II – iii – Immaterial Contributions to Waveless Tentativitude.

| June 30, 2013 | 1 Comment

The dan Ylferim, Matthieu Paulrus, architect of the Global Village, is introduced at his encomium. From the Palomar Observatory, physicist Elias Deerfield observes the distant super–nova, which some few prescient Niceans are laboring to escape. Stealing a march on its kinsfolk, uchaux, the Nicean eighth race, seeks to enlist humanity in its restorative projects. A local resident, Fernand, seeks refuge in incense. The fatalist tictuses refuse to embark, keeping their rescuers mesmerized by a plainchant until the super–nova occurs. A film diva, Mantissa, arises to extol Ylferim. Logan Ferguson berates his daughter, Bitsy, for refusing to donate her body to science. Offstage, Mantissa is maligned by her Ossianian kinsman, Fuald.

II — iii — Immaterial Contributions to Waveless Tentativitude.

Arguing across distances, two critics walked next to a large building sprinkled with plastic potted palms, a terra cotta snake, and some tepid fountains. “It’s no picnic being lost,” said the first. “When she snuffed that candle, I knew it was curtains for my short sell.” The other appeared pre–occupied with a sound of wooden ticking. “Where was our once unfiltered love,” the first critic serenely whined? All of a sudden, a holistic clutter of bronze clappers signaled the beginning of the encomium. “Our lives,” the second critic finally said, “are a trailhead to anywhere. Not only might most moments disconnect when cushioned in a tunnel, but we have only two also minutes before just what the world needs most, another reality show, begins.”

. . . 

     Installing the heuristic bug sniffing logic for Pyrogabion, Sandra felt fairly computer literate nowadays. As long as something was happening, panic was only an option. The maintenance interface software node clucked away, dispersing unwritten incantations, that you had to perform repetitively, if you wanted to get anywhere in no time to stumble out and fix something. In the interests of penance, albeit contrived, a passive docile recipient of appearances made the catch before a super–imposed haha. Yet of late this person, Ylferim, had misplaced items on his conscience. You always had the sense of seeing something for the last time, that curious glimmer, and whoosh the next thing you know bygones were &c: that valuable commemorative stamp of the Porcupine Conch, last seen in the Inference Library. A painstakingly handcrafted dissertation on the amative habits of elephant seals, stashed during that period when the walls had closed in, so safely you’d swear if it had been shredded. A check for five hundred Euros from Marta for repayment of tuition fees, that troubled him for latent implications of favoritism, was last seen in the Book of Acts. And that missing scroll from e–bay, authenticated as first century papyrus, an addendum to the prophecies from the isle of Patmos, which he’d pleasantly set aside for an evening’s perusal, also gone.

     Ylferim was at the point of falling to pieces for suspecting that a can of anchovies was left at the checkout aisle, but luckily it turned up behind the [sic] bat food, a melange of endless civility, preferred surf beats, whole milled ginseng, leftover produce, and antonyms. With naught now to his name but a gilt strongbox of unsolicited icons, for which the requisite if optimal pittance was postponed unto doomsday, Ylferim, long noted for the inassailability of his convictions, now set forth to establish a hot dog stand where those lost within the woods would be free to think about elapsed time, in the sense that a beneficent moss, even if thrust within the most odious crevasse, retains its verdant savor.

     “As long as we have a few seconds here,” he announced, “all my strength is going into not asking whether anyone wants fries with that. Framed as a cakewalk for something which, at some level, you did just not really want anyway, anything that might have gone bye bye, to which I most willingly partake the burden of my sanity, of which the ground has been broken and only the ribbon remains to be cut, therefore, citizens, I give you the Global Village!”

 . . .

     Lest another discourse intuit a tenuous snowtime, Elias outworked everyone at the Palomar Observatory to evade the label of dull boy. If only exuberance could be established early, but the electronic piezo–electric process circuitry had failed in its restorative effect, and Elias had to deal with pink eflots instead. The women knew how to write better characters using the cramped space of the multi–tiered carbon wafer form, and by contrast, if cleeped an epistolary inkster as ever were, Elias found his fancy calligraphy spiked and marred by angry dents misfortuned by the ceaseless jarring elongated radiation signatures, which did not really dampen until after a series of sweeping excursions into the beyond, lacking nothing in brevity, to mostly Altair, Arcturus, Eridanis, and Epsilon Ursae Minoris.

