I – i – Let’s Just Skip Over the Preface and Tell Everyone.

| May 29, 2013 | 2 Comments

In which a delegation of gear–strippers arrives from the past, watched sedulously by Uncle Edith, smeller of remoulade. Amid most, the bereft Finlay proceeds to entry–level assignment at Hastings, AZ, receiving disorientation from interstellar cartographer Porphyry Alcuin. Specifications for configuration of Spaceship Earth require Nicean translation. On leave, Finlay begins solution of mental crossword puzzle on his wall. Unconvincingly caregivers bring him unto Doctor Many Places, to whom Finlay narrates a tryptych.

I — i — Let’s Just Skip Over the Preface and Tell Everyone.

Sometimes Uncle Edith’s favorite album was subliminal. The concourse display screen scrolled around and the public address system announced that his flight had been delayed for nine years. Fortunately, Uncle Edith’s wife, Althea, had fixed him a large snack pack. It contained oeufs brouilles Bergeres, a cilantro salad, some maggots from Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin, a wired turkey, languostines de Grand Augustine, pinecones, and the entire mise–en–scene from The Gingerbread Man on Ice. Nearby, hibachi salesmen were text messaging each other about the collapse of the national cottage industry.
      “It wasn’t our fault,” the former asserted, “but if we buy your municipal bonds, you will soon be on the beach somewhere smiling your head off.” “There was the catch,” the latter replied, fending solicitors with a horse feather. Their twangy mantras echoed from the walls like your downstairs neighbor gargling loud enough to be heard through the ceiling. As they unicycled away to meet their stellar master, Uncle Edith exclaimed honestly, “can’t one get a moment’s peace around here?” “That is just something you’ll have to deal with on your own,” the public address system announced.
      Everyone gazed though the dark glass languidly as the inbound express lighter nosed toward them. “Flight 64 arriving from 1958,” the public address system announced. The elevator music broke into post–haste fusion and a sprightly crowd in button–down shirts, poodle skirts, and wraparound 3–D glasses poured into the terminal, arguing about the fragmentation of society and the price of eggs nowadays. They were agog at the prospect of visiting the future. A nice lady said to her son, “don’t stare at him, Finlay,” as Uncle Edith used a silly marker to tack up declarations of a nearer end, in hopes of smelling more remoulade.
. . .
Finlay looked as if someone had dropped a toaster in his bath water. Bad hair streaked in cumulo–form clumps from behind his ears. The blase proletariat thought him a starry–eyed idealist whenever he started talking about his Utopian on–line NASCAR rotisserie personae. They were already at the stage of planned obsolescence. The marketplace surged to accommodate the next iteration of personal enabling widgets providing an illusion of belonging, like those built–in families that came with the picture frame, but a supplier in Hilo had mismatched the expected rheostats and sent them a gross of hula hoops instead.
      “There wasn’t enough static electricity in the air to shock dust mice,” complained the foreman, Porphyry Alcuin, belaboring the means of production in a film entitled Ethanol for Victory, long touted as a bastard of modem consciousness in last week’s Pravda. Amidst the warbling roll of steel wool erasers, several tent makers had shaken down the linoleum veneer and were applying furring strips with rain forest glue.
      Finlay was naturally immune to the consternation occasioned by such lapses in protocol. He’d just spent four years inhaling chalk dust and, inasmuch as his knowledge was strictly theoretical, gaped blankly at the developing scrum. It was apparent that the artisans were long overdue for some character building exercises. Porphyry, who had seven sticks with which to stay warm, that he kept beneath the counter, habitually indicated that varieties of events were inevitable to arriving entrepreneurs. In a sky box teetering over a vast field house, strewn with art deco fire hydrants and the staccato glare of cold sunbursts, he enumerated some concerns.
      “In the interests of tenacity,” he said, “as niche markets emerged for individuals fulfilled through wageless toil, procedurally, more than every decor is not sneezed at when everyone has fun out there. A prime example arises during each usually thirsty enough to drink the sodium hexa–fluouride set aside for initializing Kelvin baselines, when you’re pretty open–minded about things, until there is yet another learning experience. You were still able to endorse policies of periodically blah but enough about you. Noone appears to be crouching around, so let’s tour the faculties.
      “Just off to your left is the speckled project branch, concerned with matters of consecration. For example, estimating that enough unused twist ties resided in kitchen drawers to bag 6.023 x 1023 metric tons of waste, they heightened public awareness, saving the service industries more than four trillion lithiwatts.” Nearby, a heated colloquy was evident over the convective whoosh of gamma rays. Someone with incontestable speciousness was saying, “life is about maximum returns; you can’t just indulge in compromise whenever you feel lofty.” “That remains to be seen,” a master spackler said. “Ever since that laundry list was flung at me, I sidle about my half–full room searching for footprints.”
