II – i – Born in a Barn.

| June 30, 2013 | 0 Comments

Bitsy Ferguson attends a sermon given by her father, Logan, who has flown to visit her in France. In distant space, inter–regnum high council entertains a motion, concocted by the Nicean eighth race, for perpetuation of the species, and an astronomer (all too busy) attempts to suppress evidence that the Nicean home world red giant is about to engulf them. Strange angles, exemplified by AHRIMAN, languish in an inter–stellar crib after the latter’s escape from the neuro–Niceans. Matthieu (Ylferim) Paulrus, president of the Iberian Film Commission, awaits an encomium in his honor while reflecting on recent experiences: Ylferim, Alcuin, Marta, and Horace locate the mythical land of Ossian beneath the Antarctic ice, and are accosted by the poster child of Ossian.

II — i — Born in a Barn.

While Binaca (ne Bitsy Ferguson) Suppressant, for a month wed into one of the most huge and notable houses of Aquitaine, was justifiably proud of many things, even her father, a man exhausted, and about to be thrown out, who at the moment officiated splendidly at a votive assembly turnkey nonetheless, at any rate, in search of a cure for Snorggi’s Syndrome, she’d taken up the quest for which her first husband had died in Ossian, finding a cotillion bemused by her vapid rise into corridors of power reeking of ozone and instant coffee, visually undressed by scraggly beaded gentlemen who guessed that their fortnights imputed them to tell war stories all the livelong day. Only the entrance of Ylferim, the man from the important district, ever galvanized them into any deportment.

     To escape, she left the building daily to wear out her ‘stocks on the twisted fabric of our own clutter. She had no idea that she would have worn down her last pair of dry socks admiring doors for their architectural variety and for immeasurable vagaries within. One day she met a man disguised as an eflot distributor, who imparted sage wisdom before surreptitiously burning his geothermal golf cart. Disappearing in a shift, she leaned through portals thick, thrice barred, yelling at the dour within who, though thought safely tucked, finally emerged until change forthwith resulted. “I deserve to be up here,” she announced, intent upon making her plight a durable one.

     After the township, while renowned for its leftover bent, ponied forth two hundred and ninety seven dollars and twelve cents toward a cure for Snorggi’s Syndrome, Ylferim announced that the name of Bitsy Ferguson was, after gleaning more than ninety percent of this sum, above all other honorees invited to the grand table for a closing ceremony. If the belief that she had warranted a better fate then this hardened Bitsy’s attendance, tediously describable in worlds elsewhere stated, most totally similar nets with matched funds augmented their victory of the first district since Reconstruction overall (although general landslides outright, precisely demographed, spelled a deviant trend toward recurrently fashionable isometric ousla diet conducts well splat).

     So Binaca dozed inattentively until, amidst one of his mottled sermons, her father appeared startled when an immense chanticler heralded a reading from St. Paul’s epistle to Titus. Numerous efforts withstanding, the simple cool action indivisibly ratified all previous sequence for, as much as an oolithic actuation may have shielded an ought remnant of justification, one incapable of untruth allowed one to brighten existing outlooks with new speed. “It is arduous,” the Reverend Dr. Logan Ferguson began, “to make singular concordance with reality while ink molecules drawn out of every insight were. Still, try understanding a folly occasioned by man’s own search for preference of belief in several points of order.”

     Although many local yeomanry, their own translation at a loss, glazed decorously in their pews, a remnant of his most loyal parishioners, who in the name of their own faith had renounced citizenships to cross the Atlantic, wriggled as if from concomitant hibernation. Among the original founders of the Church of His Most Glorious Multitudes, their first bid at power, a twittering resolution to allow trans–migrationist views into the body of tenets, drew from their pastor a snort of such focused derision that they decided, for the time being, against this.

      Ferguson was in every way capable of depositing enormous amounts of letters on innumerable themes to any claim for a tent show shove. The ceaselessness with which he inveighed against their nimble mores only, while hardening them in their sedition, brought energy, cause, and devotion to the straddled church. Week in and week out, he accused them of hearsay, falsehood, and slander. “We were asking,” he at once said, paraphrasing the opening of the epistle to Galatians, “that if Christ calls sinners to repentance, must we thus sin in order to be called? Must we be led into temptation, delivered from evil, not as justification for works under Law, but as children of God receiving?”

