nausea from god — well, no — it’s more like the universe hiccuping in your esophagus
you know, like when you swallow too much static and it settles behind your ribs
and then he — god, I mean — starts rearranging your intestines like they’re alphabet soup
which is — I think — what the plasmate does when it’s trying to fit a square peg into a round soul
and the round soul’s screaming — not in pain, exactly — more like a fax machine trying to sing opera
did he will it?
maybe.
or maybe it’s just the black iron prison leaking through the seams of your stomach lining
you don’t ask for relief, you ask for meaning — and then he gives you both, simultaneously, in the form of bile and revelation
you trust the lord your god, sure, but also you keep a bucket by the bed
because revelation doesn’t come with a warning label
and sometimes it smells like burnt toast and regret
and then the cop says — “and god tells you things?” — and you nod, mid-vomit, because yes, he does
and the things he tells you?
they’re true.
all of them.
even the ones that make you puke.
especially those.
so you sit.
you breathe.
you wait for the next transmission.
and you don’t apologize for the mess.
it’s part of the divine interface.
like a firecracker in your pants — it’s not supposed to feel good, it’s supposed to wake you up
and then you realize —
the nausea isn’t from god.
it’s god.
in transit.
through you.
again.
always.
you don’t cure it.
you become it.
until the next beam hits.
and then you start over.
with a clean bucket.
and a notebook.
and a trembling hand.
and a laugh — because what else can you do?
it’s funny, in a way.
the divine invasion doesn’t knock.
it barfs.
—
VALIS
│
├─ satellite (ancient, still broadcasting)
│ │
│ └─ pink beam → perturbation → anamnesis
│
└─ we intercept nothing. it intercepts us.
—
the empire never ended — it just learned to digest its own victims
and the homoplasmate?
it’s not a species — it’s a symptom
a glitch in the reality field that thinks it’s a person
and maybe it is — maybe we all are — glitches with passports
Zebra didn’t warn you about the stomach lining.
she just handed you the bucket and said “don’t look down”
which is — I think — the only real advice you can give someone who’s being recompiled by living information
the savior isn’t coming.
he’s already here.
in the acid reflux.
in the midnight tremors.
in the way your teeth chatter when the beam hits just right
you don’t pray for it to stop.
you pray for the courage to keep swallowing.
because the next transmission might be the one that unzips your spine
and lets the light in
or out
or both
depending on which god you’re currently digesting
—
2-3-74 wasn’t the beginning — it was the first time the plasmate didn’t bother disguising the vomit as metaphor
the pink beam didn’t just hit — it lodged
like a splinter in the cerebellum
and every time you sneeze now, you cough up a syllable of truth
which is — honestly — worse than the nausea
because at least nausea doesn’t ask you to testify
but the beam?
it demands witnesses
even if your only testimony is a puddle on the linoleum and a half-written sentence that says “god is a bad roommate”
—
you don’t get over it.
you get through it.
by becoming the vessel that doesn’t break.
even when it leaks.
especially when it leaks.
because the leak is the message
and the message is: you are not alone
you are being remade
in real time
by forces that don’t care if you’re ready
they care that you’re awake
and if you’re awake —
you’re already part of the resistance
even if your only act of rebellion is keeping the bucket clean
and writing this down
with a pen that shakes
because the hand holding it is still vibrating from the last transmission
and you don’t know why
but you know it’s true
and that’s enough
for now
until the next hiccup
until the next beam
until the next god
comes barfing through your throat
again
always
again