     Elias managed to trip the security alarm to a nearby stellar nursery in Epsilon Carinae, being not the first to perceive obliquity at this distance today, but the resident cartographer, while being nominated for an emeritus award from the state, did not mark noticeable enthusiasm for these individual sightings. Others, who were more or less arduously over themselves, summated a divisible occurrence within the house of Libra, well known to Elias by name, or at least by sight, lest we boast. An overwhelmingly bypassed set piece of wattage, forced from a hitherto unknown red giant at opposition, came forth, expelling noble gases from an detonating core. The leastest intern needed not this glimpse of eternity, afforded by the slipping of the silver banal appeal, to question on occasion a fleeting road, in itself too desultory, for any rational conciliation weighed like stones against the balance.

. . .

     Ten hours before an assignment, an individual claimed as boon one lost hour to watch the clarification of matters not about to begin. Ever since delving into principles of molecular decomposition, Colonel Florian felt helpless to avoid weighing generic ramifications of each movement. “Some lot of good would be done,” he might say for example, “to rephrase the assertive auspice docked in avoidance of austerity nearby.”

     Quickly during the exaction of disenfranchisement, not many scolded in variance ably. He had come to accept that he lived a walking biosphere, and joked privately that the earthly progress of his triumphs were shared by teeming metagrophytes that should at least rate a page in his vita. He lived at best a numb observer to his own passions and with each display learned to discern clamor, that continued to echo decades after each original deed, of yet another entrance to paradise barred.

     Once a champion of elimination tournaments, he now aged blearily; each move en passant counted for little else than fulfillment of a predestined span. Mostly he had needed the sense of risk, if in decimal increment, in order to spring one more typically motley day; now, disgusted as a mourning dove, he sought vague reassurances, developed from such entities as now precipitated, who held that letters were no longer able to contain typified immeasurable numerals.

     Now spooling forth, somewhat dissociatively, lest theodolites traced their eely craft stour in volition toluene, uchaux, their facets of tournament briquettes effaced as occupants insisted upon their glum hibachi festivals, and naturally restive from loss of archaic forces, strove each week to a finite grail. Enough that were all the residential fences with chialasm well bode ovations dutifully sprinkled. For this reason Florian had forbidden his valet to polish his image and tooled about in camera with a flat spider that was often not as populated by some. After all, the gulf between he and his realtor was far too vast to be binged unless he had aid of these spindly diligent little arachnids who always put him in a good frame of mind.

     Notwithstanding a full trenchance with the shadowy circus dance of his relief withal, yet remnant with an ague of derelict doubt, Florian had looked on while his star pupil, Matthieu, listed to prevalent harmonies of amortization, and autonomically thereafter bent upon substantial public omniscience to convoke facets ornamentally, ciphered upon these while without, avid acclaims eventually etched a strain of weariness into the excoriated plenum.

. . .

     Each morning, dressed if not decent, Fernand regarded children from the district. Their quest had become simple. They needed to find only, over the elevated turnpike, an Inference Library. They had habits of tossing footfalls aloft; their paths determined by the arc of spheres and with the effortless positions beneath each achieved catch. Often this progress was by turns hastened or delayed as spheres, tugged by winds or striking overhanging boughs, redirected in unwholly foreseen manners.

     Arboreally cloaked in a confluence of shadowy linden trees, Fernand’s window in springtime overlooked the district. Denied thereat explicit tracts that most often passed foresworn in this time, he had come to regard his dissociative tedium as passively observant. Ordinarily grippy with sealed less rareness, he constrainedly complicated theoretically too erroneous lickspittle reactions amidst Fourierist progressions to otherwise superannuate also prefabricated lathes. Deactivated by rote in any sort of communal ideal, he otiosely recalled seasons of real fizzy reception, before his oddly imperceptible soulful harness vaingloriously turned him into a tall sinister Pharisee.

. . .

     “Whilhomes,” the tictuses begin, “once were there all boundy zones where utmost tramps did cheerily pick across the chords of zodiac; steeped in weirdly goldenrod, land bards at leisurely bade cite whatever as long as all founts of plaudit wherein due receipt, and how eke might hearers swiftly ply a common wot so sang that second stanzas were least oft recalled. But then withal on facets rife monads echoed synthetic portal trends of ethos etymology et cetera; that form they’ve shrugged their nostrums dear to imagination vast ago and of one tidal forfeit spoke not.

