J. Rodolfo Wilcock – Chaos

Ever since that night when the truth was revealed to me, my profound teleological faith had transformed into a religion of Chaos, of which I now considered myself, along with the power of my riches and the prestige of my house, something of a High Priest. To administer chance, to introduce it, impose it, implant it, to spread like a missionary the respect and the devotion that it deserved, was my vocation and my destiny.

It was then that I decided to organize my first really chaotic party. To begin with, the footman were not to lead the guests straight to the Grand Foyer, but rather to random locations all over my estate, each guest to be dropped off in a different place: in the lamproom, the kitchen, a maid’s bedroom up in the attic, the chapel, the henhouse. There they were to be left, to handle the situation as best they could. For those who, in spite of everything, managed to reach the Grand Foyer—where neither myself nor anyone in my family would be waiting to greet them– the orchestra was to play dance numbers that began normally only to gradually become slower and slower, until it was no longer possible to dance at all. Delicious-looking appetizers, passed round by servants on the traditional silver platters, would turn out to be–but not always, for then it would not have produced the same effect–worm sandwiches, sawdust meatballs, petit-fours of serpent flesh. And all the while in every room a great multitude of construction workers were to labor without ceasing, repairing the doors, the ceilings, the walls and the furniture, and never once acknowledging the presence of the creme de la creme of our society.

That particular party was a great hit; once the initial moment of confusion had passed, the guests set out to explore the chaos with renewed energy and–with the exception of the old people and the hypocrites, who left immediately–everyone enjoyed themselves so much that it was daylight by the time I could chase them away with hoses and watering cans, for they refused to go home.

I was unsatisfied: it seemed to me that I had only managed to throw a particularly  exciting party, nothing more. Nothing that could really be compared with true chaos. I had to refine my methods, apply my genius on a much greater scale; above all, I had to convert the unbelievers: it was not acceptable that the guests simply go home, to continue their orderly every day existence.

As soon as I landed upon a method, the rest was easy. My method consisted in neither more nor less than organizing a rather confusing imitation of life: if the only reality of life was chance–that is to say, insignificance, confusion, the constant dissolution of forms into nothing to give rise to new forms likewise destined to dissolution–I need not wrack my brain devising ingenious little fictions.  I had only to offer my guests a passable representation of the world that surrounds us, with just a bit more disorder than usual, for them all to be submerged into True Chaos.

(Translated from Spanish by Casey)

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