      “Who were they,” the acolyte Finlay asked? “The millwrights,” was the reply, and presently the lunchroom was left behind as they marched up a spry old staircase that creaked directly into a lofty vault of cathodes, sedulously tended by savants. “Do not address them,” his guide said, “for nowhere else is to be found such cyber–savvy mixed with frightful naivete, ergo, the valet who posted everyone’s fibrillation access code out there is no longer with the program.” “But,” Finlay ventured to lisp, “I thought we were in a state of whirled peas ever since ahriman sat out the Jedi during the battle of Second Manzikert circa 2019?”
      “Be that as it may, grasshopper, I don’t know if you are aware.” Before a padlocked access gate, canaries fluttered as the preceptor dialed down. A thumbnail’s breadth of aperture occurred and the Internet pre–empted its morning medley, music for depressed yuppies, to intone behold, you are now entering the gray area. “Walk this way,” Finlay was told, subsequent to strapping on infra–indigo spectacles, and he gaped at a sparkling fiasco, whistling, “this is the worst motor scooter ever!”
. . .
[Nicean Translator’s note: The reconfiguration of Spaceship Earth, from an inter–galactic standpoint, involving specifications of stupefying jargon, the ensuing translation is henceforth interposed at critical junctures.]
. . .
Enough with the fanfares originating from areas of dissimilar innate retinas trained on foisted energy; particles of retsin and aphasic neurons usually congregate nematodically. By all accounts, secondary syntactic structural boundaries, argued in orthographic auto–didacticism, must rely for effect upon dependency models posited by Engels. Thus, the recombinative biases inherent over time owing to aggregate pandemics were offered to be seemingly clandestine in denominative commonalties. Except for decorous if regnant duennas, all karmic youth evoked on a tabernacle of saccharine spectrums, free to weave studious aphorisms in broken semantic certitudes, if haunted by truth serums almost too direct for soporific wherewithal. While monotonous, this aftermath forestalled a moody apocalypse proclaimed in venerably Orthodox circles, and was not so much indelible as ad nauseum, advocating vacuous diatribes, against the bumbling pyramids then in vogue, as slothful ballyhoo.
      By 2015, nativism therefore metamorphosed into a comparatively contrite cosmogony, embracing as hermetic once such staunch nihilists held as recherché by disgruntled avatars of decadence. Indeed, flagrant nosegays of nasturtiums and delphinium, not to mention fuchsia, careened around the churrigueresque antipodes like Noone’s business whenever such nebulous concepts, if unpopular, were nevertheless proved retrospectively auspicious, rhapsodically silken calico demure polymers, capable of suspending reticulated templates eidetically around spectacularly inept tarantellas.
     Publicly, Ampersand, when pressed in redirect, had responded tendentiously that under no circumstance had lackadaisically uninformed slithy toves kowtowed indistinctly, stating that dark matter forces, resentful and/or of wergild, sought to founder the constituency of perpetual heresy led by somewhat pimpernel committees. For this facade, they found such ringleaders as dan Fiume Paulrus and other oblong dramaturges to be avid witness to their tenuously loathsome agenda. These charges, rebutted in mock civility during the confirmation hearings for Rex’s nomination as il hogreeve iv, were among several memorable subpoenas promulgated throughout the deregulated beeswax.
     Ever since the demise of Glass–Steagall, indiscreet upstarts were unanimous in undermining stereotypical inferences, luridly credited to International Committee of Astronomics’ (ICA) reproductions of sidereal status quo antebellum. Despite torpidly meager donations, this unilateral agitation reeked of dulcimer informants unretouched by conventional dalliance. The ICA sought to muffle the repercussions of this forgery with abstruse pre–designations of orbital fiat, elongated dimple hypostasy, alembic metaplasms, and unintentional liaisons of phalaropes utterly duped by insidious revanchistes. In this ambivalent ambience, nepotism flourished, as seen in nascent corollaries, which upheld a prerogative of tacitly semi–permeable covenants in standardizing the esoteric de facto inter–regnum by–laws. Over the adamant ostentation of these egregious refrainants, a wily motion for a universal metropolis easily slid through the gatekeepers: compromised de rigeur podestas nominated during the eclipse of oxymoronic panjandrums.
. . .
