It is not possible to make a mistake.
It is written in Bokononism, ‘Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy.’
Bravery?
Kindness?
Health?
Happiness?
Birthed from the smallest of untruths. Birthed, indeed, is the question.
My first boko-maru promised me awareness, but the only thing that became evident was the fact that my real power lay in birthing the next lineage of ruling elite.
‘A fish pitched up
By the angry sea,
I gasped on land,
And I became me.
Be like a baby,
The Bible say,
So I stay like a baby
To this very day.’
Our rebirth is now, and it is up to us how we are divine.
Busy, busy, busy.
‘Tiger got to hunt,
Bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder, “Why, why, why?”
Tiger got to sleep,
Bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.’
Am I so simple that I’m the womb of the future? My zah-mah-ki-bo to birth a new nation of San Lorenzans?
If that is what it says in our sacred writing, then I choose the frigid path that resonates among our people. Between Borasisi and Pabu flourishes pool-pah and the blind karass, a granfalloon, that a text will guide us all. Words incongruous to the world, except our little world, an island onto ourselves.
God wrote the worst plays, placing it upon man to use his own imagination why we existed. Audience and actors, working hand-in-hand, making up origins, scripted and ad lib. Rolls of the vin-dit dice conspiring duffle.
Busy, busy, busy.
It was written that I’d wed leadership, but even that bonded authority wouldn’t offer me the power I’d wield if born a man. No. Symbols are only images of scattered significance. Symbols speak through chiseled poses frozen in granite, molded in clay, and cast in bronze. They aren’t lines of scripture spoken impromptu, yet convenient to the cause. Scripture. Foma. Whatever it is you desire, and Bokonon agrees.
Foma is only a whisper of our mountebank’s greatest deception and I will not, cannot, conceive of another moment. Nor will I lend my body to that conception. I am frozen now, and henceforth.
‘God made mud … God got lonesome … And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around … Lucky me, lucky mud …’
It is not possible to make a mistake.
Mona Aamons Monzano