     They found they’d settled instead, in this race with chance, for the role of spoiler. In any given league were those who had run, without expectation, from the beginning. They were champions. They were one step ahead of the marquee, who also ran, some not as well as their original promises (for this they were called backsliders), and some much more well than expected, who were regarded as darlings. Those who were not expected to run as well, if at all, as anyone else, and did not, fulfilling expectations, became the pack. And amidst the race panted the spoilers. They were never this year’s champions. They may have been disgruntled backsliders, unexpected upstarts, parallel coursers, or calamities in seclusion.

     Alive in her father’s household for almost two decades, Binaca knew well how important sporting metaphors were to him. So if his congregation regarded Logan as a strange implement, competing with pipe organs, battlements, and actual combines of the bronze fixtures that landed them foursquare onto the pages of So Near To Thee as one of the ten most architecturally beautiful churches in North America, even dissident elders pointed out that, as a veteran, he was a little dangerously south of the border anyway and as their inspirational firebrand, was mostly worthy of their continued attention. “Learning that,” he now said, “I had forgotten of more motifs, that sparsely superior trenchance was an invitation for implicit gift dwarf loaf, detesting dogma, to duct tape the chimney effect over and cause everyone in the entire epic to decisions unthinkable previously.”

     His daughter remembered the time of a great inter–regnum, when Logan, reaching his limit with the variant instruction of his staff, threw the original charter in their faces on that terrible scorching Labor Day Sabbath, announced his resignation as their spiritual shepherd, and retired to his farmhouse on the Blue Ridge to follow the football season on his new satellite dish receiver. On grounds that, as the original rock and founder, he could not resign, they clustered in their recreational vehicles, forming devoted shanty towns, eating by tailgate, and cheering in wild abandon on those rare occasions when he might emerge, covered with cigar ash and clutching a Bud, to reprove them.

     “You are wolves at the door,” he shouted at them on one occasion, “waiting to buy up all of the cotton, breaking at your convenience the continuity that serves tradition.” Yet even a man might miss making manifest mockery of himself, if this were a time–tested means of acquiring craved attention. They had not failed, without trying, to recognize this sad disposition within themselves. Binaca, who saw him as a great man, listed this as reason enough to close ranks with the loyal opposition, if only to be sharpened for the ordeal to come. This news had seemed deflationary to him.

     Meekly, after a year’s hiatus, he returned to the pulpit, aware that it had become with those whom he least wished to be found. As if acting most horribly, he promised that one day, he would be gone. “The fly on the wall will be thy sole attested witness soon,” he told them upon his return. “Then wilt thou find that thou art not running for any prize that thou hast not already grasped, achieved, or gained? Then shalt thou dread the finish, and do all thy might to postpone the final tape, hope squelched, of anything better than what is now, but it shall be in vain.”

     Over a question of finance erupted the long anticipated ouster. Never breaking faith with the church, the Reverend Dr. Logan Ferguson soon announced his intent to funnel their great sums of wherewithal into a secular organization, the Founders’ League, directed toward comprehensive efforts at mapping the universe. Many hesitated to admit publicly that their leader appeared bent on proving that, other than mankind, lonely, benighted mankind, no intelligent life existed elsewhere, pulling out the rug from beneath the splintering beliefs of his followers. His entire guise went into maintaining this cause, and while elders derived pleasant moments in seconding his appropriations (in the interest of rational debate), they eventually cast about for ways to toss him up on the shelf like a partially hydrogenated loofah sponge.

     Knowing that her father’s days were numbered, Binaca watched in great agape as Ferguson, who had every right to bitterness, ended with words of conciliation. “Regard in the tryst of brevity an actual insistently pleasant ontos of forgiveness. Spare no space that exists whenever plinths occur. Stick not your folk with any check, but share all in perfect composition. Avow there is not any other Lord in the day He will give you imperishable cloths to withstand those inflammable tarts of enmity, who startle monsters of ever worse repute on some levels. The pathogenic complex weakening resolve to endure in these very threshing days, when cobs bark verily, is a surety over frightful misconceptions as to ignorant flaunting of ordinal nucleus. Nevertheless, oh Lord, stay not thy loving–kindness for wayward kiln, as they, who have had their licentiousness revoked, comprise an observable church with all of her apposites, in a sunlit realm far beyond care of an ominous vision supplantation, innocuously sediting existing equations, axioms, and quotations.”

