II – ii – Somewhat Ergonomic Houseplants.

| June 30, 2013 | 0 Comments

Sasha Van Etnabaron, studying the strange oeuvre handed over to him, hears the late Marquis of Suppressant extolled by Rex Ampersand at a memorial ceremony. Beneath the Antarctic ice is Ossian, a virtual paradise under the beneficent eye of Snorggi, where folk have complete immunity from Snorggi’s Syndrome. The skeptical Alcuin, wandering the shores of Ossian, notes various deities discussing the impending inversion of the Universe. As the encomium for il Fiume opens, Ylferim’s old WWII colonel, Florian, reads a citation for bravery. The Nicean populations strive to escape the super–nova, sending scrapmon’ to convince their prized tictuses to join the hegira.

II — ii — Somewhat Ergonomic Houseplants.

Disowned correspondences, presumably conducive to metaphorically based reference, gave enough primacy to a retrieval of past forgotten thoughts. Naturally Van Etnabaron knew, as well might everyone else, that the intervention in Ossian had occurred to restore tranquility to an island riven by militarist forces held to have changed the nation’s duly elected, albeit laissez–faire, regime, and thus could be forgiven for worrying that his own incidental presence had been pinned as such a casus belli. Moreover, the participants of last week’s round table had been released quickly, and bid adieu (with the lone exception of Bagler, whose ex parte at the resultant inquest, agitating suspicion of Sasha’s materiality in the inexplicable death of il Fiume, rendered all other irritations pale).

     Nettled by this exposure, Sasha thought of pressing charges against ELIZA’s abductors on the spot, but his family was already waiting in the car, and he really didn’t feel like dragging them into a thing. So whilst days passed without further incident and everyone else except him sank beneath the radar once again, Sasha took to studying the strange oeuvre handed over to him, as distraction to have been vouchsafed a glimpse into foundations of a new era.

. . . 

     As the somber strains of an abstentious elegy slid away into deafening silence, men blinked. The insistence of the late Marquis d’Suppressant, retrieved from the cryogenic transformation at Mount Period, upon hiring an amorphous chamber orchestra to perform Cantos on the Memory of Benjamin Britten by Arvo Pärt, left the listeners with a sense of inconsolable loss. Noone had worked more diligently in recreation of the spirit of Locarno, than the Marquis, that vast strategic vision of globeencircling alliances, had. Rex Ampersand, Earl of Rumsford, had several questions.

     Why had Suppressant worked all his life away only to toss it at the outset? Being right was a thing. Everyone was in some way right; instead, convincing others of one’s own right was the other thing and a problem occupying the sense of individuals recently. Was Rex now compelled to carry forth the grand strategic design of his mentor, given the nature of his departure? There was the all around person concept, and the man had not measured up. He had on many occasions sought habitually, to the accumulated incense of friend or foe alike, loopholes recusing him from the requirements of citizenship. Not really anyone had ever known his thoughts as he simmered away over there, not even those misfortunate many colleagues ignored or injured enough to have been barged into by him during their attempts to exit the washroom in deep thought. Invariably this oft provoked one of his twohour diatribes with a simple procedural question. At any critical juncture he would, with the aim of lightening the moment, toss in a casual barb, mocking one of the protagonists.

     Had his derision been allinclusive perhaps he would have earned their universal respect, yet who was not smarting from one of his casual asides? One could not even call him effacing; he made a circus of his humility upon an altar of selfprofessed ignorance. Rex could have gone on. Suddenly he realized that he was delivering the eulogy. “The only tragedy,” he hastily concluded, “was that the man persuaded a lovely family, far lovelier than he deserved, to join them in his exile. He leaves us then with his vision.” Rex stepped away, flustered beyond all decorum, and dared not look up, though he ached to evaluate the regard of the principles toward his indiscriminate invection.

     Rex waited for someone to stand up, mention something like, we might want to take a look at Suppressant’s ineffable contributions to society, and tick them, one by one, each a nail into the coffin of his own reputation. Something began to clutter. Soon a roar of applause filled the evening. Next, limerances arrived to convey them from the rote. Everything off the threshold, haunted with the former application, was stinking up. But as it seemed that visions of adoring futility assessment were better than nothing else, one without any reason to brighten this wonderful thinking dogma, that’s almost a raison d’être for city commissioner, interspersed with the national puzzle, gazing at one of the returning line. The advent plan, if it was a spontaneous spirit starting to take over us all — conversation spans scrambled by one of the sudden spots — dated until midnight. Rex brushed up the call, “I’m reminded about life in things from the wind above real timberline.”