     “So we at length wormed archaic airs ere capable regret below marred now fewer; one day your fond respects tickled over last laugh latent icons honest with an exact ratio retro. In due time glorious their features daubed inanimate salutes to tenebrous things whenever any last glimmer of daylight incandescently loud into the vast lamp posed on tons of sighs always indirect. Have alas the name they might say too gulpy to any extreme with years; rekindled interest in unmanageable flats though he’d already interns rescinded to flush their haunts of antiquity for statutes for express, invidious concerns, may shadow puppet bless these presents. His pad fraught with rapture offered any who were of a mind to let one in upon their current circumstance seized with longing inconsistency who intent to brighten any vale found courage to indicate how they were.

     “Such admissions few and far between left Workaday tripping over freights in search of one who might express an interest; pertained to social concerns Nonesuch now scoured the Palatinate for reliable simulacrums upon equipoise. Mayhap contained therein, most promised cues lent toward bas–reliefs of antiquarians clearly irked with faint renown who advanced precepts of heliocentrism tonight; also comprised were suitable voice to extol over miscellaneous dichotomies. Ylferim, intimate with chronic familiars modular, preempted transference during the pay per view dolls from spam symposium, since performed chi square evaluations in the mental chance that whoever imagined anacelestial courses persuaded of his own dull fettle forestalled wary blissful frowns.

     “Until news of the efficacy of Pyrogabion, Me–you–don’t–need–for–sure had counted so often on new insular penned cygnets which radially sparred florets from hear how much, ad hoc about nothing impersonal now a fearful numb hesitancy spewed on argots usable toll. Amid each interstice throttled vellum same day diffusions most equably sang ocular ‘tis of these were pragmatism an only raft found fractus in the reservable tinder. Where now was stolen bipolarization of course ubiquitously apt for the integral tort that affixed credit for fortuitous deviance?

     “Onto juxtapositioned erasure (lief your time flew open) while telemetricists viewed in static insularity their beliefs of incipient calamity recede from such. Wits who returned scot free how late had seemed, when our sages were once more nabobs of doom hustled from the spotlight of the happy precipice, and toward an envelopment of sham houseboat orotund else pledge, and insofar from us limes utter blotto with respect to convenient avocation bore, would so long then shout unto all stars as the overnight sky turned from symbolic reference into black paint.”

. . .

Help For A Hot Day.

    Upon resumption, a woman of amazing décolletage captivated their sensibility. She was Mantissa, chosen as the original Moxie girl, when all that stood between thirst and death was a thin and insipid cola concoction. An early immigrant to Iberia from the parallel nation of Ossian, she had augmented Ylferim’s inceptive biopics through her ability to maintain a demeanor of profound internal suffering, and her stormy glare always signaled the end of a scene as musical scores rampaged in dramatic flourish. A well preserved and leading lady of Iberian cinema, Mantissa nonetheless described Matthieu’s influence with a very wide and lambent gaze.

     “Because at first,” she was saying, “you feel genuinely miniscule, mortal, impermanent. Then you feel that everything that happened during the last hour was done centuries ago, and as you recount events of the morning you begin to feel lost, pleasantly so, but lost nonetheless. You wonder if there is anyone with whom you might share these feelings, but at that moment, the prospect of interaction with anyone seems harsh, peremptory, and rude. Then you realize that you are whispering your innermost thoughts aloud, much to the annoyance of everyone within earshot, including yourself. You feel that you must do something constructive with this feeling. And so he inspired me.”

. . .

     Amid several claps, a critic arose. Chosen in interest of impartiality, Mr. Ng was noted for his vehement powers of observation. “If,” he began, “the most telling mark of a true visionary is the degree to which he is despised by his peers, than the early works of Ylferim achieved this distinction on many levels. Knowing little of efforts expended toward completion of Declamations of Citizenship, a film cycle that had become wrapped around the groove of its own axle, il Fiume, persuaded of his direct title to the importance of events everywhere, let the train of public focus slide by.

     “Adherence to a present code had affected Matthieu’s earnestness. Appealing to distant and forgotten standards appeared less wasteful of taxpayers’ earnings, for in all that they were discouraged by popular taste, PFC (Paulrus’ Film Company), marketed in the spirit of deformation, succeeded in producing, in slapdash succession, a few too many shlocky serial send–ups, five boxy fifties teen creepers, several flagrant beach rip–offs, one thoughtful indictment aimed at persecution of writers in the United States, and four tasteless ideals of conformity to political thought.”

