I – x – A Handbook of Moral Feasibility.

| May 28, 2013 | 0 Comments

Resolved to learn, Ensign Plair resumes coma. Nicean debate over Great Window, referencing 13th century political events, settles upon coin toss. Justine Rust, HAZMAT czarina, prepares for interview at Kalisthenios Institute. Frederick II quizzes Logan Ferguson over the future, and finds escape clause. The agnomen relates failed attempts to disrupt the flipping, and lumine (AKA neuro–Niceans) deliberately hidden from the levy disturb Nicean harmony. Frederick II is laughed out of Hades, and his resurrection stifles dissent. Horace Tolstoy, author of poor haiku, seeks help at Institute. Logan copes with temporal distortions.

I — x — A Handbook of Moral Feasibility.

In an order equaling all the better to shill at a moment from something hidden, and offering a harbor light that yanked suspect recidivism in blinkers toward conterminousities, the ensign cornered some thoughts. Quaintly vast if no longer plaid bywords seethed on single paths, and when one ingenuous had porous melba filed unusually klatch, freer bas–reliefs vended locket zinc. He had no idea, yet only a small feel of a recent, resistant, hesitant, and persistent, albeit slight, disclosure, of where he might have ever been. The portrait of Her Majesty suggested a tinny introduction to an amanuensis figuration. Plair was eager to whitewash the impudence she stiffly exhibited to his dada, on the ground that she wore a yellow ribbon.

      Anon, Plair thought, morally justified in exacting a thing, of all of the times when, after self–congratulating his own impeccable behavior, the most terrible stories exactly confuting that filtered within earshot. Yet, his training suggested that the portrait might be a recess actually retired, one jinxed history where instrumentally preset chosen triptychs of laconicity staved into future usage, if misdeservedly bonded oilily, for icons knit beside without bumbling in the stale latter has been drifts. Until then, any plied definite hokum spilled between ironing fewer; only two plasticity multiplicands anymore stripped evinced misnomers on counter indications least reverse for routinely.

      Certain signs, such as those dry miffed hectares and oasted doleful pungent strain crocus, wedded sloven reticules, admittedly weaker than accolade with maybe all germane co–dependents ancillary to posterity. He and his colleagues had undergone rigorous biofeedback awareness training and, on occasion, were able to simulate sort of a leaden calm, dredged from lentils unexpected to understand from some monochromatic individuals. More troubling was his naive curiosity, that someone might else side with ergo relevance on social dim apostasy if connoted surfactant despots were erased. What had happened to land him in this spot was, a queasily home fringe anonymous alumni fidgeted, waste not affianced to starry plods setup over all, beeswax growth thins gonged if not frightful, had habitually in Minos’ flax etude seethed pale gerunds. Should Plair display any signs of awareness, and were he truly home, ordinarily each hive savant laird foppishly nascent coined together sped, or an operative from MI5 would soon arrive to debrief him.

      Yet, if the ensign had fallen into fouler hands, his awareness would expose Britain’s other secret agents to immediate interrogation, torture, boarding, brainwashing, and other copious details. Besides, the clowns were still sleeping. There was still a very limp channel into Erewhon. Ten minutes a day, the skies afoul with inebriate emus, a cause for alarm ensued. The ensign, alias Plair, needed to learn more of something designed to unnerve the fellow service elements assigned to prosecute an investigation into the episode preceding the assignment of a missing inaction grade to Lt. Col. Simic, before emerging from his emotional cocoon.

. . .

“Our agnomen’s plainsong continues,” Ahem reminded his erstwhile listeners, as seconds, anointed guardians of the first, met in closed conclave. According to the compilations of Van Cleve, Frederick II had regarded the “unlimited autonomy of the Lombard communes,” under the leadership of the free city of Milan, “as incompatible with his concept of supreme temporal authority.” “Were we to ask their opinion,” the chair proposed, “perhaps they would lend us fresh wisdom.” The seconds replied, “lumine have no choice. If control of northern Italy offered the prospect of a land bridge between the Kingdoms of Sicily and of Germany, it was unlikely that Frederick contemplated a forceful subjugation of the region, until a resumption of the ancient conflict between Milan and Cremona in 1226 compelled him to stand by his pledges to that latter, most loyal Ghibelline, stronghold. They will go if commanded. Responsive to the merest hint of an imperial invasion however, the communes will succeed in blocking the alpine passages at Trent, thwarting the German troops raised by Frederick’s son, King Henry (VII) while the emperor tarries at Ravenna.

