The problem, of course, lay in the difficulty of the transmission.

 The Tralfamdorans could do a perfectly apt sending of the signals,  the great transmission of universal wisdom.  but a problem, or a complexity of problems emerged, almost originally, and inexplicably.

The creatures of earth planet and its human beings were inherently configured to receive 100% of the transmission along with the inherent ability to perfectly understand and comprehend, and even possessed the gift of the ability to act in accordance with the wisdom of the perfect reality, perfectly seen.

But, who knows, things happen.  A short circuit, you might say, perhaps itself somehow inherent, came into the system, rendering it not very effective.  Full of static... A reboot couldn’t do it, as if a reboot were possible.

And with the frustration, it came that the most immediately natural thing to do was for the more sensitive of the earth creatures, who sensed the transmission from Tralfamadore, was to cope with the frustration, one that was wordless and, in a way, a token of the lost-ness of the original messages and media of wisdom obscured and interrupted.   In short, was that what came  about in this great pressure system of deferential, was the habit of art.  Art adopted by all creatures of the living planet earth, down to its very atomic and mineral structure...  Water came to dance, mountains of rock gave birth to great green floral pastures, reptilian life sprouted beauty and wings, sight and song...

Kittens played.  Rothko painted colorful paintings of a horizon rich as it should be understood, rather than just the cloudy sometimes blue urban sky as seen, scraped across by modern jet airplanes bearing drones of people going back and forth occupied with business matters.

It was known somehow, within the fiber of all earthly life, that all these transmissions should be coming.  Some may have received a good seventy five percent of the wisdom of the Tralfamadorans, but all bore the frustration of not the whole thing, obviously, getting through.

There was a great long era of great puzzlement, sure, of course.  One could look up at the stars in the night sky, know the transmission existed perfectly in the present, and yet, it seemed the Universe had hit the mute button.

Now and again an inkling would come through, eerie, prescient:  Kubrick, the weird obelisk in a strange science fiction movie from the earthling year 1968...  the gut sense, hearing a signal, even loudly, but the static...  the interference, or maybe the simple dumbness of human sensory organs so easily overwhelmed...

Or it could happen in something gutsy, original, a small rebellion against the agenda of the unhearing, such as Irish music, something many upright people would consider on a lark, coming about through a collection of irresponsible activities.

As if idiots were the best prepared to be able to hear the symphonic music being broadcast gently to human beings and all sentient beings...  themselves a humble mirror of life on Planet Tralfamadore...

Drunkards with Jesus in mind, Jesus who himself had made an apt and sensitive attempt of getting the great transmissions from Tralfamadore, walked home, at the end of their shifts, stood a good a chance as anything...



And even while all this was happening, hopefully being somehow worked upon and corrected, it was indeed all too natural not only for people to try their best to re-iterate what the signals were saying to them, good-hearted efforts and the like, but also for people to get quite self centered, to completely deny the entire messages of wisdom and Golden Rule sort of stuff... and whose job then became to deny completely that there was even anything being continuously broadcast down across the seeming universe from Tralfamadore to Earth.



And those who held that there was no such thing as any sort of such a transmission had to be very continuously on point—even though they heard it to, getting at least about 35% of it in spite of themselves—about a firm and consistent denial, one based widely in many aspects, dark-hearted, materialist, often technically and technologically oriented, lustful for the noises that might drown anything else, by creating a form of necessary constant attention to their own created problems  such as they kept creating in the constant illusion of time and the dawning of a new day they had no desire for but to manipulate and change, out of its original essence and being, making it theirs, thus doing everything possible to turn down the great radiant all encompassing spiritual power so that it might be barely heard, or that people should become so automaton, so misfocused, that they could be kept down.

The game on Earth became a big one, of distraction.  It became a task of obscuring the "thousand points of light," of a daily dismissal of the very things the clever Tralfamadorans had beamed down to Earth people, focused on people genetically pre-disposed to not be as deaf, folks like Jesus, like Buddha, the Awakened Ones, along with a whole cast of interesting people, varied in nature and in complexity like the light through a stained glass window, speaking of the nature of the odd gathering places of the Disciples, upstairs rooms, meeting places of publican and sinner, of the Pentecostal Feast, and other various sometimes sundry gatherings where people could let their guard down and forget the armor of interference of the current style.