Cosmic Park (from Cellophane Visions, 7 August 1982)

[Passage from Cellophane Visions, as it stood 7 August 1982.]

In the beginning there was the egg

And the egg was with God

And the egg was God

And the egg cracked

Hey man, you know, I mean, like—Cosmic Park’s like a state of mind, you dig? It’s like a consciousness, a level of higher consciousness, you know? I mean, it’s a place to hang out, but it’s more. It’s like Mohammed and the mountain. You don’t have to be in Cosmic Park to be in Cosmic Park. Right? You see that? Dig it—the mountain can come to Mohammed

complaints from nearby residents about drug dealing and alleged incidents of public nudity in the park, but police have proved powerless. “Frankly, we’re scared shitless to go in there,” said one officer, “The only way would be with a TAC squad in full force.” Many neighborhood residents have said that if this is what it would take to clear the park, they would fully support it. “This public immorality has got to be stopped,” Mrs. Wormwood, leader of the neighborhood coalition said. “All day long we have under our eyes the most disgusting acts of flagrant public behavior imaginable.” Mrs. Wormwood lives a scant two miles from the park. “We aint hurting no-one,” replied a long-haired denizen of the park. “so what if we like to come here and kick back? Where’re we supposed to go, anyway? Asked why he picked Cosmic Park he cited such factors as pleasant surroundings, a like-minded crowd, and he claimed that the park was in easy walking distance from his residence. “It’s like our back yard, you know?” So the controversy

Aint no pigs in Cosmic Park—dig that.

We are struck by the supreme irony of this week’s news. At a time when our boys are fighting one of the bloodiest battles of the war, at a time when “Hamburger Hill” has just been taken at a frightful cost in lives and property, the Supreme Court of the very nation these men have shed their blood for has struck from the hands off the law one of the most potent weapons available against those who promote the values of idleness and hedonism. The ruling which came down Monday in favor of the Apostle of LSD—Timothy Leary—is a major set-back ion the war for the minds and bodies of our young people. It is difficult to feel much sympathy for those who are put between a rock and a hard place by the provisions of the Marijuana Tax Act. That to comply with it requires self-incrimination by the criminal is obvious—and is the point of the law. No conflict with the Fifth Amendment is involved—the convoluted and twisted reasoning of the Court notwithstanding—and if any conflict is involved, then the Constitution should yield. Certainly the Founding Fathers never intended that this amendment shield criminals from

Hey man, you wanta know what’s wrong with the park? You really want to know, man? Like, it’s all these fucking hippies or whatever they are, they Haight crowd, you know?, moving in. They’re bringing down the whole scene, you know? Let ’em do their own thing, okay?

Mrs. Kent, a nearby park resident, reports that the park has changed since the summer of 1967. “That’s when it began to get bad,” she said. “That’s when all the loud music and group sex started.” But others disagree. Mrs. Emily Gordly told us that the situation was no better before the so-called “hippies” began to

Lot of shit, you know? Lot of fucking shit, that’s all I got to say. The park belongs to the people, and what the people want to do is

talked with Brant Colburn, a leader of the self-styled Park Peoples’ Committee, and we asked what he thought of the Wormwood Coalition.

“Hey, we don’t know anything about it. Who is this Wormwood lady, anyway? She doesn’t hang out here, that’s for sure.”

“Many people would say that that’s exactly the problem here—”

“Yeah, well, many people would say that that’s exactly a load of * * * *”

“But people are afraid—”

“Hey man, nobody’s afraid in Cosmic Park. Nobody. You dig it? We’re like all together here, we’ve got it together in a solid thing, okay? Your capitalist trip is, like, dead, you know?, and, it’s like falling apart around you—”

But the problems persist. Pastor Bonkers of the First Telephone Church has observed

“These hippies and other flockers to the banner of what they call the new morality—which is nothing but the old immorality—think that they can enjoy the fruits of the labors of others without first laboring themselves. This is the whole root of the Cosmic Park Mentality. But there is no reason whatsoever why these vandals should be sheltered at public expense.”

