Bees! Bees! Bees!

Christy wrote this last fall after I posted this and this. I think it's really funny.

C. W. L. Whitacre, the legendary drunk and process theologian, met me over immense steins of beer at Pizza Rome's 'Black Culture Evening' earlier this week, and began discussing his intention to formalize the natural universe, with the assistance of his intergalactic Potentate.

'Propitionary prayer has been rewarding as of late!' he half-shouted in my ear over the jabbering of nearby 'street soldiers' and Akon's quavering falsetto. 'I have been given the Key of Dreadful Judgment by the great Hebrew I Am! The bequeathment has straightened my back and quickened my gait! And it came to me in a most unexpected way -- on the pot!'

'Truly!' I ventured dubiously. I had heard such assertions before -- indeed, they were brought to table nearly by the month.

'All my work before that blessed day seems so crude, so childishly mannered! I thumped books in vain, sought sages who proved inferior to even my own mean achievement, paginated countless web-sites as if I were the very software I was coding! I see now, with lenses of spiritual diamond, that I was a fool!
Wasted years!'

'Well, my friend, what does this revelation consist of? And how shall you now apply yourself?' I asked.

'To the former: unexplainable,' the bearded, unbelted maestro replied. 'The reversal of a seemingly indispensible applique or filter -- a stripping-down, a new clarity and focus which informs all previous perception. As for the latter...' His steely gaze searched the water stains on the ceiling panels. 'I will begin... my theory of accumulation!'

'Ah!' Time began to slack across the tavern's backlighting, which shone a dull amber through the myriad spirits encased in glass above our heads. 'Another theory! One would think, given the nature of your epiphany, that you have transcended the language of
predicate altogether!'

'No, no!' he whispered. 'Here is a platform from which we shall spring into all available futures -- which, indeed, even now we are transversing, beneath its blessing and aegis. I will now disfigure it into words for your edification.'

Expecting a more or less contiguous exposition, I waited patiently as Whitacre danced a merry little jig around the bar's perimeter, giving a 'how fares it?' or a knowing smile to each drinker. When he had arrived back at our bench, he inhaled deeply, sighed, inhaled deeply again, and began with stout rhetoric:

'Let "substance" be that allotment of thing which has been made by a non-limiting Hierarch, possessing perfect Craft but imperfect Temporal Presence, who may be revelated by a series of likelihoods ranging in accuracy from Need-Immediacy to a lengthy, multi-intentioned God-Novel; let "layers" be any observed conglomerate of any substance for any period of time that is decided to be "organized," and let "lines" be any border that separates one organizational layer of substance from another.'

'We then have the binary property of "high-pure," in which substance is classified "high-pure" or "not-high-pure" based on an assessment of the substance-presence of an arbitrarily chosen de-lines-eation. And finally, there is the designation of "essence," which spurs substance into differentiation simply by its presence relative to lines and layers, and by its mere concentration and location confers attribute and, finally, quantifications of high-pure. I have long deliberated the theory of "essence," which you can easily see is the most important of this brief list of essential qualities. And, due to my shit-revelation the evening hence, I have decided that the primary constituency of "essence" is broad and biological, symbolic and actual. It is that of bees.'

'Bees!' I exclaimed, pounding the table involuntarily.

You see, my break from pleasant disregard was warranted. For I had been having recurring dreams of yellow streams rippling and coursing throughout every strata of existence. I suppose, utilizing Whitacre's theory of 'scale,' that what I had guessed was a grand universe of flowing urine could, in fact, be these metaphorical (actual) bees! Yes! On the second approximation, it must be so! The universe was aburst with bees! Flying through reality, perception, dimension -- our golden guests while here, our miraculous messengers into whatever lies beyond!

'Yes,' Whitacre continued. 'The level of bees in a given substance, its "accumulation," is a determinant of its ultimate importance of study. Poets have called it vitality, soul, and the not-uncommon "life," but you (I must assume) and I know all to be bees.' He sat back, hummed a T-Pain chorus tunelessly, and blew several smoke rings -- the last done without the apparent aid of tobacco.

I pressed the seemingly-spent Whitacre further on the matter, but to no avail. Now at a third tankard, his aspirations had devolved from describing the bees that validate our entire existence to devouring a tureen-full of Rome's famous fried cheese.