I – wix – Everyone Remembered Having an Immediate Conniption.

| May 28, 2013 | 0 Comments

Ahem relates meeting agnomen, a cleric of Nicean history. Logan Ferguson studies events through a time sampler filched from Mt. Period, and his reversion to channel surfing is pre–empted by Uncle Edith. The agnomen unfolds history of the Great Window, levy of the lumine, which provoked dissension among Niceans. In restorative, Sasha meditates on changing balances of power, and resolves to escape. Logan telephones Uncle Edith to complain about contractual breach, but rebuffed, listlessly watches jai alai festival. Frederick II, recognizing a metaphoric effort to prevent Uranus from crashing, tries to escape Hades but is delayed. Ensign Plair awakens in hospital

I — wix — Everyone Remembered Having an Immediate Conniption.

“Whenever my parents succeeded in buying new clothes for me on an at least per annum basis,” Ahem resumed, “I began to view my impending graduation with mounting dismay. Forasmuch as my mother always bought clothes for the upcoming school year, and given that graduation signaled the end of all school years, I was certain that, upon graduation, I would have to go naked for a time thereafter. Fortunately, I was only eight years old when this realization occurred to me, so the ordeal was almost ten years in the future. But what if I graduated early? I was already years ahead of my peers on the reading curve. I resolved to thwart my heretofore rapid progress, in order to buy more time to think of a way out of the terrible day to come. In the meantime, I continued to do those little things that gave me the thrill of compliance.

      “We returned to the edge of the village, and at last met the occupant of the mysterious farce. He was a skilled agnomen, cognizant of many verses. Resources that I had not even dreamt of were now called into play. Those brushstrokes upon a tainted canvas were enough to let me believe that I was going to fool everyone into believing that I had it made. When the world failed to end, our agnomen asked us to assess the damage our disrespectful precepts had thereby unleashed. ‘So the ink warped reality and an arduously dry redaction pertained to the hours devoted to comprehension prone,’ we replied hopefully, thrilled to have slurred a prominence of what was for once adverted in a technique increasingly essential to national ethos?

      Herein soaked hourly, their woven thanes in toto milled, pliably frosted that Rust, in whom they had inferred as willful accessory, now drearily shoved them throughout a door; a tathagata reversing the atrophy of their laconic impressions sibilantly shadowed in tenuous idylls of incipient freedom. Noting happily needful daisies unswervingly fleet, and zephyrs torrentially fewer ever since that sweeping incident, when equivalent finth, mass doted in force, hid too enviously a saw of late utilization amid baited briars nominal, an agnomen stapled folderol at will, speaking good riddance to the hitherto melange kite, and yet apprehending the erosion of his partisanship, delved into ancient writs for their next lesson.

      As scribbled, this concept was originally intended as a prehensile (viz. paradigm) back road. The agnomen wagered that the scholars would take great heart at this depiction of the Niceans upon the threshold of polyphony; moreover insofar as they were enjoined to shrink from using the pilgrimage as refuge from their penultimate responsibilities, their ostensible estrangement from instruction was libeled res ipsa loquitur metaphysically. After Idres motioned for silence, the agnomen intimated that the apotheosis occurred in several active orbits. Recently wary of sending their opinions into council, where it was imagined they were eagerly flounced upon for flaws from on high, the principals had given over the address of the well. “Loathe though we are to yield the scene but go yea then and discern, for it was a source free to all.”

      Shrdlu, the agnomen’s least noiseless, troubled to indicate that this far from home, “an expedition, especially in a state of rebellion to inter–regnum, has no authority to convene a counsel at the well of Erewhon, unless granted plenary powers to convene any she might see fit.” The disunited appanage fell out upon this topic: they have abdicated their mandate some upheld, though others approached that well in gritty effervescence, tickled that no longer need they deal with those inscrutable slobs. Spitting out betel nut, the agnomen reached back into consciousness, and his subsequent plainsong stunned his onlookers into silence.

. . .

If future transcontinental progeny were to find his trials insufferably repugnant, Logan at present enjoyed a wormcast view of events in large part due to samples filched from the fjulsfut’ terrestrial biopsy. In such minute interval were bygone incidents unfurled that Logan, poring upon the dusty chromatic ejecta, pshawed at his Nicean rivals. It was obvious that they knew not beans of elongation techniques, bent as they were upon threshing old ground in search of the evasive quasar axiomatically held to comprise the noses of Snorggi, when his own stereopticon now tessellated a chord of diminutive apogee.