And so the controversy refuses

clash today in Cosmic Park, when members of the Wormwood Coalition, armed with a Park Commission Permit, attempted to remove a number of structures which recently have sheltered Park residents hey were opposed by members of the self-proclaimed Park Peoples’ Committee, who resisted

fact of the matter is, Cosmic Park has been underfunded for more than a decade. We’ve had to depend mainly on volunteer labor to keep the park in any kind of shape. Several of the old buildings, including the Otway and Farnham cabins, have been preserved only through the efforts of

disagree over the effects of the Park People on the historic cabins in the Park. “The Park People’s Thing has helped preserve the buildings,” observes Professor Arthur Klein of Foxe University, but Robert Kilpatrick of the Cascadia Historical Society counters, “The deterioration over the past twenty years has been frightful, simply frightful. Whether the Park People indeed can be credited

disgraceful. These people are absolutely destroying the park, without regard for the comforts of others when

these Wormwood people are, but they’ve got nothing going for them, nothing—you dig? All they’re into is destruction, and that aint where it’s at at all. If

interview with Peter Farnham, a Park resident. We asked him about the efforts of the Wormwood Coalition to clean up the park.

“What efforts? The so-called Wormwood Coalition—which is really a bunch of neighborhood busybodies with too much time on their hands—they aren’t doing anything for the Park.”

But Park Commissioner Tsoraga disagrees:

“The marked deterioration of the old cabins and sheds, together with the abuse they have received from these young people who are coming here, has necessitated their removal, and this

Summer of Haight (opening) [1982]

[From Cellophane Visions, written 17/18 October 1982]

I

t was the 14^th of January in 1967 that the greed and stupidity of the HIP merchants and psychedelic hucksters of the Haight got it together to blow the lid off and make San Fantasia the adventureland Mecca for all the middle-class high schoolers who wanted to enjoy a brief fling into the exciting world of play poverty. They called it the Human Be-In. Like all the other events in which Finnegan played no part, it was lame. When Finnegan thought of how it could have been, he was ready to weep for the arrogance and disgusting flatulence of it all. All it was was a chance for the would-be radicals and so-called hipsters to indulge in a little public mutual masturbation, but it was enough.

Finnegan was slow in the realization of what was going down. The Gutter Free Food program was taking up so much of his time that he did not have time to put the promoters of the Summer-of-Love hoax in their place, which was weighted down with cement at the bottom of the San Fantasia Bay, but instead was merely content to let events take their course.

Finnegan had to wonder just how long these hip radical escapees from the middle-class could keep on kidding themselves. He thought of warning their intended dupes of their mendacity, of using his position as a counter-cultural folk hero to short-circuit the fast-buck ripoff artists who passed themselves off as the “leaders” of the new movement, but he felt that his anonymity, his reputation of never seeking the media limelight, was more important. He merely smiled to himself, and continued hustling the stuff that was needed to make the Free Food thing work. If the lemmings of the high schools of America wanted to throw themselves into San Fantasia, that was their lookout. Finnegan has always believed in letting people dig their own graves, if that’s what they want to do.

In those days, when he was trying to finish up high school without destroying his mind, Stephen Farnham began to picture himself as a character in a Jack Kerouac book. The long gray roads were calling him, the seagull cries of Heceta, Greyton and Cauldron on the Wyano coast, the mysterious beckoning of the Cascadia desert towns, Rattlesnake and Death Gulch and Desolation, the names like tombstones under the dry sun, and last the siren call of Fornicalia. San Fantasia. Everybody was going to San Fantasia that year. The secret was out, and all the hip people were hanging out in the Haight-Ashtoreth district. The Cosmic Park regulars all knew the inside story; smuggled copies of The Oracle circulated from hand to hand, each as precious as parchment hand-written copies of the Tao Te Ching, and each told o the marvelous mystic world where L.S.D. and marijuana flowed like wine, and where love was free.

Stephen had experienced the fantastic way that acid had of making the world into a mixed up salad of colors exploding across the retina like phosphorescent paint splashed across living flesh in the warm wet night. But was that all that it was about? Saruman spoke of metaphysical highs, mysterious planes of mystic consciousness, and God. Saruman spoke of God quite a bit in those days, but Stephen never knew what he meant by it.