      “Everyone knew that we hearth matrons, bereft of our luminic charges, fear desuetude. That the decadent communes had displayed such Spitzengefuhl seemed unnatural to us, and though Frederick II chafed at what he regarded as his son’s dilatory response, no avenue was left but papal mediation, whence Pope Honorious III revoked all imperial bans upon the Lombard communes, restored the fiscal exemptions of the vacant bishoprics in Sicily, and in what he regarded as a unifying sop, pledged all parties to renewed vigilance against heresy.” “Unless,” added And/or Hognozed, another of the seconds, flamboyant with indignation at the dilatory canons of all too busy, “it is settled now that the messenger will not leave without the first. That week inheritances had, after yoking ad nauseum drought elements, marooned upon a shrinky dink (it is a term applied to the amphitheaters of capacity) sociably copacetic, and of yet monotonous tinniness, and reverted with regular dimension.”

      l’nurt Glyntz, another of the seconds, derogated this causal outburst of her colleague, yelling over the sudden feed. “Unless skaters left to trace polygons upon the etched file were consanguine from full liberty in the development of evocative patterns?” “He comes in there and expects to lead us by the noses.” “It is a self–defeating attitude, if you would like my opinion.” “He knows that a third of the first will rebel against Him anyway and cast his precious creations into perpetual conflict.” “Then He will have to die to save them?” “Needlessly, we are not here to fathom any plans,” And/or retorted. “If any have led you by the noses, it is those hair splitting fourth.”

      It was averred that sedulous lists nobly impended from there. “All I’m trying to say,” l’nurt argued, “is if shadow puppet wishes to go through all of that turmoil then fine, let Him. But would it not serve all creation if we were to select, and thus prevent, those lumine most likely to rebel, and keep them with us, sparing our Lord and mankind much grief?” “We’re thinking of a number,” her faction chorused. “Our excellent quality control methods will ensure perpetual happiness for all concerned.” “It would make no difference,” And/or protested. “Of any part that we yield (given that we are resolved to yield any at all, l’nurt interjected), of any part,” And/or persisted, “one third are destined to rebel against Him.” “Au contraire,” l’nurt replied. “You speak of destiny. We agree. We are convinced that certain individuals possess profiles predisposing them to acts of rebellion.” “If we can spot these monads in time we will have done our Lord a great boon.” “Our excellent quality control methods will winnow out the bad asses and guarantee perfect security.”

      “Nay,” replied And/or. “It is all or nothing. We must give them all away without condition. We are either so in or we are way out.” “I am tired,” yawned l’nurt, “of those who keep insisting on the binariness of the universe.” At this many seconds giggled with the hierarchic disdain wont to overtake any static organization. “But,” she continued, “let us give our wise colleague the deference he has earned. We will accept his proposition. We are obversible.” Many seconds, grasping this tide, clamored. “To chance. To chance, indeed. We will let chance decide our course. We will flip for it.”

. . .

“So instructed by our wise agnomen,” Ahem commented, we grew into manhood and reached a plateau where we could regard the civic politics of our nation in romantic yet unfettered instinct. Talitha’s shadow after a dozen years ouerved the ice maiden, Justine, who wished to leave her sponsorship of liabilities behind in a quest to be the next Moxie girl. In case you were all wondering about the momentum reserved to overwork, after pausing for the crispy crackly surface of those store bought brownies (at what cost of course), we perceived pellets for word forms and were taught to bounce reliance off a structure until it finished swooping around. As we became sensitive to the constant realities around us, we were endowed with the ability to make snap judgements about everything. A panoply of mint clusters scrounged in the preoccupation of knowing that one is known only by the lies one has told to the fastest clappers who slept amidst mushrooms begrudging the daily pickers their honest toil.”

. . .