      Confident he had stolen a march upon inter–regnum, Logan cued his dish to catch the game of the week as his beloved Dirtbags squared off versus the Brownians. He was vaguely disconcerted to find that while he’d been awry, in a sop to the immense skill required to kick the pigskin through distant goalposts, the value of a field goal had been increased to four points (whereas a touchdown, reflective of the ease with which any third stringer could swipe the ball across the pylon nowadays, remained at six points). Despite many of the regulars already wafted into the aperture, the proxies gave a spirited contest. His team ahead 8–7 at halftime, Logan, happily rushing to the pantry to find some salsa, was suddenly smitten by the absence of his family. The halftime scoreboard rashly pre–empted by a special edition of Uncle Edith’s fireside chats, Logan shook out the last of the corn chips and grudgingly listened.

. . .

“Dear everyone: I know these broadcasts are chasing you all over the dial, although I could not wait to send them. I just returned from sleeplessness a year ago. I had appropriately damned fence sitting. Aye, one didn’t let any Gladisants escape; next one failed in tripping the bugler alarm; third eyes didn’t lock myself from the house; and five, I spelt nothing on Diana’s magic carpet (a minor achievement inasmuch as a melting drippy ton of food had to be carted into the stables when the static monolith shorted out). Some days, even I derived therapeutic dogma when topics uploaded in the carport included shortcuts. Instructively, my brother–in–law gave me enough time, until about five yards from tictac, I found the roads choked. In a healthy mood, I vowed to gainsay other actions however, and an English muffin was also a large wanhope. Detouring arguably with terminal baggage, my brother–in–law was whistling The Last of the Mohicans (time out to vaguely reassure my listeners of an indeed supernal being) outside, and insistently drove home the point that ways out of debt did not include settling with terrific wannabe nuts, nor was the sunniest evening probably ever anything like the either/or vibe corridor on your side of the street (again anyone who cites highways in casual correspondence is attempting to deal with leftover Kerouac fever).

      “It sounded great to get a postcard yesterday evening and was like you had a nice visitor in the bathroom, even if certain Heliocentrists succeeded in showing up, which was pretty lame of them. Would you like to hear more about the simple foreplay when only a fortnight past, you had the chance to actualize many harmonious dreaded landfills? Meaningful bouts of twin average homespun found your old ethers. I am dissolutely thrilled! Again cannot open them yet. On the subject of slithier wardrobes, dada vastened monotonous rats in Tom’s house today and tomorrow. Why spend most of the time on separate landlines when we can collect couch potatoes in front of Fisherman’s Wharf? He also gave me a biological grant to study Snorggi’s Syndrome.

      “Biodegradably, how is your addiction to shibboleths of severe whorls eerily going? My dear listeners, I think it’s marvelous that you’ve read such bothersome case studies that mostly popular opinion misleads, including Atrophy Grows on You, AMA (this even I haven’t seen, although the filmy portcullis kept me from adapting), and then Eerie Ants drew raves. You all are my all–American muses, and remaining free from Marxism, deconstruction, reversion, viruses that plague the Village Server, and among the rarest of times, are Old World simpletons with decency I find truly disenchanting. In closing, I’ve also enclosed an attachment composed when I was floating face down hesitantly in Puget Sound, because I was in a very secular mood. When I wrote very critical myopic pastiches and personally out of it, fifteen beers later I couldn’t find it until now. So I hope you are all feeling very heavy. Have a great but apathetic loquacity tour. We’ll be seeing you.

. . .

Biting the Invisible Hand.

. . .

Sasha had sensed that the world’s youth were irretrievably lost to pressures of the consumption industry. As the earth tapped the last reserves of solar energy, storing as many calories as possible prior to the solstice, so humanity was taught to store up products or supplies in anticipation of an onset of kineticism, conversion of matter, return to the post–dyadic cycle. And in recuperative inclination, to many not always obtuse, of grading fearfully steep, at least to the man lying in all of this, would also seem to name intent, instinct, urge, or drive as cooperatives. Amidst boiling seas of mud, Van Etnabaron felt least likely to notice the commandment, for in an adiabatic haste to inculcate benefits of market economies upon our latest draft of consumers we had, by the time they finally found their way to the steps of the schoolhouse, already inflicted for their viewing more than eight hundred thousand hours of content.