Saruman was one of the people who never slowed down, rockets streaming through the psyche and gone already before there was time to register their passing. He had gotten his name from Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings. He had never read the trilogy; he just liked the sounds. Saruman sounded hip to him, like the sort of name a wizard should have. He called his place Perelandra. There were always a dozen or so people staying there, crashing out on the living-room floor or standing around drinking beer in the kitchen. Like Stephen he had taken to sleeping out in Cosmic Park himself; the two of them would smoke dope and talk until the sun rose. [17/18 Oc 1982]

Terrestrial Squares Continued [1982]

[Continuation of “Terrestrial Squares,” (from Cellophane Visions) written 7–8 June 1982]

CLICK

Steve: Well, just what the hell was Pete doing selling acid?

Sheila: He said it was a favor.

Steve: Some goddamn favor—selling acid’s a felony, and it’s stupid to boot, unless you know what you’re doing. Jesus, what’re we going to tell Lije and Lydia?

Sheila: I don’t know, Steve.

Steve: That’s the trouble with you two kids—the first time in weeks I get a chance for a hot bath, and you two have to get yourselves busted. Why?

Sheila: I didn’t—

[door opens, off]

Lydia (coming on screen): Hi, kids, it’s been a hell of a day; just let me unwind a little, okay?

Sheila: Uh, Lydia—

Lydia: Oh, god, it feels good to sit a minute; I wish I could stay a little, but I’ve got this meeting with the NAACP tonight and—say, where’s Pete?

Sheila: Well, it’s like this—

Lydia: Look, Steve, did you get the skins for the egg rolls—I didn’t have time. Can you do the Chinese food without—

Sheila: Mom!

Lydia: (startled) Yes? What is it, Sheila?

Sheila: It’s about Pete. (pause)

Lydia: Yes? What is it?

Sheila: Well, er, we went to the park to-day, and, well, Pete and I were sort of arrested? You know?

Lydia: And?

Sheila: They let me go and took Pete off to jail or something, I guess.

Lydia: But what for?

Sheila: For selling acid—L.S.D., you know?—in the park.

Lydia: For selling drugs? Pete?

Sheila: To a minor.

Lydia: Pete?

Steve: I told you she wouldn’t believe it.

Lydia: But that’s a felony.

Steve: Only since 1967.

Lydia: Where’s Jeff? In the hospital?

Steve: He’s over at Rod’s. Should I—

Lydia: Go fix your egg rolls. (pause) Let me think—Sheila, was it city or county police?

Sheila: County, I think—

Lydia: Okay, good—that’ll give me time to spring Pete and still make the NAACP meeting. Now look, Sheila—you stay here and look after the phone while your brother cooks supper. I’m going to the jail—do you think you can stay out of trouble while I’m gone?

Sheila: Should I tell Lije anything—

Lydia: Now don’t go worrying your father—he has enough troubles as it is. Do you understand?

Sheila: Okay, but—

Lydia: Now just be careful, okay? I’ll be right (& she exits, still talking)

Sheila: But—but—(she produces a bag filled with white tablets from her handbag) what do I do with the rest of the acid?

(fade to)

Chorus: Twenty-one great tobaccos
Make Twenty Wonderful Smokes
Twenty-one

CLICK

Get in the Biz Bag

CLICK

coffee tastes like sheep urine. Can’t you

CLICK

no more Armpit Odor—with Anthrax

Announcer: And now, back to our CBS Movie—Strange Rina, Strange Land, starring Mick Jagger and Goldie Hawn.

Ben (played by Robert Wagner): Look Jubal, I’m worried—

Jubal (moodily): You’re worried, my boy? You should have my worries. Look at this place—three gorgeous secretaries, a mansion, a pool the size of a football field—do you have any idea at all how much all this costs?

Ben: Jubal, listen—

Jubal: And the taxes—state, national, and federal. It’s enough to drive a man to drink.

Ben: Look, I just got back from Valentine’s church and let me tell you, I don’t like what I saw one bit. Did you know

CLICK

Moderator: new contestant! And where are you from, Mr. Lucifer?

Lucifer: You might call it Hell.

[studio laughter]

Moderator: Ah, yes, I’ve been there. But does it have—

Lucifer: another name? Sheol, Texas.

Moderator: Let’s have a big hand for Lucifer, from Sheol, Texas!

[studio applause]

         Now, as the challenger, Lucifer, you get to go first. Which of our “squares” do you want to—

Lucifer: I’ll take—Master Kung.

Kung: I doubt that, Honorable

CLICK

Ben: sort of thing is moral, Jubal?