. . .

    Presently, as the old colonel recoiled from his commendatory remarks at the encomium, falling back into the atrium where he received an offer of a little dry feed bag, some earlier emendations oozed around in confluence, having sought a new Idiopath for so long that their primary task, to achieve a name for their kind within inter–regnum, had languished upon thresholds of familial obscurantism. Almagests, leavened for sincerity, cautiously substantiated, and lobbed readily out, insofar as regions archived sedulously from prepared surveyors less concerted with Circe waylaying asterisks, and in unison, through their specifically maritime constraint, alternative swarms with the impart of grabby intensity, did not fail to escape notion.

     To the intermittent well than where hopeful obedience meant, that isochronal ramification were nothing to think indigo bells had broken, for nations were so flooded in stamp dim agitation with bills of among other evidence labeled, looted, or for a fact where with a forte legend stamped, that the director, a man of pragmatic bent, suffered this request blandly, and cued the critic, who before the plasma screen, devolved a fresco of il Fiume’s works. “Gaussier (1949),” said Mr. Ng, “though laced with technically excellent performance, found little favor in worlds beyond range of the hissing kettle. His countrymen agreed that the lead actor, steered in proto–agonist schools of depiction, had draped the title character, a composer swept up by winds of opinion, sworn to democracy yet tormented by hopes of nationalism, in a maudlin bunting so repellant to actual national consciousness, that he, his school, and the still living subject simultaneously embarked upon careers of promiscuous decline.”

 . . .

     The Fergusons retired to the ornate estates of Binaca’s spouse, the Marquis de Suppressant, a vague and amiable figure who remained aloof from the reunion of father and daughter. As Bitsy’s children tumbled obliviously upon the grounds with their cousin, Tell, the Reverend, aware of a great vapidity, sat down for a talk with her. So peremptory had Bitsy become with her noiseless bath salsa, that it seemed impossible to leave the building without smelling like a rose festival.

     Numerous lawn chair slots had already been duct taped upon the cobblestones, much to the dismay of the ICA, which had grown inconvenienced by the throngs of individuals who insisted upon leaving their houses for unspecified purposes and walking up and down the sidewalks for no apparent reason all the livelong day. “I feel menaced by society,” Bitsy intoned, glancing down upon the contented masses. All of her work had ceased, her shoes had become a complete misnomer, her doctrine fitful, and she wished to see it martinized.

     In the huge sky–lit chamber that served as pantry, parlor, and foyer, a huge rack of her salsa recipes marched in uncountable ranks against the hearth of an ancient fireplace so huge that one might enter without stopping. Logan studied the labels uneasily. “It has never failed to escape my attention,” he began, “how your choice of recipes seems to glorify the deceiver.” Binaca, not wholly surprised, nonetheless nettled at this show of parental concern. She had thought that the mood of reconciliation he had displayed with the parishioners might have translated to their own relationship. Instead, he seemed witlessly committed to reinforcing her own intransigence.

     “Lighten up, dada,” she replied, “why don’t you return to your first love?” What would that have been? His eye fell upon the stamp of her ankle, the symbol of sisterhood she shared with her fellow Type N’s: the obvioregals, as they had named themselves, in periodic festivals of song and communion, cherished their exceptional bloodline, welcoming new disciples with the initiation of the Lilliputian tattoo. Ferguson, who had long invited sharp contumely by excoriating all such jealous, exclusive rituals, could bear up no longer.

     “Verily, even as shadow puppet gave it up to save mankind, could you not step up to donate a little of yourself?” “It has never been written that I must resort to such atavistic schemes in order to assuage your conception of karma!” “We are called to be emulators of Him,” her father said. “Within the entire military–industrial complex that you now serve,” Binaca retorted, “can you name one example of an ideal that emulates Him?”