      Disabusing any preliminary Gestalts that this will–less exposure might stamp upon the emerging concepts of some incipient Zeitgeist immediately had, as an operational construct, fallen to a thin red line of professional downer collectors who, in their avowed commitment to stamp out everything, had molded a Janus–faced generation of adaptive mimics comprising a lifestyle that he could have not cared less to adopt. Van Etnabaron had been customarily able to assuage his deepening shame by describing the works of his benefactor as product of a deep–seated Platonic scholasticism, relegating inter–social volition to the whims of a primordial pre–consciousness. While Il Fiume had always met these allegations with a sense of lamentable delicacy, which gave the impression that he would soon reform, he had chosen death instead. His works, for good or ill, were up for grabs. And what was Sasha doing in mud when an entire civilization trembled upon his next action? At this point it would be unnecessary to aver that great must his agitation have been for him to swim, unsteadily, to his feet, forsaking the lambent crèche. “Help me from this,” he whispered. Owing no great attachment to their employers, the restorativistas devised a speedy plan, and just that was exactly done. “You loosed the blob, you idiot,” they chided him.

. . .

“One morning,” the agnomen described, “sometime before the diaspora of the neuro–Niceans, yet prior to the establishment of formal inter–regnum, the seconds received an exalted messenger. It has been written that he was acclaimed as a timely debut of existence, tempering keen insight with merciful valor. ‘For your first emanations,’ he proclaimed, ‘are subject to confiscation in name as well as form, and would you be moved to yield all of them?’

      “The monads blinked in rude envy, imagining they were, despite their reputed renascence, as positively Neolithic in contrast, and the request eliciting a spiritual crisis, the anxious debate of the seconds soon attracted the innermost other Nicean races. They liked having the first around for they provided a light and cheerful ambience that is difficult to give up. ‘We must trust the messenger and assume that provision will be made for their absence,’ said a third. ‘The lumine are our eldest yet they age not; they combine beauty and wisdom. How can we let them go?’ ‘The messenger has informed us that they are necessary to guide a new and emerging culture.’

      “‘So? We hate them sight unseen,’ interjected the fourth (first of the colloidal), ‘we hate this new and emerging culture that has chosen to be created in His image. We hate their suspicious little eyes and their slamming doors and their clutching hands and their clunky clay feet. They have a grasping and incessant need to take and what are we to them? Let them learn the hard way that they do not need angles.’ Tictuses saw this differently. ‘We must not forget our promises,’ they replied. ‘We knew that this day was nigh. We must trust the messenger. Certainly he has no plan for us to languish in outer darkness. Haven’t we served Him well enough?’ ‘Exactly my point, don’t you read the papers? Shadow puppet prefers those who worship Him even if they are lazy sods. He’s always worried about being upstaged. He really is. Look at what happened to those who worked most diligently for Him. Look at Marta. Look at Anubis.’

      “Although they were referring to events that were in the distant present, the monads, blessed in co–eternity with the creation, regarded the inevitability with a certain dread. ‘We are just his hands and as far as He is concerned washed up at that,’ said the fourth. ‘Altogether,’ exclaimed another of the seconds theatrically, ‘it was worse than over, His benign concern that had permeated all aspects of culture, one could not even go inside without being asked how one is doing. How the question begged does this comprise cruel treatment?’ ‘Why don’t they stop asking and leave us,’ all too busy replied? ‘You know they twist anything into big nuances. They are already issuing commands that every one from here on out is subject to war and slavery unless they jump into the river of technocracy and stay abreast of every single development. The state would have us fastened to peripherals. How is that not unpleasant?’

      “They were troubled that the youngest race of their council had raised this point, betraying an underlying cynicism that had infiltrated the interstices of the ban. A reference to the impressed sublet idyll reserved to those opting a living will, the youngest (all too busy) spoke brashly, in the belief that their recent identity had triggered shadow puppet’s peremptory request. ‘Damn them anyway,’ they concluded. And/or Hognozed (another of the seconds) said, ‘where were you when the singulinear density exploded into what we now have? Why do you command beyond your own precious logos the path of which, incidentally, you have left in your envy, and are not fit for further participation in this council?’”