Jubal: Free love? Free money? No guilt? My boy, if only I were twenty years younger—well, then

CLICK

King: lost dauphin of France!

Duke: Yes?

King: The pore suffrin’ rightful heir to the throne.

Duke: I see.

King: You do?

Duke: The rightful heir to the throne.

King: You do see.

Jim (emphatically): I don’t. An’ whut’s mo, I doan

CLICK

Friday: as you a few questions.

Woman: All right.

Friday: Do you know what your son is accused of?

Woman: Obviously.

Friday: Are you aware that drug abuse is the most serious scourge afflicting our young people: Do you realize—

Woman: Excuse me—are you aware that entrapment is illegal?

Friday: I’m not talking about

CLICK

Sheila: to do with the stuff.

Jeff: Yeah, that’s a problem too. We could sell it. How come Pete was selling the stuff, anyway?

Sheila: I don’t really know. He said he was trying to get some chick off his back.

Jeff: Pete?

Sheila: Yes—I guess she’d been calling up, hasseling him to sell her some acid, so Pete did.

Jeff: That figures. What a dope.

Sheila: What?

Jeff: He was set up. Who’d he buy the stuff from?

Sheila: Some guy called Saruman. I think.

Jeff (grins): Saruman. Okay—let me (He gets to his feet in one fluid move and starts to phone) make a call—hello? (pause) This is Jeff—you know? (pause) Yeah. You know my brother—Pete—just got busted. (pause) What do you mean what for? You know. (pause) You haven’t seen him for two weeks? You’re sure? (pause) Yeah, okay, thanks. (He hangs up.) He didn’t get it from Saruman. (He examines the bag.) I wish I knew if this shit was any good.

Sheila: You think Pete got burned?

Jeff: Well, I’m sure not going to sell the stuff if I don’t know where it comes from. I think we’d better flush it.

Sheila: But—

Jeff: No, better yet, I’ll take it to Saruman. He knows what’s going around. And he can do an analysis if there’s any problem.

Sheila: I’ll go with you.

Jeff: Yeah, okay, let’s get on with it. (They both head for the door, just as it closes, Steve comes to door opposite, entering.)

Steve: Supper’s on, gang—where is everyone?

(fade to)

(Scene is Saruman’s pad at Perelandra House; décor is Late Decadant Hippy, real 1969. Heavy sitar music drones in the background. Saruman is sprawled on some cushions, staring at the ceiling, more or less entangled with two Hippy Chicks. Miscellaneous lights strobe at random. The doorbell rings. There is a pause. Then the doorbell rings again.)

Saruman: Oh, wow, I got to get that tape fixed.

First Hippy Chick: What?

Saruman (as doorbell rings): Dig that discord—real uncool, you know.

First Hippy Chick: Yeah. It’s a bummer.

Second Hippy Chick: (slowly, spacily) That’s not a discord. That’s, like, your doorbell.

Saruman: Oh, wow, that’s heavy. (He rises vertically to his feet, as if pulled by invisible strings, and staggers to the door. He opens it, revealing Sheila.) Well, hello there. Is this Christmas?

Jeff: (pushing on in) It’s July. This is my sister, Sheila.

Saruman: Yeah? Where’s she been hiding?

Jeff: (handing Saruman the bag) Here. Take it.

Saruman: (suspiciously) What’s that, man?

Jeff: That’s what we want to know.

Saruman: (reaches in the bag, pulls out a tab, looks it over, sniffs, etc.) Shit, I don’t know. It could be acid. Some amateur outfit looks like. Where’d you score it?

Jeff: (shrugs) Pete scarfed it somewhere.

Saruman: This is a lab case—I’ll have to, like, call it in for testing, all right?

Jeff: Uh, yeah, sure. Give me a call—

Saruman: No way. In my book, all phones are tapped.

Jeff: Just yes or no, okay? Yes if it’s acid or something; no if it’s a burn.

Saruman: Yeah, okay. I guess. (He is rapidly losing interest.) I gotta sit (he collapses in a heap on the rug but continues talking as if nothing had happened) down before all the blood rushes out of my head.

(fade to)

Announcer: we filled one dishwasher with ordinary bleach and the other with New Chlorox 2 and

CLICK

Mr. Spock: think it was wise, Captain, for so many of us to leave the ship?

McCoy: He does have a point, Jim. Who is in charge up there now?