The evil noise let up as an acknowledged 101 facade darted innately over. Easing decorously through anti–matter, albeit elated that secret nocturnes had focused on a staccato snails’ nest, if almost near Andromeda, permissive nephalem evolved for the heck of it. “Pax,” Alcuin, a nimble Mohammedan, exclaimed, denoting Ararat, scene of a great window, in fogs of refulgent agape. Steadier echoes of dew lolled now twinklier than ought to need serpentine engulfments anoint. On the footrest of YHWH, an unseemly antiphon tear–jerked in ceramic ebbs. A roseate cue there danced chatoyantly, leery of uranium winds, affixed clear spasms of galactic trivia, and swept lacier pods of nard and lilac.
      Cascades of lurid ether canapés stained a rumbly monstrosity somewhat ibid, “you see conjunctions once elusive stewed amok in disparate flimsy free–for–alls,” said Alcuin. “Beware sahib, cataracts blotted as many recent caveats as any of these TO LET signs foisted. Ere unhinged soporifics of last resort reproved us, metonyms arrived: luau waifs with few qualms, incandescent, immune to tasers, and in reticent ominous saloons, nurtured a fond origami we were at first slow to peruse. Stodgily we denied all truth, until the runaway planets, manifest post–partum in our rearview mirrors, depicted our deistic universe as a playground for the lost and found; lo, it is said of such ersatz tympanis nattering, who else can we revere? Styptic blots which orbit raspberry Elsinores (dervishes titled the seascape of Uranus about to crash into us)?” For his own good, Finlay was granted leave of his senses.
. . .
The Three Things.
. . .
      Given whoever else caused the fall of the Roman Empire, Finlay was not proud of his own role. It grew steadily apparent to Uncle Edith’s wife, Althea, that Finlay had joined the neighborhood clean–up for his own purposes. The contemporary version of his mindset was frozen by the hard drive flip–flop debacle of the millennium. Ever since the Earth had passed through the tail of that comet, no one had an attention span of more than thirty seconds. All that came back to consciousness was old rental furniture in contrast. Sometimes, you had to look into the strategically placed feng shui mirrors to even remember what you looked like.
      Finlay awoke to a sparkling now. There were tentative things. These glimmered like shattered diamonds, subdividing the viewer’s consciousness into innumerable multi–faceted cascades. “You’re only here because your mother had some influence with the Global Village,” Althea shouted at Finlay. The latter had no reply to this, and prospective renters where trampling all over the antique magic Afghan. Next, the wallpaper resolved into black and white squares, elongating and undulating like a fudge ripple root beer float. Finally an inner child led him to sit up and bolt from his seedy divan exclaiming, “how many ticklish crescendos of parsley, I’m new in town and can’t take it anywhere!” An inkwell, faded purplishly, stood in the windowsill. He grasped a quill and began solving a mental crossword puzzle.
      Q. What was improvident, spuriously encyclical, saliently adenoidal, prone to metallic precipitation whenever dissembled against, viewed our typical mom and pop non–violent festivals in a jaundiced fashion, really internalized galactic samples of scratch and sniff (for shame) once in a while, washed arid pinafores while terminally peerless laminated dervishes schlepped toward Erewhon at noonset, habitually spighted [sic] bats at the bottle return in nightly antes, foamed conclusively during fennel oak table combinative of the breezy lost somewhere in the mountains, radiating cheer about as often as recherché nuptials might stash an encomium of totality, decried as passe any minor aha at times, flew though the boss skies like an unclear high five, minutely gagging upon thoughts of mea culpa, had once plangently hiccoughed Congress into repealing tempus fugit as non–infinitive, clanged, averted, or desisted, sat in on every cracked ideal rumor mill daily, choking asthmatically unless defused day glow cotswolds were dispensed indefinitely, hated every dawn so critically that at any time, shards of gaffed hope forget–me–nots were begrudged forever, and wore tremulous ice skates across the fields of unendurable charge, neither positive nor negative, connoting bequerels of ionic pulse aside, irrespective of any bandwidth, a foundling merely creative of timorous self–help who tooled relentlessly throughout recessive advents, ruing neither raspberry unmentionable hairy integers, yet fond of so many places that everyone dreaded the day that carousel would screech to an unseemly halt?
      A: The frumious bandersnatch.
      Q. Next, who so airily eyed all usable material left behind, enjoyed waxy candle splash swamp slammers, exuded an excessive domesticity in the meticulous arrangement of archetypes, were quick to discredit any earlier influence until life became a tapestry of monomania, and when the last of these plastic spoons were melted held that it will be time for them to leave?