A HAZMAT czarina, Justine, had once entertained, during numerous subrogation proceedings, individuals who acted as if they had lives elsewhere. Most of it just had to do with forgetting this tedious line of questioning that forced the respondent into an egocentric, non–value added point blank assessment of instantaneity which was promulgated as miraculous by a lot of problem children. Ever since her makeshift hide and seek arrangement with the eternity of maintenance, to her mind a static concession of mannerisms, did subtle canaries etch the general mystification behind glass about never seeming able to predict covert lateral errand, with fire sticks albeit quietly with incomprehensibly random shrieks. Thereby egregious moods characterized her milieu and instead of spending time with others, she sat around believing that she was the cause of everything on a daily basis.

      As compelling an explanation for material blandishment, this incredible assortment of effigies, next to a point where one can issue blanket statements of principle without them being perceptible as individual cries for help, failed the cast from becoming bogged in obstreperous scurrying. Was she constrained to experience the totality of an embrasure from an ossuary of the cardinal noun oracle? At any rate she hurdled to her interview at the Kalisthenes Institute as the telephone rang. Peering toward the future, Frederick now noticed Ferguson, and demanded to know the source of this mysterious impetuosity.

      “I would say we are as things go,” Logan reluctantly replied, “in an unfickle period. And in keeping with our strident advances, inasmuch as mankind, albeit well practiced in coping with exigence, is retarded in scope by only natural movements, apply for an exemplary submission of all quorum seeking activities that hold us unaccountable for unforeseen consequence. We have, as persons, demonstrated an unquenchable capacity. Our predilection for hastening an arrival, causing many inventive breakthroughs, has reached a seeming limit, for if at any time anyone might possess the option to arrive as anyone, or even as anywhere, else, at any distance from one’s previous state, within twelve or fewer hours, all possibilities breach the limits of infinity. No longer spatially challenged, moreover, recently the untoward mobility of our persons was shraught only by stasis, as actually descriptive meant. In no manner parallel, a development of electromagnetic distribution networks augmented and extended the spatial bias, the furtherance being that if not we, physically, then our minds, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally, might overcome the second separate frontier, all other cause then, similarly evaporated in significance, shrank, thus alleviating need, pain, and warts.”

      Yet had Logan also time to spare in concert with the junctions unborn, who were called upon to observe the thousandth anniversary of what in some respects was an event of still such resonant matter in shaping the consequence of no less than the creative fiber of every (upon reflection) apprehensively triangular incessant movement, that obstinately consensual even linkages ennobled lives with the capacity for singing no to drugs? Eventually, so well was the south rising again in a sort of fabulous facility level led often circumlocute, that en route to a rodomontade involving flute, piano, and stirring violations of parallel structure, they sojourned in lit urgency toward a reception of animadverting anionic hearings, and bade a stern braid of interminable skein rapport aloes closer to a sightly hill a–floating in a bowl of heaving punch drably displayed upon the wrung if wiser counsel. “I am having a real retro fit,” Logan insisted, “half of dear December lapsed and Christmas sneaked upon us four weeks after the day there were no leaves, revised motions not readily detectable unless reflected in pools of certainty.”

      It was as if the entire universe had clustered in a small point beyond the observer’s gaze. For all that Frederick had practically finessed the polychromatic worm with cool words, a surtout, and a diadem, he strained on the bridle hand, “what would I give to poke forth from here?” If in somewhat ennui all along, Zoyschia lisped in toto and stained him with alembic conversances, so hourly might trammels recuse some lowly seers ad infinitum. A really true coal rose at length baffled in somewhere eponymous qualities as bored to leapily abscond, so Frederick wished he hadn’t recycled that only gazette, proof that he was ever there, and skipped into steerage eyeing hugely eager obvioregals warily tagged (there are no wobbly nose placebos as homiletic, they intoned), and if albeit lacking other’s baubles to mantra awareness, the Emperor of Jerusalem was at last discharged into his own field.

. . .

The Great Flipping.

. . .