Captain Kirk: Uh, just a second. Let me check the duty roster—

Mr. Spock: I believe you’ll find that Assistant Master Mechanic Third Class Juarez is now the highest ranking officer on board.

Captain Kirk: Ah—yes. Now that that’s settled, gentlemen, shall we go forward into the un

CLICK

Chorus: brite toothpaste
The taste you can really feel
New Ultrabrite gives your mouth
Sex

CLICK

Chorus: grok around the clock tonight
We’re gonna grok grok grok
From dawn to night
We’re gonna grok around the grokkin’ clock tonight.
When the

CLICK

Duke: cons for all occasions, come one, come all—cons by fraud, cozenage, deception both grotesque and subtle—the truth indirect, or the outright lie. You sir—you look like a dupe.

Man from the Crowd: Why, thank you kindly, sir.

Duke: Step right on up here.

Man: You want me to step right on up there?

Duke: That’s right. Right on up here.

Man: Up here?

Duke (pointing): Up here.

Excerpt from Terrestrial Squares [1982]

[Opening of “Terrestrial Squares,” (from Cellophane Visions) written early June 1982]

Voice Over: These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise—its five year mission to exploit strange new worlds, to seek out and destroy new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before!

[theme music]

Captain Kirk (over): Stardate seven three point four nine—Captain Kirk recording. On a mission to bring civilization to the benighted inhabitants of starsystem seven two two four we have encountered engine trouble in mid-space, near the Adenoid starcluster. We are working on the problem…

Mr. Spock: Captain. It seems that we are in the grip of some immense force of unknown dimensionality.

Captain Kirk: Well, Mr. Spock? Can we break loose?

Mr. Spock: It seems not. It appears that we are being inescapably sucked into some kind of space-time vortex.

Captain Kirk: Just what does that mean, Mr. Spock?

Mr. Spock: A vortex, according to Webster’s Fourteenth Edition—

Scott (on intercom, interrupting): Captain, captain! Something is freezing the engines! I cannae make them go forward nor backward. It is like they are in the grip of some kind of immense force of unknown dimensions! If we donnae act now, than I cannae

CLICK

Moderator: like to go to Tierra del Fuego with her!

[studio laughter]

All right, Jack—who do you want to pick?

Jack: Uh, I’ll take Mr. Marx, I guess.

Moderator: Okay. Are you ready, Karl?

Karl Marx: Certainly.

Moderator: The question is: In pre-socialistic societies, is the class-struggle inevitable?

Karl Marx: Yes, yes … Is the class struggle inevitable?

Moderator: That’s the question, right.

Karl Marx: Should I answer according to capitalist or socialist ideology?

[studio laughter]

Of course, the answer is no.

Moderator: Karl says no—Jack, do you agree or disagree?

Jack: Uh, I’ll agree.

Moderator: The answer is—yes! I’m afraid you lose, Jack, and the turn passes to Jill. Jill, you need only one square to win. Are you going to Go for It?

Jill: I sure am. I want to go with Jesus.

Moderator: Jill is going to go with Jesus. What do you have to say to that?

Jesus: I wouldn’t mind giving her what eye has not seen and ear has not heard and what has not arisen in the heart of man.

[studio laughter]

Moderator: Okay, Jesus—maybe you’ll have your innings after the show. But   now the question is: Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar, or not?

Jesus: Anybody have a coin?

[studio laughter]

Moderator: Not this time, Jesus. A yes or no will do.

Jesus: I still have the coin from the last time I did this trick—maybe

CLICK

Valentine (played by Mick Jagger): only an egg.

Jubal (played by Jim Backis): Eh? What’s that?

Gillian (played by Goldie Hawn): He wants to ask you for a favor.

Jubal: Well, for heaven’s sake, go ahead and ask.

Valentine: Jubal, it is time for me to leave.

Jubal: Well, what of it? Do you have to have my permission?

Valentine: It is that there are so many things I have yet to grok. I want to go out and grok the whole world, and everything in it. Yes. And Gillian must come with me.

Jubal: Must she?

Valentine: Yes.

Jubal: Well, if she must, she must. Do I have anything to say about it?

Valentine: Of course. If you don’t want us to go, we’ll stay, But, you see

[music begins in background]

         I want to grok
The whole grokkin’ world
I wanna turn on
Every grokkin’ girl
I have to see

CLICK

Jim: But Huck, cain’t you see dere aint no sense in it!