      A: [canaries].
      Q: Describe something that was often indicative of quantum behavior.
      A: On the threshold of a gibbous phase, in the land where you could surf the Great Lakes or eat everything else, phalaropic jitterbugs, whose mortal forms were but shadows of a purer reality chorused before the super–structure into the heart of the dawn. They had a politic upheaval each quatrain and then encouraged others to do the same.
      Q: Think of inspiring things to say to us.
      A: Exceptio probat regulum de rebus non exceptis.
      Q: While it was eerie to grasp consonance at the outset, one had to explain the mentholatum removed from the ward as the charm of a cosmic liberty.
      A: Naturally they tried to stop him from exhaling, albeit Finlay attempted to reassure them that his worry was under control. “What makes him think he is so special,” asked Mrs. Teaspoon? “His mother told me one day that he was going to be a rocket scientist,” said Althea, “may she rest without running into anyone.” Finlay finished another sentence on the wall indicating that he had some anger at lifestyles. “Why don’t you just shut up and go shopping,” his landlady asked? “Those stupid voting machines in Ossian are at stake,” Finlay protested!
      Althea and Mrs. Teaspoon decided to play with the cards they’d been dealt. Standing at the checkout line during uncertain times, they selected items least likely to contribute to global warming. These included a green space full of footsteps and indeterminate characters, an unwrapped kewpi doll won at State Fair for hitting a moving van, a raspberry snow cone, a dispassionate mask of social Darwinism, a vertigo motion light sensor, and on a weekend perpetually deferred by existence that was an overrated concept anyway, they were off to see Doctor Many Places, leaving the golden lamplit haven in search of a parking spot.
      “If anyone can deal with an inability to concentrate, he can,” said Mrs. Teaspoon. “Once, my Sasha was beset by systemic hopelessness at an early age, and after several home improvement background checks, Dr. Many Places diagnosed that he was oppressed by bipolar Freudian outlet malls and enabled him to place a collect call to his inner child.” Uncle Edith’s wife stared in vacuo at the end of the street. “For the life of me,” she mused, “I am not sure how I will ever be able to buff those sentiments off the wall without resort to Minimalism.”
      “Have you tried,” Mrs. Teaspoon asked, looking into her handbag, “imaginary lines leading to a mythical after all, developed in response to civilization’s demand, in the face of the damp molds threatening all organized art, for a seamless binary language capable of neutralizing the emerging enervating super proto–bugs?”
. . .
[Nicean Translators’ note: Flaunting nihilistic traditions, selected reviews of Gaussier’s biopic, World Without Mercury, described a do–over re–engineered after the demise of Pyrogabion, a laudable Javanese effort at AI designed to safeguard the polar orbital platform launched in 2011 to eradicate sunspots.]
. . .
Long held, to put it mildly, as the acme of inference engines, [it] proved unequal to withstanding co–option by the ongoing jihad, thus precipitating the snowiest sostenuto insiders’ raffle ever trotted forth. Often played implausibly, its seminal role, to lure intersecting rites into revising ambience, acrimoniously toasted fond aliens who de facto had deftly traversed the full blown crevasses of Antares with signal needs.
      “Nothing had sounded triter than this exodus,” declared Etaoin Shrdlu, crafty barrator of the Nesselrode faction, which devolved from mainstream surreal networks for the purpose of reforming widespread ontological withdrawals evoked by bulkier tectonic knock and talks. “In our noiseless zeal,” he claimed, “phosphorescent anagrams skipped by ex nihlio, foisting a corresponding expose of nattier termagants nimbly sporting spot–on tartan necklines.”
      The usual yard sales, sonorously decorous, fostered a rawer, if retroactively facile, shift in U.S. policy toward less ectomorphic life forms, however diffident, which no saltpeter sit–in could possibly recrudesce. If rotated amid finite barrel guts, largo telltale indicators of ruse squeezed typically indigo nighty–nights throughout all inert surfactants. Even suede nappies or phonetic altimeters charmed batches of cucurbit Szechwan laugh tracks, long lain shibboleths of erroneous artifice, livelong talismans for gingery and ecumenically acute snide doulas, Ferguson’s Sand Requiem at the Smithsonian, coolly flagged macarena forked agit–props, a mess of timid sewage tubas, newly festooned loofahs, aquiline sinister shazzam androgens, drafty intimate felicity, lop–sided sylvan innocence, systemic gazed operant whodunits, mannered atomic cocoa rumbles, slowly WD–40 Turcoman grey pekoe fronds, do–wop, and one–way surplus totems deformed into large vanilla charlatan scuba activists (ex cathedra).