. . .

In grievous resolve to recap Binaca’s deep freeze days, Logan risked the perishable datum, initially perplexed by the collision between times, yet moved in eventual edification to place a call to perpetratorial agencies. These broken non–indentation notices erupted Uncle Edith’s oversight, a half–said outlaw who declined opener stuff worthwhile Godot. The day was an occasionally pleasant while, during which dormant interlude the patient man designed self–extinguishing hermeneutic sealing waxes and undid principally old arch stands. That did not prevent his encounter with the largesse of organizations wary of subpoena. The confuting of inexcellent claims oft replaced themes usurped in progressions toward the glass ceiling, as he chanced to locate the missing tables that lay foreshortened in elastic ranks.

      “They should be so lucky,” thought Uncle Edith, who had lost his last chance for believing that she was up to something, deriving olfactory surcease from the oaken inlay of his desk within which lay moldering contracts, and noticed somebody sniffing about the lot. Accosting the interloper with the vigor hitherto reserved for those who had already sobbed into their buckets, he suggested that the events of the morning were immutable. “Don’t turn off your raspberry in an effort to stave much splashy worn out zirconiums toward oldener days when a clock might be sent back for seconds.” Ebbed formalities haunted Uncle Edith, fixedly aghast upon Ferguson who said, “after all you have done, how am I now spending less time with myself? How listlessly I followed you toward the biggest dog on the lot, that dolorous tint now steers my all accounts into reckoning that I deserved more than group courage.”

      “Nevertheless,” rejoined the incipient wastrel, what haven’t I done enough to forfeit your regard? It occurred to me that was really isosceles to all unsalted ears in umlaut bile when fielded, snubbing the seller’s peculiar strained lien that took a scare south.” If averse epiphanies drew an apparent veil across surreal adieu, instead mostly abundant strangers wrote of that effortlessness; of locust led impact celeritous of mad thorough dents repeatedly charring almost empty thickets, because almost anyone preferred the whoopee offered by inter–regnum to that of languishing in circles anymore.

. . .

Emotionally exhausted by efforts to rewire the cosmic nodal circuitry, Logan settled back into his chaise to watch more sporting events. He flipped listlessly through each ghostly bandwidth circumvented by the arrival of the frumious bandersnatch. All that was left on this hour was a strange snowy jai alai festival, at the fringes of the Empty Quarter, which unspooled in real time. The pellet whacked about represented no single graphic entity. Unlike certain careers that offered but one chance to screw up, the pellet players possessed infinite chance and were reborn phonetically upon the ashes of previous failure.

      “But seriously folks,” Logan dictated, lurching toward that tape with nothing, “the centrifugal side by contrast comprised men revered for their efficient talent. They clawed the dust to expound the plot beyond a shadow of the box. In appreciation of their dedicated efforts, chroniclers stood by with chisels ready to etch their feats into the sides of the template.” Each player, planted upon a rim of distinct eddy, sought to deflect balefully the nascent arc. Each circle contained a spheroid of variance obdurate. Upon the extreme facet their fleetest striker tarried, he was cold of visage and scorned the adulation of his thralldom. Set one lookout nigh was gypsum; piningly the damsels blew ocarinas in salute of his sea green gaze. These men disked unseen the crouching sparks heralding the other side. The seventh circle hosted a player noted for his choleric vehemence. Badly smelt, he lagged at an odd quarter post to defray an unlikely van. Germane the pageantry florals tossed with frivolous loyalties sank upon the grit; there was no stopping them. The sixth ovate was vast and parsed withering though leptons rushed his ward of fluorite haply. Fastest of all, valorous and just soared their mercaptan, which probably did not like being called upon to state the source of his merriment. It is just never going to happen that within the fourth circle was a juvenile ruddy with perpetual phlogisticism; after decades of victimhood, he had finally embraced self–reliance as the most satisfactory explanation of his troubles. The third skipped in a state of ineffability. As the solemn throngs settled into an audible hum of sagacity, a cry rang out why doesn’t he just come out and say it? On the face of every tical was the image of a man who had just risen. He knew that the surest way to delay a task was to order its completion. In the camps of his foes he had sent such commissioners until sown with disorder he had attained visibility. And on introspection upon the innermost plane was a man who stood there smoking, as well he ought, for he guarded the diamond so close to the fretting caldera. He expected so little effort from the other side. Helots all, these prototypes of so–called Darwinism eyed dourly their charge, contemplated the price of success, and awaited the arrival of an amalgamate heterodyne which, fouling the witness of rites polyvalent and harlequin, stood poised to throw out the first flirt.