Huck: Hang the sense. Heads, or tails?

Jim: Lemme see de coin. Hmm … looks all right to me. Tell you what, Huck—you call, ’n’ lemme toss.

Huck: Sure. Heads.

Jim: Dern it—heads she is. Call it.

Huck: Heads.

Jim: ’N’ heads she is again. Huck, it jes doan stand to reason.

Huck: What don’t, Jim?

Jim: You know blame well what. How come it allez come up heads, dats whut I want to know. Tell me dat, Huck—how come?

Huck: Well, blame it Jim, it’s just mathematics—that’s all. It’s an even chance, you know, each time you toss it.

Jim: Sho’ it is, Huck sho’ it is. De coin has two sides, right—so it ought to come up tails jes’ as often as it come up—

Huck: Heads.

Jim: Well, dad fetch it, Huck, if—

Voice (off screen): Hey there—you two on that raft.

2 Voice (off screen): Kin you save a pore sufferin’ soul what never did no one no harm from a—

Voice 1: Shut up, you old

CLICK

Friday: under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, you have the right to have an attorney present at any—

Gannon: Hey, can I blow him away? Can I? We got the goods on him. Why bother with all the expense of a trial?

Friday: Yeah.

Criminal: Hey, come on—what about my rights? I got rights, don’t I? What about the first amendment? What about the fourth—

Friday: Now you listen, punk, and you listen good. You forfeited all your rights when you broke the laws of the state. We caught you with controlled literature on your person—books by Kesey, Burroughs and Leary, perverted filth that undermines every value that built this nation. You have a lot of nerve talking about your rights when you’re trying to destroy the very government that gave you your rights.

Criminal: But—

Friday: Waste him.

[Gannon shoots the Criminal]

[theme music]

Announcer: We paid these typical teenagers not to wash for two weeks and now look at the results

CLICK

From the Notebook of James Erskine Harvey, Writer

[A passage from the notebook of James Erskine Harvey, a character in Cellophane Visions, written 7 February 1981]

S

o far the trip has been fairly dull. No one else seems to be able to get into the spirit of the thing. I have had to interject all the fun myself, which is hard work. I don’t mind it though. I am afraid that my jokes and clever sayings have been going right over the heads of my companions. They are not a very sharp bunch. I have been giving the benefit of my entertainment to even the people on the street who we go past. Some of the chicks have responded favorably to my lines; if we were not speeding by at 60 mph I would have scored a score of times I bet.

Now we have stopped to eat. Our waitress is wearing a short skirt. Her name is Deborah. None of my companions is very observent. They have not noticed her.

Rattlesnake, Cascadia. I am not sure of the date. We have spent the night in a motel here. They had rat poison in the refrigerator and the lampshades are made of plastic trays with holes cut in them. They pictures on the walls are jigsaw puzzles glued together. We did not tell the proprietors how many of us there were, which was just as well because it would have cost us more money if they knew. They say that anyone staying after nine will be charged for another day so everyone is packing to get out of here and get an early start before they get up.

Nowhere, Nirvana. We have stopped here to eat. This little town has historical interest, for it was here that the Silicon Kid met his dismal end in a gun battle with Sheriff Hawk. He was only 23 at the time. We are buying hamburgers and stuff at a fast food joint. I read all about it in one of those historical signs they put up along side the road.

Dusty, dry, the road stretches before us like an endless ribbon on a typewriter. Beside it are the skulls and bones of unfortunate creatures that were not fast enough in crossing the road and whose internal parts in consequence lie bleaching under the hot desert sun. They impress one with the impermanence of life in this world. Is there another world to which one goes after death? I often wonder. Or is death simply the end for us all, the end of the road of life? Other people never think of things like that, but are content to take things as they come, without asking questions. Sometimes I wish that I too was like ordinary people.

The next town is Deadwood. It is more than fifty miles away. It is not as hot as I had expected it to be but that is because it is November.

The road of life. If life is a road where do we find the road signs? Are they the words of the prophets and sages of antiquity, or are they written inside our heads? Do we each of us have to find our own road signs? And what if we should come to a bridge that has been washed out by a torrent? Is that the end, or can we get across it to the other side?