      Anecdotal reviews of ensconced camera obscura earned little credulity amid thematic saber–rattlers, miffed (to sonnet decrees) that ergo didactic foam kings had reinflated tontines woven ubiquitously, if in tacit sophistry, ere an effusive heterodoxy embarked. The hand–picketed cherry bombs sat inert, was how these recuse proxies gradually went name–grabbing, illusorily plain–chanting archly surrogate mores with stage fright. Amalgamate ‘zines fanned acute Niagara pathos for one ethnic riddle: why had the sapient Lollards soaked reverse Rhizobium borogroves by soggy rest gangs of instinctively grandiose cream puffs?
      Rented at large, those cherubic beatniks familiarly started a ranch of such presence that, in sly rapprochement, envoys from almost thoroughly undead hives glibly harped on extant stochastic children, wives of retro–troglodyte surfers, wooly–hued morphemic doozies which siphoned aerobic drip sneezes out of every hacky–sack ethos, and draftier synthetic chervil fried in kapok shish–kabobs. Verily, just about all in all, at sixes and sevens, dopier rude hints rearranged indwelt retch spas into cubic video thrills.
. . .
Thoughts on Post–Industrial Man.
. . .
      “My dear Doctor Many Places,” Finlay began, “for years I’ve splurged to conceal a relatively innocuous fetish that nonetheless strains the limits of credulity. It’s kind of difficult to put into words, except to admit that it has proved a compensatory program in remission of the more celebrated faults of today’s society. Whenever I try to schedule a normal conversation, it throbs beneath the surface of dialect, straining the boundaries of decorum.” “Pray tell of the traumatic experiences that shaped your development,” said Doctor Many Places. “When I was three my mother told me to stop sneezing. It was somewhat breathtaking. Alone, I experienced lasting shame.” “It’s patently obvious that such expedience is common to everyone,” snorted the physician. “Let’s move on to your formal education. You’re looking at myself and it’s already obscene.”
      “The other night wore off slowly,” Finlay agreed. “I think the thing to watch out for at first, I suppose, is that you see your picture taken and spend a little time wondering, why is everything in here? Amid the last crusts of daylight, I have had second thoughts about everything. Few and benign the storms of my youth seemed in retrospect yet for all that, to be free at last was the way to lose someone forever. Did that sound right? We are already at the bottom of this. Thank God that someone had developed a method of assisting individuals requiring further assistance.
      “This intermediary level of referral became the sine qua non of effective intervention ever since there was still time to push the panic button and turn handsprings. For those prepared to leave, there were already enough good reasons for postponing the great scramble to lowball emerging markets. We saw it as a holy mission to keep the fires of freedom burning. At some levels we started to see it as a heroic spiritual struggle against motivation/ catalyst. Events rippled toward visiting hours frame by frame, which consisted of placing one’s verticule at arm’s length, and aside from the fact that we were never to ask about occupational therapy, life seemed a balloon from which the air slowly hissed. Ignoring an obvious glam, you’d think we were all happy to be around something like that, in case you weren’t aware of other avenues, inevitability that I might give digressive replies to any question pertaining to yes, I would say, that was me you saw the other evening, for inasmuch as I compensate for seeming too analytical with statements devoid of the traditional caveats in deference to the seductive gaiety of prevalent mores, no seriously, irrespective of quite frankly the stuff you’re typing has proved prejudicial to my continued maintenance as in instantaneous access to time structure.”
      “Since then,” Doctor Many Places wrote, “although he’d subsequently given all other organized religion a wide berth, his fears proved groundless. Albeit each of his replies to this writer’s skillful probes comprised asking, ‘what does that suggest to you,’ wringing a near admission from this writer that our profession did indeed lean toward over–pathologization, the subject thereupon connoted serpentine ideations, inasmuch as he perceived that everyone seemed hypnotized in his presence, capable only of repeating the last two or three words of every sentence: he felt that he could slither into a room, say the sky is green, and elicit a symposium on atmospheric scattering that would proceed ad nauseum until he either slithered out or said something differently. ‘You know,’ he’d say, ‘when you want to find a telephone number, but if you pull out the directory, all of the other books on the shelf will slump to the floor, shattering knickknacks, until it’s just best to take up your mat and get out of there?’ Happily, a whopping dose of trail mix (titrated to .001 molality) enabled this writer to reconstruct the following triptych.”

Category: Act I Revised Ed.

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