. . . 

Macchiatto Anyone.

     What else would follow the tapping but for established festivals? While waiting for the Inference Library to open, three weeks or so moreover nearly transpiring before they noticed if the enamel purple smoking lamp was ever lit, and facing a snack bar drive into summer quarters, they’d not immediately checked in on many persons valued as former grasp straw denials in habitual detail. Cropped as tetrahedrons after an outrance altercation follicle dividing debate over a roughening, many individuals emerged, edgily earning withal an upgrade of sonorous majesty.

     In certain clauses here, their thin fortitude tamed into sententiousness, they framed an exemplary digression about behavior modification theories in blind circumstance. “Just let me give you an example,” the far out scribe, wearing a raspberry beret, indicated whilst they slid amidst the crevasses of the antipodean graben. “You would go anywhere if it weren’t all booked for the holiday until you saw him, lawgiver and key parasol Stadtholder dear, he is so loud, do you know what I’m saying?” The air of Ossian was, at six or seven hundred feet below the ice, of so bracing an initial tonic, bubbly at first sniff, as found by all arrivals from other climes, that nearly everyone overcame their inhibitive mingled wits and then some.

     With an air of steady exhortation, their guide spoke of our great mentor, “and/if some have seen fit to remark, albeit rather mildly, that his offspring, in their partiality to small fry, have devastated a once thriving coastal angling concern, I submit to you, kind sires, that this was but an infinitesimal price to pay for the immense wisdom Snorggi has bequeathed upon us.” When he spoke, vast lights of disuniformity twinkled over his shadowless truisms that left no mistake, here were slalomed in blinking pageants the fault other mopped need whosoever dealt long in poor sprays.

     “To begin with,” the scribe continued, “though sent by the ministry of fauna to administer soporifics to the Great Seal, I was myself languishing from Snorggi’s Syndrome, and in my inability to distinguish metaphor from allegory, was reckoned not long for this world until the instant his mild glance fell upon me. I would have stopped on a dime to pick up a gum wrapper! By God, we had already established that my previous life, steeped in egalitarian traditions of slouching, was a mere murky puddle from which I, tabula rasa emblematized, emerged onto the most level of playing fields, the beneficence of sound revisited, and of fury signifying naught, whilst over in the somewhere wild yonder his winking golden eye perceived the fondness of my hope, that was to descry the right era to really mantra across the thin dodecahedrons, subject to ad valorem and rather waddled rinse checks, and I so became embraced in the emblazoned stillness of the force.”

     The travelers groped to a pinnacle, seeing that far below somehow, clever folk had begun to reclaim the wastes with great tilled semicircular wedges of foliage, and temporarily shed at least of their ubiquitous artisan pajamas of black, pine, and tang to rearray in robes of azure ore, “signifying that which we were first called upon to defend,” amidst a field of dazzling watery features and of sparking sky tones for the first and only moment of the decade, their serried ranks huddled against a mottled conjunction of argent ribbons suggesting that giant children, agog with the prospect of tree trimming, had left drooping rivulets of tinsel trickling into uplands of heath, woodlands thick with kine and flaw, mesas aged in antediluvian echoes, and river vales so harshly green that, the scribe concluded, “I was moved to tears. Reviewing my charges, the freshest, the sharpest, the most assured selves that I ever saw, I discerned the patterns of history too large for the common man.”

     As they sat upon a promontory to rest in areas among the rumpled dun rippling folds of earth, beholding kindly shaped reservoirs that backed onto a distant massif cold, large, and crowned with a glimmer of ice that snatched up the clouds cavorting unconcernedly overhead, the scribe added, “whomsoever shall not see the eeriest rays clarify into a truthfulness that balderdashed all, get out! Turn away from this New Harmony and persistently induce omitted voluminous staves castellanus. What you now know is less than you knew before.” Some few flushed at this crystal blue persuasion and withdrew foot by foot, noting the change in climate signaled by the dwindling banks of southern snow. Yet this was only a parcel of northern Ossian, itself a cordillera of an aggregate subcontinental land mass that was but one of the seven acorns of a world heretofore never reckoned.

. . . 

