Chapter 35, Pomomo

The Diaspora authority made no distinction on the merit of each group setting up a new planet.  They tried to keep the severely insane away from society building.  One deeply unpopular group managed to get their own planet.  It didn’t last terribly long, as we shall see. 

After relying on robots to settle their planet and provide them with food and transport, Pomos were eager to show what a fine contribution to humanity they could make.

Their experiments could be described as disastrous if they weren’t on the far side of farcical.  The first of these was the philosophy assisted submarine, ‘the Sartre’.  The subsequent mass drowning was surprising only to the Pomo.  When I was but a child, many hundreds of years ago, I was taken to a travelling exhibition of Pomo achievements by my wife-thing at the time.

We were shepherded in by a bearded, hatted bot, appearing to smoke a pipe, though I’m sure it was a simulacrum.  The auditorium held about 400 seats, half-filled with shuffling, coughing, you could almost say squirming individuals.  I was not the only one enduring this lecture reluctantly. 

“We have developed the pomomo or postmodern monkey.  This animal disputes all knowledge has meaning beyond ‘text’, ‘commentary’ and ‘interpretation’.  When invited to consume a banana, it would rather starve to death than acknowledge the objective reality of the banana and prefers to view it as earthcentric, fruit grower's propaganda.”

“By using the pomomo we can examine the validity of postmodernism, without harming vulnerable homo sap.  The first pomomo was invited to examine the postmodern theories of science as ‘text’ or ‘commentary’ by examining the laws of motion.  To test this, the pomomo was placed in front of a speeding truck; to examine such dead-white-male concepts as inertia, momentum and the necessity of corporeal existence for thought.” 

“Alas, for the pomomo the dead-white-male concepts appeared to have some validity; or at least the charming hemoglobin-based modern art on the road suggested the same.  But pomomo the second maintained that the essence of pomomo the first was still there; even if its physical being was spread over a wide area.”

The screen flashed up to a scene of mini-carnage.  I did not think a monkey had that much blood, though I had to agree that the splatter pattern was quite fetching; perhaps inspirational for my next multimedia event.  After appropriate gasping, squirming and the sound of some discreet nausea, he continued.

“Obviously, such concepts as the electron and polarity are oppressive statements by the Objectivist elite, designed to exclude competing theories from Sociologists, English professors and French philosophers.  Does Engels mention the electron?  He does not.  Does Derrida enlighten us on electricity?  Alas no.  So, of course, their validity is suspect.”  He paused to let the profundity of this observation wash over us.  Several giggles were hastily suppressed.

“To abbreviate our story, pomomo two makes an interesting carbon-based sculpture, embracing the exposed bits of electricity substation number 66—surely significant?”

This time the scene was far less confronting.  What appeared to be a monkey-shaped piece of charcoal was wedged between two conductors.  I couldn’t give it top marks as an art piece; at least it wasn’t repulsive.  But our lecturer was apparently undeterred.

“Two out of two for the Objectivists, alas—but what is 2+2 = 4 but an attempt at numerical hegemony over the oppressed, innumerate in sociology departments everywhere?  Is not 2+2 = hedgehog as valid in a less hostile environment?  It is time for the oppressed in philosophy and sociology departments everywhere to make a stand.  If reality does not cooperate, we must make it, for it is nothing but an illusion, a construct of our senses!” he finished with a flourish.

A few years after this lecture, the textual analysis powered, hermeneutic charged, existentially assisted asteroid shield failed at its first test, to the surprise of no living thing.  The Pomos had opted out of persbacks, as, to quote them, “The Universe is recording the essence of us”.  It was kind of the Pomos to write themselves out of the gene pool with a minimum of fuss.

OK, OK corpsicles, enough diversions.  We couldn’t justify staying away from the planet of the Pious any longer.  Perhaps some of you can remember being dragged off to a miserable old relative that disapproved of everything; the tick, tock of the grandfather clock, as time stretched in their depressing company.  These relatives disapproved of children, and all things related to fun.  They would, with a smile that belied their sadism, offer you brains in jelly, and a side serving of vinegar broccoli.  They would then decry the younger generation when you refused.  Imagine these people had been given an entire planet, and an excuse (religion) to make life miserable for everyone; that was the best description I had found of Pious.