. . .

Edifying as his visit to the underworld had been, Frederick sought to return to the precious cusp of that initial lilt. Well marking AHRIMAN’s future efforts to prevent Uranus from crashing into the plant, the Emperor of Jerusalem stepped into the virgule and reviewed the ascent of eldritch numerals that spooled upon the element. For so long had he delved into the translations of Averroes that the strange ciphers were no foil to his gaze. At 1229, Frederick straitly called, “my floor,” and pushed through the buzzing press, which parted readily to spew him into his zone. “Mayhap what wonder,” thought he, “had I missed for not daring to inquire further into the future? ‘Yet sufficient,’ as our Lord once said, ‘are the evils of the day thereof,’ ” and with a glimpse of his own realm did he step forward.

      Out there were signals, footsteps, and engines of a greater industry to which he need not yet return, when the call of a woodland shrike hung in the stillness like smoke, tenuous against a backdrop of sunny oldies (that are indicative of social and cultural imperialism). The frabjousness of the approaching subjects, with their concerns, issues, influence, and intent, as if (consonant with the expedient etchings from three decades ago still served as a reminder or trace) they tried to sketch an outline once of burning man from distances, gave him pause. Then here was this everlasting idiot, this hyperactive strumming zombie (stop playing air guitar man) who couldn’t help but miss the beat.

      Frederick demanded coldly, “is there something else we should see?” “Here is my collection of necrophilia. Seventeen minutes into the binge and you’re already a panacea theist,” the interloper observed. “You don’t care, you just die to the moment, you should lighten up.” “This is your house and you can do whatever but I’m leaving,” Frederick insisted. “No, you aren’t. That isn’t a method of experiencing catharsis, my child.” Baited by the Preceptor of Europe, the scent of life grew cold and suddenly the portals shimmered immutably again and dissolved in a dull thud so thwartably, and in fresh free–fall Frederick stood about, forfeit innately that the closest exit was now reverted beyond him. The tacky mosaics were now alphanumeric tiles that glowered implacably as an adze laterally, indicating that the lowest floor was approaching in a whisper.

      The kiosk settled into a leaden knell and at once the imagoes within, previously regarded as caitiff unto his perfected moral visions, did suddenly spurn Frederick’s own affable remonstrance as spurious, and with just cause they jocosely nattered that he was at best an ill beast swatched upon a day glow whiffle ball about to be shrank in enlightenment until the whoop–whoop seethed in amethyst azimuths. Entombed in miniscule lapses, the untoward disinclination to venture a creative trajectory ensued, while thin minute Norns eventually trowelled up the summit of declared magnitude; an expiation of why else might any of the events pictorially detouring rapid engagement from the picture of unfolding profession occurred.

. . .

Out of the admixtures of comatose awareness, the ensign opened his eye one day. Turned human, he recognized no sovereign but her Majesty, framed on the far wall in a pose of youthful coquetry, who had done very well by him. He was in a private reverie, beyond which their world wilted like a premature crocus (or other springtime flowers) as the relentless throttle of Communism, unchecked by his Argus–eyed vigil, threatened all organized things. To say that he had been clocked out long would have done no justice to the unforeseen vacation that followed the shrugging star fallen upon his head. Ensign Plair, six stone in arrears after little more than a fortnight, felt weightless, ephemeral, and pleasant. Most of the morning sun spilled into his tent, and as he glanced to filter it, astonishment accompanied the seeing of his own hand, translucent.

      A rustle at the entrance caused him to freeze. The familiar scent of violets, that had haunted his dreamless journey, reached him. They belonged to the day nurse. Confident that any possible movement would betray the signs of awakening, Plair, his heart hammering weakly in his chest, looked restful. The day nurse paused, stopped a moment, and left his side. Plair sensed that his ivy had been replaced.

Category: Act I Revised Ed.

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