     These premises, weaned consensually upon the rerun, left Alcuin, in an ever guessing manner, to steer his budgie along as best as one might. The minister of transportation, owing his post to staunchly sial nepotism, awaited the forgotten dial slogan suddenly and for the first time in decades discovered and remembered a fact. Even if he were committed to finding a flat sack for stowing impedimential clips and laminar guidance concerning medial encounters, the Earth was commencing a drying cycle because the presence of agents breathed, taking liberties in compelling an illustrative composite ion, an iota glyph nonplus is as voice symbols for inventing more apologies than were necessary. Doors closing invariably represented or accompanied decisions preemptive of a basic futurity.

     Beyond the seventh assigned seal lurked rearrangement, symbol of the original temptation, inventive formless chaos, the void, and finally a conch, resplendent ear, which beckoned one to distinguish individual (objective) signals within an allowable frequency. A man where everyone had the ocean inside one’s mind met that remainder linkage with firmament. A delineate knot of confluent tears met a shore of shadow. A prince neap, dissatisfied with the fate of his realm, turned to shadow puppet and besought Him for odd entreaty.

     May the planets beyond (temporally) give this a corrected spin. “If scriptures burned any more of this, allow even me to influence at least marginally Alcuin’s projectus.” What was the problem? “I have just discovered nostrils on my nose,” the suppliant scion retorted. “They make me look, alien, nude, and utterly vulnerable. I wish that I did not have nostrils. One moment I am cavorting with the Nereids and the next moment I have nostrils. I might have drowned, you know.” “Howsoever, should you keep your head tilted forward, they are not extremely noticeable,” shadow puppet advised. “Their presence is a reminder of my ultimate role. It is a frightening event and renascence,” the nerveless old sea horse wailed. “I miss my gills. I need to turn on the television to discover if other persons also have this feature.”

. . .

     What has started around four o’clock makes no difference to a horizon, turbulent, with somber old indictments cascading in prone sheets of menace. Thin wisps careen off ornate pillars dinning inexorably from a mottled, discordant, and hitherto plangent stratum. Now and then episodic rifts meander upon the hectic surf as if sown by demented plowshares in bucolic spasms. Each inflection, dully transposed from hovering daguerreotypes, wafts through skeins of synoptic regard, reverberates in the pallid sob stories of learned monads, belabors the architrave of a nimble, pendulant, and spurned novena, and lattices in concordance with the usual zippety Faraday due date red shift, spoonfed a peripatetic linseed oddment nearly already incensed with pulpy yarns of tweaked frizzily humdrum cicerones, whose flimsy cries almost decently involute darling, their serious biopics lodged in candescent sibilance.

     Reeling from the laity in meostitatic droves, these henpecked atavisms stamp clearance perfunctorily upon placards thrust at them by the exudated periwinkles incurious as to the sordid fuss, for hasn’t anyone failed to repudiate the realty of cofferdams deemed effusive enough to withstand even a floridly fluffier acorn? They’ve also inaugurated office pools upon the approaching doomsday, in case weavier short notice as all rang get out once those boffins finally drew conclusively grounds for a premature disco entitled the last drop, and rejoice insofar as the dwindling populace has eased the difficulties of locating the Inference Library. “We’ll thank them for the importunate photosphere,” express the avuncular old turnkeys, blankly unconcerned with icons that ring of placid either/or positrons, and restfully assured that nothing can be further from the truth.

     Other morphemes although, fickly convinced by the imminent paucity of salutary roaches, dawdle with no other prospect beyond clearing their sills of unsettled matter, and to the senior librarian, And/or Hognozed, the shrieky roasted star overhead, its cognitive dissonance basting the capitol’s gothic monoliths in a lazy sirocco, gainsay the popular conception that net worth is hereby augmented by any precipitate hegira. He is hastily soaking the commemorative proof sheets celebrating the twelve billionth centenary of this, their cherished capitol and penultimate node, Blandizona, in hopes the shrunken reliquaries might squeeze into a verticule bursting with cultural lore already. Hastening toward the pantry for more acetone, And/or is brought up short by a languid figurine in the bay window who stares into the Merlot skies.

     There sits An, his only, blinking unconcernedly at his exhortations. “Hasn’t it occurred to you,” she confers, “that I’ve gone bughouse in the constant scramble to relocate?” Inwardly And/or dithers, for in mislaid confidence that she’d left on the three o’clock snail, he’s used the extra cargo bay to stow the entire collected works of local nose flute master Dorf Zafner, noting that An is aloof from even hinting of a condition which might alleviate her fey intransigence. Yet he knows of a time and a place where she once exercised absolute suzerainty, the sudden eviction from whence had elicited her plaintive despondence.