     “For an end to division of the early bride,” Logan prayed in response, “for foolishness before wisdom, for weak before strong. Those who choose weakness over boasting gain. In much fear and trembling, was I among you, demonstrating a wisdom not of this age, but of things revealed of a spirit not of the world, of mind not of mine, in thiamin, of youth’s fancy turning to truth in years passage. I was never fool enough, old lord, to supplant onto the firmament my own little look upon see. In the light of that disclosure, why must I boast of anything but bliss? For I think shadow puppet has issued us as spectacles to the world, angels, and men. What an honor! For this we are reviled as the scum, yet let us be reminded to discern not words but power, for the kingdom come, in the hope and comfort that they will turn from their unruly lives and cease being busybodies and work in quiet fashion and eat their own bread, night and day, becoming steadfast and acting in a disciplined manner.”

. . .

     Seeing that her father was off on Tangent Road, Bitsy interlaced her buskins tearlessly and went home to try to think of some benefit that would follow from the indication of stray coffin nails in silly sylvan chiffon. In biathanatos acutely actual, preternatural fluff hounds had foamed for a miracle semaphore which spooled plenty of dementedly slow suits, wearing blazers to keep litigations confined to a third story flat in some pretentiously random guidebook district.

     Keenly unsung tones swelled; acerbically and sparring manifolds staked tuppence to throw darts at the Ossianian embassy in absentia. Amidst this court–mandated social work, Mantissa was hailed by an old flare on the night during which he chose not to dwell upon aspects responsible for his self–abnegation. “How canny to see you by,” Fuald said to her, winding even impressional love, its forms ever closer to totaling his sporty abrogated camp manna banded in the desert.

     Eddies between the hose he’d lived on spent any only nights treading between spilled milk and candle wax. He soon believed in forbidden ointment and telepathy. His sunken claims originated with us, who had been as urgent a savant as necessary and not simply in contact. Fuald did not mention, however, that in his sinusoidal flash how nightly this spectrum, irritated by husks of the seeds that he munched during his nocturnal insomnias, reverentially plotting to seize the robe of his superior, had fallen by the lusts thereof.

     Whistling Dixie, he’d asked us to verify that always farther had been sent finely actuarial at the insistence of Soundman. In a stasis, he bound continual settlements on the contrition that he’d never stood in the run–off. A man of his country found refuge in seedy tours, persisting in these unintelligibly actual embarrassments all the livelong day. With airtight backgrounds, they bent the dark glass so many times. A veritable alphabet of hurricanes from A to Z, these addresses plaid the shabbiest haunts from Linlithgow to Aberdeen.

     Burning with untold impersonal resentment, Fuald and Mantissa flagged a hansom full of mistrust and weakening, flew off the handle. Oh spend the weekend in pairs seemed the general consensus, and when his embittered romance stopped, he went off crying to the Scythian embassy, and was requisitioned upon the principles of submission. In this, he lacked profound knowledge and his Scythian passport confiscated, Fuald sauntered in a tizzy, syncopating with tribal paeans of betrayal.

     “Now dry me,” she said. “Why there’s to be the same ginseng in there after all,” Fuald cried, here but at least for now there was not someone who watched shadows running upstairs aloft. His modus operandi was to pretend that nothing was changed. Fuald had transited from waking dream to passive thought, yet still hoped to cast out very bland aggregates. Mantissa said, “now that the power’s gone, the ultraviolet wavelengths will kill us all.” What was a boy to do? “Now, I haven’t anything to say,” Fuald leered at inner voices that resonated audibly, but were still far too wet.

     “Blink,” Mantissa said. He blankly blinked. They all blinked for eyes blinked. Many times in succession, Mantissa saw lights and formless icons. “How couth,” she said, “you’re a plaid blue winkly poltroon and I’m more or less amber.” At this, Fuald said agreeably enough, “will you put your lights out, or must I blink again?” All he saw were two aspects receding rapidly in tunnel vision. Fearfully he weighed in, “now I know it’s your fault because you once had these ambidextrous hands for many things and now I grasp thin air, and damned if you’re uglier than a bas–relief. I would not touch you with a wiry pole.”

     Then Fuald, a big stocky kind, aimed his wiper blade and was so gratified by a thumb in his eye, and shouting, “your hands were always cold,” he grasped, and in touch with gradual darkness that receded until Mantissa was again behind him in retiring solicitude, glaring disdainfully. “We’ll never do that again,” she vowed. “Next time,” he said, “you’ll pick up the tab.” He turned into a Spartan environment inked pensively, fending off promissory notes. She had taken the red eye and returned to Newark. From the crepe recess of their minimal colony, a learned voice cried that his patron had emotively bid adieu to lead the best defense against Ossian.

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

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