. . . 

On a Plane of Possibility.

     A symbolic anastomosis, spiraling into existence, is this sentence barn raising exercise; a nimbus weave, shaking free of kites too ordinary for semi–professional eternity. “Dear leaders of inter–regnum, allow us to borrow from the oft–maligned proposition of Leibniz that this Now is the best of all possible moments which we may find; pray that this flippant seizure of the great philosopher’s testimony is not a merely passing fancy; and expect, nay by all means demand, that this construct is wisely used as the plinth upon which a great pyramid, inverted in time, is hereby recreated to rest upon the apex of departure from which all else flows, that being the most correctly perceived and defined Then.”

     Typically, the descriptive predicated concentric spires know an ashram from a hologram, vastening only in the event that the chamberlain (all too busy) interrupts the eighths’ touted slide show to ask, “do we limit ourselves by placing Then at a preconceived moment and depriving all subsequent conclusions therefrom?” “Only Now,” the uchaux reply, “twenty centuries after first exposure, do we understand the concept of begging the question?” The fjulsfut high five waves many hands, demanding, “aren’t we reviling biodegradable insole phrases, touted that these pageant beings typify duped doe snot, and failing to bear in mind our styptically irresponsive abilities contained elsewhere Then?” “For sure,” the uchaux perhaps temporize, “yet furthermore, this question need not have been asked at all, since it departs from the task of regarding Now, rather than Then, as a most critical topic. Forsake further scrutiny, and let’s compare.

     “Continuity dictates descriptions of a working model of existence. Consider, if you will, the quantity time (t) as the abscissa of a Cartesian axis that rests conveniently upon your table (as is pointing toward our wafer rooms?), a flat universe extended by secondary ordinates risen rapidly to point somewhere beyond the observer’s control.” Now, uchaux kick the tabula rasa ontos outside. “Two ordinates, x and x’, define a plane from which abscissa t (now), a property said to be as eclipsed by rinses into the great beyond as any other universe hastily contorted, definitely describe areas by x and x’ as planes of possibility.

     “Assuming a moment of conception (t = 0) when areas contained in the plane of possibility are infinite, and given that time increases as the limit of the plane of possibility decreases, we approach singularity, at which point areas of the plane of possibility begin increasing with elapsed time, approaching negative infinity, at which point the cessation of all death occurs. No longer need inter–regnum be limited by linear notions of a downhill slide or whirled apart by karmic cyclotrons of indifference. A promise of re–expanding horizons awaits those who have achieved their point of singularity.” The inter–regnum council locks these uchaux into a room without walls and increases their sentences before moving onto the observatory, from which nervous glimpses of their placid red giant occur. “Which still leaves us searching for our own. Is this Then? Was that Now? And, aside from being at the bottom of this page, where are we?”

. . . 

     As, in the next room, the astronomer (all too busy) declaims, as a knowing look, that he mistakes for concurrence, darts about, a hue of grandeur warms him, for only this salves an inferior suspicion that this is the first step over a scaffold. The astronomer has only the dimmest recollection of actual conditions, suggestive of an aperiodic captiousness. A reoccurring event brings these profiles to his awareness and he launches, lamenting that Noone knew how the intense process of renewing an institutional mandate could wipe from the slate his oversight of actual conditions.

     Faced with them, he tries several times to glance out plaintively, as if to beseech the actual conditions to desist and return the system to the placid equilibrium that was announced by him with such confidence only moments prior to the onset of them. Peculiarly galling, of course, is the inaccuracy of data, concerned with the confluence of sidereal motions, to which he has devoted significant study, yet now that the data is public, as in out there, and manifestly incorrect with regard to now specific actual conditions, he trembles with anger against the unwonted promptitude of those printing devils, hitherto so slothful on the university dole, that had pressed his inaccurate citations; with like alacrity he will fain denounce them vehemently.

