Status Updates From The Crying of Lot 49

un tipo le ofrece a una mujer, borrachos los dos, a sacarse una prenda de vestir por cada pregunta que haga respecto a un tema. ella acepta, se va al baño, procede a ponerse toda, TODA la ropa que trajo una arriba de la otra, se tropieza, derrama laca, un desodorante sale volando como mosca borracha, una banda entra al cuarto para enchufar sus equipos y a tocar a todo trapo.
genio Pynchon

Bueno, arrancamos con la literatura de Pynchon

She could not quite get it into her head that the day she’d left him for San Narciso was the day she’d seen Mucho for the last time. So much of him already had dissipated.

“Oed,” looking at her puzzled, “you don’t get addicted. It’s not like you’re some hophead. You take it because it’s good. Because you hear and see things, even smell them, taste like you never could. Because the world is so abundant. No end to it, baby. You’re an antenna, sending your pattern out across a million lives a night, and they’re your lives too.”

He put a little clear plastic bottle on the table between them. She stared at the pills in it, and then understood. “That’s LSD?” she said. Mucho smiled back. “Where’d you get it?” Knowing.
“Hilarius. He broadened his program to include husbands.”

And the ‘you’ is everybody. And herself. Oedipa, the human voice, you know, it’s a flipping miracle.”

“That’s what I am,” said Mucho, “right. Everybody is.” He gazed at her, perhaps having had his vision of consensus as others do orgasms, face now smooth, amiable, at peace. She didn’t know him.

“Is this what Funch means when he says you’re coming on like a whole roomful of people?”

But the time is arbitrary. You pick your zero point anywhere you want, that way you can shuffle each person’s time line sideways till they all coincide. Then you’d have this big, God, maybe a couple hundred million chorus saying ‘rich, chocolaty goodness’ together, and it would all be the same voice.”

“I noticed it the other night hearing Rabbit do a commercial. No matter who’s talking, the different power spectra are the same, give or take a small percentage. So you and Rabbit have something in common now. More than that. Everybody who says the same words is the same person if the spectra are the same only they happen differently in time, you dig?

“Like I . . .” he hesitated before breaking into a radiant smile, “you’ll think I’m crazy, Oed. But I can do the same thing in reverse. Listen to anything and take it apart again. Spectrum analysis, in my head. I can break down chords, and timbres, and words too into all the basic frequencies and harmonics, with all their different loudnesses, and listen to them, each pure tone, but all at once.”

It dawned on her that he was talking about the Muzak. It has been seeping in, in its subliminal, unidentifiable way since they’d entered the place, all strings, reeds, muted brass.

Mucho came downstairs carrying his copy, a serenity about him she’d never seen. He used to hunch his shoulders and have a rapid eyeblink rate, and both now were gone.

“they’re calling him the Brothers N. He’s losing his identity, Edna, how else can I put it? Day by day, Wendell is less himself and more generic. He enters a staff meeting and the room is suddenly full of people, you know? He’s a walking assembly of man.”

“for observation. I wonder what they can observe.”
“Israelis,” Oedipa said, “coming in the windows. If there aren’t any, he’s crazy.”

“I came,” she said, “hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy.”
“Cherish it!” cried Hilarius, fiercely. “What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by its little tentacle, don’t let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the others. You begin to cease to be.”