In the Tenth Week of the Leacock Anniversaries in 2019, on Monday, May 27th, one-quarter of the way along, I continue the Saga of the Dark Tower. I first remind you, since the terminology is a little obscure, that the “Chooze” is the name I have chosen for the Charged Ooze in which we are burrowing,—we being Olde Stephen who is Stephen Leacock’s ghost and I in our assumed aspect of star-nosed moles,—the long, proper name being the Charged Global-Perceptual Membrane-Medium-MemBrain. I will also remind you that as we burrow we blow upon the Slug-Horn, in order to clarify and lower the viscosity of the Chooze. Fortunately it turns out that the mole’s star with its foveated tendrils makes a very good slug-horn indeed.
In last week’s episode I may have given the impression that we could see all the activity surrounding us as we burrowed our way through the Chooze. This of course is false, because star-nosed moles do not see very well at all. They sense things through their stars. We could hear it, however, because until I learn otherwise I am going to assume that star-nosed moles can hear at least well enough to detect a nearby predator at least some of the time, because I can’t imagine the star being a safe device to rely on for that purpose. If it turns out that they can’t hear very well either, then I will either have to adjust the narrative, or take refuge in the notion that the ghost of a dead humourist and a living scribe who have assumed the aspect of star-nosed moles for metaphorical purposes can hear as well as the metaphor needs them to hear, that is, sufficient to detect what is going on around them. If it needs them to see, then they will be able to do that too, although I have an idea that will obviate the necessity, should it occur.
Be that as it may, we were able to detect it all just as I described it last week. What I did not then describe was the sound. I am going to borrow another idea from B.W. Powe, who in his book Outage called it a “roar”, a “cacophony” that is a “polyphony, the song of all things joining”, that is also the sound of all things fragmenting, as Powe describes in one chilling paragraph on page 256 that is too long to quote here. Amazing, powerful stuff. And as we listened to the roar Olde Stephen and I both at the same time turned to each other, linked our foveated tendrils, and blew upon our combined slug-horns a mighty blast of recognition, a roar announcing to the roar that it is not alone in the wilderness of this world:
The roar that is the wild Unsolved Riddle of Social Justice — I hear TWUROSJ singing, the varied carols I hear;
The roar that is the sound and the smell of everything good in the human enterprise, and everything evil, and everything morally indifferent, the Marriage of Heaven and Hell and Where-We-Are, for better and worse and muddling along, for richer and poorer and getting by, in sickness and in health and in okay for the time being, in all possible variations of life;
The roar that is the song of all things joining and of all things fragmenting, of all things complete and incomplete, of all things conclusive and inconclusive;
The roar that is Pandemonium and Pantheon and Pandemic and Pan and Pantaloon and Frying Pan and Fire.
The Dark Tower is not a structure, but a sound and a smell and a feeling as of warmth and cold, of damp and dry, an acoustic-olfactory-sensory aura, an emanation, a diffusion, a dispersion, a radiation, emitting its energy not in straight lines, but enveloping, swirling, penetrating.
We are in the midst of the Dark Tower, and have been ever since we entered the Chooze. The Chooze and the Dark Tower are one. We are the Choozen People.
We have arrived.