     He knows however, that now there is little hope of commiseration. At best, one might reply, “yes, it must be difficult to forecast motions of celestial objects that have only been in existence for billions of years,” and he is too proud to accept that out. He peers into his tools for a ray of understanding. If only forces might resume their original course, or an anomaly surface, some straw out there to allow him to declare the entire event deviant; but in gravimetric redistributions consistent with specifications, his Telstar toaster suddenly reveals an ember of logarithmic normality. The astronomer (all too busy) gazes at it thirstily as it lingers, scintillates, and ebbs.

     Transfixed, he hopes his intense devotion to convention will feed this spark of reason, and glowers at the data, waiting for normal trends to resume, and then they too flash anxious tinsel dense flare downs and extinguish in passage antithetically afflicting. Nearby systems now too wobble as if once staunch underlings have become surly kingpins. God, how he wants to slap the planets for romping around like such capricious rugrats! And if only a mechanism for amending his earlier finds exists, he will gladly stand hunched before inter–regnum council to announce the error. But the commission has already dispersed, bearing like a germ his misapprehended outlook. Actions based upon his enormity are imminent. The before arrangement of previously scheduled tasks arrests him. There is no need to go traipsing around in a mood of self–pity. Far better to stick to one’s guns, remain at one’s post, and who cares if one’s eye continues to offend on this stormy night?

. . . 

     Enclosed cribs, frocked in woven swatches, tilted against time, humming on the edge of spheres which clanged with Aurora’s upset. Lately over against the fair fringe a proto–orca nestled, a starched and idle progeny afloat with grinning phantasms boiling decadently in the wings. From this cot, viewing the perturbations of a distant stellar mobeus, he errantly ranted as if; what lies could bottle forever until decorous finth chewed upon characteristically otiose hope?

     Incapable of real avidity a prince, gabbling torrentially upon delineations, poked about from amber spars an urgent course. “Don’t be foolish,” the dybbuks whistled at him, “nor think about going over to awaken in a land where one no longer wants open mikes, has anyone in this apparent scour noted that decline?” To these ill truths he led with his chinny chin, man he saw how little inferior were they now to those noble spry portraits etched upon vast wells of pastiche. Once, prior to elopement of Delphic symmetry, and the fecund palimpsest donated from the recession of those touted dileuvean ebbs, how happy all they seemed leaping across the zodiac on their way to witangemots capable of dispensing real law before all of this information happened. In a garret of miserable privilege he languished, this prince perplexed with rancid acclaim tossed at him from his mean cluster afield; he gyved being unable to offend them unlike his agamic sienna brethren non heavy.

     How this unranked being soured any notion of equity; in stark contrast the qua breakdown of particulate effects noted one who strove and showered upon all with liberal indiscretion an even batholith. “That would just about do me in,” the prince indicated, referencing, “have you ever been chained in a relationship? Imagine the noisy acclaim you freaks give out all of the time and having to listen to it all. You inventive men, your keen fancies whereabouts I, poor innocence, am smashed in ultimate struggle with Gnostic light, forgetting something aren’t you? Then night arrives, you blame me, you rape her incandescently, you divert her currents and sink your shafts indiscriminately to banish darkness to a wholesome ware, you will not rest until the entire planet is brought out of perpetual gloaming, though inklings gather you shut them out.

     “What is so bad about formlessness,” he would gloat on for a while, mingling truths impiously? To his obstinate nature we owed much, yet whilst the light of knowledge bathed men in guilt that they were coddling their world at a reckless pace, and driven from understanding by priestesses of electronic sublimity, we resumed a course thrice denied to his chagrin. Eyeing growing twinges for a loom again to spin, the prince noticed an impending glissade. It was his wan hope. It was an neither outwardly or overly sophisticated concept worn whole, when retail space collided with recognition that all epochs of time were compressed into a cosmic shrinky dink.

     To those who had been within, life seemed freer, fresh, sadlessness requited, and so trembling toward a seamless embrace amidst intermediate valences, they found those without the next stanza irremediably tedious. “Beware,” warned the headmaster dybbuk, iamin’thelim, who declaimed at those cubs within, “many have tried to read too much into this.” To an example they now turned, eventually, as an afterthought, if it helped at all.

. . . 