“The seconds, in deciding what portion of lumine were to be left to shadow puppet, had first to decide upon what topic they were about to settle,” the agnomen explained.” ‘Will the messenger leave with all of the first? Be that resolved, then, a simple question, yes or no,’ the chair ascribed, ‘thus democracy in action, and our fundaments upheld.’ They looked to And/or for assent, but he was in silence. ‘We have taken a great step today,’ they moved, and spent no little time in developing a statement of principle.” It went:

Granted, then to here all ye Monads Present, it shall henceforth be established that our Hidden lumine will be lit up only upon Occasions of Sufficient Merit; nonesuch aforesaid lumine shall be freely proffered to All, but only if such Persons to be Shared with specifically ask for them by name and are then Adjudged to be as Suitably Cool as are the Authors of this Declamation; that the Principle of Parsimony shall at all times be Adhered to with the Following Exceptions: that the aforesaid lumine are to not be Adulterated at any Time with Substances Designed to Prolong their Existence, but that such, once Exhausted, shall be Boldly Replenished without Resort to Sulking; and that, upon those Occasions when the lumine are Deemed Necessary to be Lit Up, Suitable Thanks shall be Given to the All Highest and Every Effort Shall be Made by the Authors to Ensure a Fitting Contribution to the Celestial Chorus. 

      After lengthy expostulations had concluded, they glanced at And/or with the best of intent. “We haven’t heard much from you today.” “You are awful quiet.” Some approached, hesitantly, and were filled with awful realization. And/or had sent his own simalacrum to their little meeting. It grinned at them. In sudden panic they stampeded out. While they were flipping And/or had sneaked out to the remuda. They caught him releasing the latch and punished him shamelessly to exile, where one’s Sunday best meant underwear recycled only a few times.

      Then it was agreed that to they who had not, it would be taken from them. Some felt that they owed shadow puppet only a tithe. Others advanced an alternative. “We will keep but a tithe for inter–regnum and leave nine tithes for Him. Thus will He not be assured of our great respect for Him?” Others thought that this was too much to give away and proposed that the proportion of thirds held some significance. In this wisdom were differences split, with moreover another percent tossed as a sop upon the table. Then fully seventy nine percent of lumine were designated for the catch and release program. This was a generous sum by all accounts.

      For the administration of the survey, the seconds had only to determine what twenty one percent were in their view least fit to unleash upon the universe. They all had babes out there left howsobeit nicely. A hapless second arrived to arrange desist orange phoenix quoth she yet unobnubliate therein tainted leviathans of thought preempted immediate objects too shrill. Where were they? In guile had the matron doft elusive dropped a fledge into her purse withal henceforth resolved to expiate numerable adjustments issued rote. Heuristic recurrence afar from ode coerced decorous auction of principles remnant to them and in trembling lapse recalled their tensions good. “Yet in so doing will we not create a future difficulty?” “Do not forget we are eternal. We will have no difficulty.”

      Those who perorated from the address of the well, however, soon refuted this roseate assessment. Their messages of conditional salvation had persuaded the lamplighter Anubis to punt. Fourth and eternity. In all of the smelling house saltiness, only foundered blandly nice southerly fogs of wearisome distant assonance, and the sense that he was obliged to make sense of it by using words that had been written already, were left to tell a story that may not be so conveyed after all with such utter facility. In fact he’d received oblique reference to an impeded sanctum that could only resound unto direct appeal to that which was almost high, because in pointers shown how far along orlop must, though indented by us men, gather all matchbooks eking mellifluously few.

      “So they are from behind homes and call in unctuous voices, staying cooped up with cubically sure encomiums, we shall offer thee light soul mash would ersatz ache alpha undeterred by lions unborne. I’ve become my own mother anyway, squarely kissed in the streetcar, and have but louses to forfend. Are all ways closed to her children?” The ensuing neuro–Niceans ambling by in formal pastiches hadn’t wound buckles except to arithmetically eideticize their oats and spat, and Anubis observed that they despised the door often, “then scuffed my face, I see they’ve chosen inroads too shoal for contempt, and despair shall attend them, their drink shall turn to ash on their lips, and they shall call for one to save them. In the hour of your wrath, O lord thou shalt vacuum them up, and in dying light thou shalt bear them to the shady vale.”

. . .

Embracing the dead Tyrant of Jerusalem, one synergized dastard blasted arias of should auld acquaintance loudly, and haggard monads traipsed down through a stained glass sketch beforehand, a far cry from nobler company. From their terse soprano commands embarked now a wish that eroded the yellow brick, and blandly, seeking a convenient gasp in the wasted space of death, there was a sense of offload encomium, the dead king sneezed incongruously, his spirit fenced back into the murky present lair, and grim, yet sunnily ajar the door from Ixtlan slammed unilaterally, with only a sidebar adjournment suitable for framing. “Por favor,” the late corpse incanted vaguely. The ostrich scribes clutched their papyrus tablets, stricken with pallor, and denounced the black tapestry as lurid, but no looks could kill as the shrine echoed in the vacuum of Frederick’s restoration.