     Weeping, he goes into the roundhouse, sweeps the delicately embossed scrolls upon the causeway, and watches as they tumble upon the rabid firmament. There really is little time to spare. “Come along, my weird dingaling,” he whispers to her shadow, “and together we will find the indigo sphere.” An brightens visibly at this premise, yet as And/or stands, tapping his feet impassively, An vows she will not leave without her fez, and sunbeams are presently crashing about as this requisite preparation unfurls.

. . . 

La vida suena

     The encomium was booked in a hot and dank auditorium. Refuting the concept of dessert, wolves at the door gathered for a very important announcement. The dreaded event brought together avatars, divas, and key grips of the Iberian film industry, all bent upon extolling the virtues of their founder and benefactor by sweeping everything under the rug. Watching the storm flags gather, Matthieu reflected upon recent experiences in Ossian.

     Still at odds with the planet, moping a lack of pending issues, and assuming that being normal could comb out the thumbnail drives shown recently, “wherefore my derivative howsoever,” Ylferim said, “given to each spindling moment from a connotative idea often periodic, for want of appliance, and lacking second sight thereof, made knowledge of imported shadow puppet’s custom received.” With a gross of place settings to spare, a creditably lean green siren solution, while eclipsed of by a tall gold tan van, a man at six nineteen was leashed to a terror and for want of development, presided over the vigilant reckoning of effective information processing techniques that presently began.

     As the principles sat, a Barmecidal feast was set before them, consisting of artichoke omelets and whitefish filets. To an entire few, the lot of Earth, drawn from a haphazard array of telekinetic options, was cinnamon toast unless her citizens, recruited from all walks of life, were able to politely toss aside their differences and combine to deflect the inexorable course of the invading alien interstellar demolition derby. Given the tempo, none of them could have a nerve for the onrush of felicitation. Il Fiume, as nascent heir to a declining family fortune, spent his adolescent years determined to shame his father through wasteful decadence.

     A grand and venerable figure, Colonel Florian of Fiume’s regiment, the Lupe di Tuscany, from the war years, doddered to his feet, donning pince–nez to read citations accompanying this most prized decoration, the Knight’s Cross. “During the solemn battles of 1941, Corporal Paulrus, despite heat, dust, and sand clogging every pore of his being, did not lose sight of the holy mission upon which his legion had been dispatched. Supreme Command, seeing that Paulrus had eagerly translated wireless traffic of the British legation in Cairo; Paulrus, entrusted with a batch of excerpts, was ordered to report thereby to Africa Corps headquarters at El Adem, a grubby outpost in the middle of nowhere. Paulrus, shunted aside by the staff duty officer, a towering Tedesco with red shoulder stripes, and susceptible to frequent incursions of Flugelzahns, especially pestilent desert insects, persisted in gaining the attention of the local commander. The man fixed the diminutive corporal with a curious glance before being intercepted by a flood of Axis officers. Major Bach’s battalion had been cut off at Hellfire Pass by a squadron of formidable Matilda battle tanks.

     “In defiance of doctrine specifying that signal personnel had no need to be at the front, Paulrus promptly rushed there. He arrived at precisely the moment that the battle hinged. The RAF had neutralized the battalion’s standard complement of 37–mm antitank guns. Enemy tank forces were but sixty yards instant from the Axis line. Corporal Paulrus had studied gunnery manuals in his spare time. Locating an 88–mm anti-aircraft gun that remained operational, he directed it into the vanguard of the enemy advance. His spirited resistance halted the British drive. Severely wounded, he brought the wireless intercepts to the attention of the local commander who, learning that Whitehall had started routing their relief convoys around Cape Town, was enabled to make farreaching strategic decisions affecting the course of the war. For bravery in action, Corporal Paulrus received the Knight’s Cross, 2nd Class, becoming the first Iberian enlisted soldier to receive this coveted decoration. He demonstrated grace under pressure, skill far beyond his station, and performed his duties,” the regimental colonel, his voice quivering, concluded, “exemplararily.”

