in - a mixture of joy and disbelief in her eyes. Slowly rises from her chair, arms lifted through their own muscular activity, protruded towards the one who arrived. He melts in the air, erased by the effect of the second strike. Alone again, she covers her face, hands carrying the unclaimed tenderness to the empty teacups of eyes filling from the inside with salted moisture of unrealized dream. Who brought him back, who took him away again? We look at each other, a savior and a murderer, forever stuck between the two definitions. Just a Game, what a Game!

"Come on, let's advance, we haven't much time!" One of Them suggests, waving His hand toward another device, a pinball machine of a peculiar sort. Olive Leaf is alive on the background of His palm.

Approach we, and so does They. A cube no-ball inside jump, different gears it push, to the side back and to the side. Hands for the buttons reach, finger press finger, four finger at once, twice, more.

"Okay, let you We this one start," of Them One spoken, withdraw Both Their hand. "Unless We to show you want Us how to."

Marvel we stand, know not to proceed how. Perplex.

"Buttons just press," of Them the One Other adding. "Chance increase or decrease, some prolong, some shorten. Simple very very."

"Of what chance?" Inquire so of us one.

"Cares who?" Reply. "No does make difference any."

Press we, from side one, and side another.

As we press, the jumping continues.

"Don't be mislead," One of Them says. "It's only an appearance. Just to make it look familiar to you." Pointing accusation finger at us: the obvious fault of limited knowledge, the noble attempt obvious fault of limited knowledge, the noble attempt to transcend the limits.

"Later We might show it to you in a different form. Pinball machine for now. So that you may write the Book."

We press more, the ball jumping, accumulating points. The back panel becomes a screen, a monitor window into the realm of simple reality, the ultimate film improvised by fingers. A couple making love is depicted.

Woman man intercourse long long hand slide over curve body slow motion lips half open bite each other eyes closed. Many thing can happen meet someone else get transferred another city become impotent get raped lose memory die car accident become victim false pride. Only chance rule each step accumulate point pincube press button more point longer it last. Many thing can happen meet someone else get transferred another city become impotent get raped lose memory die car accident become victim false pride. Only chance rule each step accumulate point pincube press button more point longer it last.

Do not get confused One of Them say it not that simple may be other way around more point last less. That why it only a Game. Each point not their own but more universal significance read manual if want know detail. Hand snatch enormous book out air pass to us.

The volume falls on the floor, our hands unable to support the weight. Straining his muscles, one of us opens it: pages covered with unseen symbols, encoded messages of fate, ciphered scriptures of All-embracing knowledge.

The Two of Them smile, satisfied with the joke, manual open on the floor, the cube falling into the pit at the bottom of the machine, a victim of distracted attention. Bodies collapse in premature orgasm of abrupt separation.

"Know not of each other they anymore," One of Them. "See, sometimes should trust senses no rationalize no ask question." He laughing.

"Cynical," think we.

"No, at all not," think back They. "Only is a Game, nothing more."