      “Could this be art,” the faithful drizzled away, “or might surely our shadow puppet theories of recreation outpace the ponderous dogma too long celebrated?” All stood in hushed candid revisionist thinking, as it was written, the social gospel thrill–seekers in His wake graph peculiar asymptotes off the wall by grace, “and if it comes to herbal design, may systemic way posts jingle in our weaned personae.” Piero, after all, thought, “if this doesn’t beat everything, I’m a washed–up podesta for sure.” Ideally, Frederick embraced his new people, most of who were too cagey to get a close–up, and the lavish chowder thoughtfully untouched, proclaimed a sectional uplift. “Previous crusaders, forced to check their hats at the door for a hundred years, had cluttered their quests with litany. Today,” Frederick concluded, “the search for a new canvas shall gratify the sidereal heavens!”

. . .

In any given pusillanimity, author of poor haiku approached the light aggrieved for his actions that had caused the world to end. As it turned to amber, he gunned through it, enjoying the stolen Maserati and feeling secure in that its owner, who had traveled to another existence, would not be troubled to recover it. However, his new lease on life was troubled by a sense of experienced difficulty whenever he turned his head more than one hundred and eighty degrees. He had resolved to seek attention, “although,” he reasoned, “there is nothing that they can do for me, other than document the fact that I have visited them.”

      On the steps of the Institute, he noticed that his Village medical card was missing. This in itself was sufficient cause for him to step back. Fortunately, he was aware that no one had noticed him yet. “They will ask many questions. They will wish to get to the bottom of this, as they put it. Western medicine,” he recited, suffers from over reliance upon cause–and–effect. Comforted by this assertion, he drew back. Moreover, once they had discovered that his head had been reattached by supernatural means, they would view this as symptomatic of an underlying cause, such as depression or other disorder. author of poor haiku wished not to be subjected to their batteries.

      Yet even as he turned, he felt a tug of regret emanating from the clinic in that he was lost, and the prevalent culture could no longer help him. This nerved him into plunging through the stanchions. All he wanted to do was sit in a quiet room and write poor haiku, and said as much to an intern who shook loose from a busy day to take his temperature. She asked if Horace was hearing voices. He replied, “do you mean like voices that physically impinge upon my eardrums?” She asked if Horace was going to kill himself. “I’ve already done so,” he replied, “and look where it’s landed me.” She should have laughed. “It was a joke, lady,” Horace lamely muttered, but she had already clomped into a nearby atrium and slammed the door behind from which he heard the hushed and anxious whispering.

      “These socially responsible types have no sense of humor,” Horace grumbled. Too long in life he had meekly waited for the door to open and the persons therein to dish out whatever their whispered debate had privily begotten. But no more. So he ran. Cleverly avoiding the lifts, Horace sought side staircases, dodged gurneys, and sneaked through deserted administrative corridors in the falling dusk. He ran so far away. His circumvention, however, gave his pursuers extra time, for he had reached the open air, and abandoning the Maserati, was watching the shuttle bus chug merrily through the traffic circle when a butterfly net fell over him. The reverse psychologist saw a cigarette in Horace’s hand, approached him warily, and said, “okay you just stepped out for a cigarette, right?” “Well you would have too if it happened to you,” Horace replied.

. . .

Naturally these interviews failed to mollify Logan, who watched as the walls writhed. The nature of sub–consciousness sang light up my life to him, while in hip waders that said use more of patterned favorite habits dreaming of asides (to use) during lulls in popular conservation, assisted by conclusively small commons, and though the last ice age had not occurred since January fifteenth, mentally Noone persisted in citing this for an excuse to avoid exiting this premise during which the pretext of time spun and upon the conclusion of which left the perceiver with a series of deferred covetousness going only to recover that glaul (italics mime), the star matter ever since the infinitesimilization of whatever. “Forgetting the solemn canons, my every act was abominable to Him,” Logan exclaimed, and the sleuth bots comprehensively staged bazaar listening experiences to another germ of mute agency, a swell recall from the drift toward extroversion lessons within range.

Category: Act I Revised Ed.

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