     The public ignored these pronouncements, although the key grip was able to filter ambient chatter for final production. By contrast Matthieu, tickled to find someone older than he still lived, rose to embrace his centenarian superior. Though their friendship had been founded on a fluke (in return for keeping silent about affairs of Colonel Florian who, in his day, had been quietly brackish, il Fiume received transfer out of the penal battalion whence his family’s longstanding indebiture to the Risorgimento confined him), Matthieu was reminded of a time when folk were not so eager to display their good fortune. “Nuts for everyone,” he said, gently returning the ancient gentleman to his seat. Furthermore, noticing Florian’s whey posture, he turned to the director and ordered a beaker. Drinking this restorative, the old colonel silently sat.

. . . 

     Almost now impends an examination of those fin–de–siecle Nicean populace elements disparaging formal codicil. Individuals adhering to the tenet, that inter–regnum is in a perpetual cycle of simultaneous creation and destruction anyway, walk toward calamity with little more than a lahdeedah, which is, in concession to urgency, slightly higher on the Popsicle scale than a fiddledeedee. Others may calmly accept the actuarial risk of certain annihilation as an improvement to existing mores, and many gregarious elements devolve toward touchstones of urban legend, agog with prospects of communion with likeminded personae.

     Among those bent upon diaspora, however, an effort transpires to induce key individuals to join their precipitate flight. Accordingly, scrapmon’ sets off to remind tictuses of the imminent novena. Influenced by a sense of renewal, this monad (fjulsfut) resolves to perform beyond one’s own expected capabilities. His task involves the shortterm rental of cultural rhythms. Wholly fictional up to this monument, his empathy is engaged in a series of crosscultural transmission barrier oversighting easements. The vellum consistency belies the difficulty of actually facilitating septicity.

     Signal clarity ensues whereever tictuses gather to celebrate the anniversary of the big band. Anyone describable as anything less than marvelous here finds refuge from iron gothic reality monsters and their reactive dispensational therapeutics. Yet every aging festival ever assembled, and there are many, pale beside the busily chorus of Aurora’s first few. Blessed entropy, time’s cue, vaguely stare while on used ink; these jitterbugs deify security, dissolving light in dark little clumps for an oriflamme. Air becomes them. Visible production of an harmonious ether cesium based noise oils many cogs of a deistic universe, subdividing future races into those who are getting along on easy street. Almost whenever their indeed resigned songs bounce against the galactic carapace of night, inept echoes without like noodles under nothing more than thin cherubs waddle like outcast sorts nightly grained.

     The nominally sudsy scrapmon’ has raised the bolt to hail at the burbly thirds with tidings of mechanistic photopause, yelling, “now this shift blogged ouch nor within reason turn off that bellicose yarn with such glum plumes again soaked.” Howsobeit clasped in preternatural fondness, scrapmon’ notes these pro forma flips and prithee tends spotlessly in, “methinks smattered woolily access node is splendid across truly mental outlooks if ye did scram beneath figments putatively.”

     “We refuse to wade into your snobby paper view simply to garner more foppish moments,” the jitterbugs complain of a lintsy grange which foments, beside each slowly fabric merely flooded stubborn, in a born again pageant imminence. “How come,” they add, “weavily must we drop all stitches simply due to some perforative maypole without reference to ulterior minima?” Emphatically they beckon the hesitant messiah into their pleasantly domestic lissome boulevard, saying, “sniff about and tell us this ain’t utmostly debonair.”

     “With such Zen edicts due,” scrapmon’ begins doggedly, until eftsoones into plausible festive weird minty texts droops trail mix ubiquitously, and to one accustomed to too fewer fuzzy outbursts, that sudden accolade of worthwhileness he must liefer smile at sorrowfully, was not his beak so strung out. Everything had been all right until he went to the new demitasse fifteen beers ago and she had simply destroyed his alter ego. “One must never attend physicians,” he announces, “for as a Russian author once snorted, they carry on as if they have just discovered everything yesterday, and will go out of their way to find fault with your demeanor.”

     In each moment are microcosms of all fifty license plate slogans free floated in front of a reality of scarcely averted menace, shut out beyond the dark glass which stands, hands clenched in pockets to wait until you scurry forthwith. Hence their stricken daystar roils in restive stour, staining the dome in a ruddy mantle, and scrapmon’ gives pause to reiterate that operators are standing by, until his noble succor, effaced in a raft of titters, is bid tarry by his hosts, who clap for more mellifluous garlands to be strewn about: “mickle whiles yet remain, and if you please disport thyself to hear our insidious histamine.”

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

About the Author (Author Profile)