     One day a man invented a machine that would not stop writing sentences. He did not have as difficult a time selling it as he might have thought. He bypassed the podestas and appealed directly to parishioners. Soon every person who thought much of himself at all had one of the little sentence writing machines. In this way, they were able to both write personal sentences and serve them as well. Anyone never needed to leave their house again. Yet, everyone continued to do so.

     Despite being afforded many opportunities for simultaneous consummation of accretion and gratitude, individuals were seen at any hour out of doors, away from their little sentence writing machines. One would hesitate, however, before affirming that this state of affairs was the least bit troublesome to all concerned. Nor was it safe to imply that individuals were wholly sanguine about justifications constructed to support their perpetual sorties. Individuals, if pressed, would be the first to maintain that they were, by any stretch of imagination, on a quest for things.

     This inventive person, the Dan Matthieu il Fiume Paulrus, anticipated an encomium lauding his contributions to civilization, which now predicated in the expectation of getting a lot more stuff done. Extending the repeal of the death tax, a strategy to attract constituencies to the Global Village, il Fiume knew that it was all up for grabs. However, the insistence of the Village magistrates (fiber–optic podesta), that the conveyance of his personal estate into a living trust provoked a transfer fee, left him incensed and vitiated with frustration. His own creatures, he thought, were turning legalistic at this of all times.

     Amid outpourings of mediated love from the creative community, his mind twisted fitfully, seeking an end to it all. All his torque went into a real inducement one Sunday drive during an equipment agenda lob. The three amanuenses inexplicably afoot labeled these tendentious exclusions of whatever habit as chancier for anyone who chose to remain aloof, being reclusive of their littoral seance. Previously awakened enough for entirely temporal regressions, hence from origins exclusive of modular settling before flowing into reverse gravity retorts of salve, in earlier situational voids nary found they flighty reasons to stray from events. What was necessary to uphold the latest line abruptly curtailed in stoppage time?

     Ylferim grappled with this due. “Are Norns here,” he replied? They stopped discursive efforts then. Knowing them present, they waited. Honestly, the entire glade lapsed in sound as if in the lull of a forest top wind before dawn. “Shush,” Marta said, and they listened to a thin reed, the voices of winds forced through a jar. Henceforth view staves as left from one who wandered long ago, before the healthy stintful mainly rhymed. With each bore bleached dreamt throughout iceplants winded one (will) until an Ossian, before relit and swerved cold lonelier octants, plugged on ethical flow through deliverance. Now solid against live far memory, the postier child elated via rave a strong hazard whist, enfolded were every IOU received, permanently rent and/or denounced further. For naught what dewy now lodged star struck with leaves of as mauve clear earliness pledged pepper pots kindlier deemed? Forever will only be different and within risked soils were tabulated each if not eerie half–life’s dull boon, propped within the legal limit, a discrete old fount of functionless irregularity.

     In silence, the Norns left them to rearrangement of consecutive synonyms. All flowing singly from events, they thought (back to the gravy train) that flatly asterix incidences of shape correcting would illustrate an omnium–gatherum or bitter dichotomy. Although not lost at all yet, did now they ski in finesse one chilly eve an outcrop of continuum, a breakneck diamond trail precisely dolled up as few dudes everywhere bobsled past dubiously irked, deftly sieving the stage powder until they pulled up before one who knew that the least effective method of beginning conversations was with general if not editorial summation of events unnamed, and also assumed within mutual perception of expertise beyond exemplar? The approaching phaeton rippled through lanes frequently in no fewer than three second technicalities until inkling axioms fitfully occurred beyond emetic forget–me–nots and elemental details over isthmus treaties portending a name forelimned as pica agate piedmont.

     Not that the isolation form banded an episodic lapse again, though when spilling virtue down for an inward bent, after fleeing further interviews with the Inspector as chance occurrences, some too far beyond in preparatory stance, Alcuin again refused to go live, instead wielding versions scarred from the stars that flew from this bobbin in rote for a pfennel punt. Hither ineffectually upwind to a diehard node that would just not give up the erasure of, “cinch that parrot before,” quoth Horace tersely as read, while their train sped toward the evening. Stranded at the icy gate, that platform called Berwick, they seemed to have lost it in time. “Man, is you on the moon?” They stared at the approaching figure, the poster child of Ossian.

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

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