II – iv – Beware Universal Discord.

| June 30, 2013 | 0 Comments

Ne Dipol presages to Alcuin the threat of a comet inbound for Earth. In distant space, the remnants of the Nicean races regroup far from the super–nova to lament their lost kinsfolk. Seduced by the Nicean eighths’ promises of restored youth, Florian agrees to serve inter–regnum as wishram’s Idiopath. Soundman of Ossian hosts visiting delegations who are scouring his country for wet hens. Upon return from Jerusalem, Frederick II discourses with the shade Mirabeau, whom he asks for news concerning the trial of Fr. Anselm. After her father Logan returns from his trance, Bitsy Ferguson is visited by angles. The Nicean races convene, granting tentative approval for wishram to recycle human souls into inter–regnum, and nominate an An Indocile, who pushes to colonize the indigo sphere, as Nicean Grand High Ambassador.

II — iv — Beware Universal Discord.

Unduly plot, the snack reversible crow, undeafened, drew nigh. “I am undupable,” the man declared, along a shoreline drawn. Seeing to the conch his ear pressed, Ne Dipol, seam squirrel of the sixth, arrived immediately, screened by a metamorphic surf monster offering estoppelof recent time coordinates as this subduction of ideal rest. “Was their thyme ground to a halt,” Ne Dipol incanted of him? Then presently might the fatal progress desist. The man, especially noted for marginal limns, took great hope in this. “However, perhaps I have lost patience with this, your emergent race,” the seamstress declared scornfully. “Why, our own eighth have already solved youth. A choirless and mimsy race hast thousands inning of you have all complete become.”

     Alcuin rigorously defined chance. A sap of all problems caused by a near inability to burying the parole used lines crumbled out of sole eventual third dumped him “ lens and may not be combined with any other. The ever sanctified cannot hear thee any more,” the wry sixth assured the undupable cartographer, surveyor of alacrity. “Yet we can hear them still,” he replied. The dispute between the sea deity, incensed that his realm was drying up, and shadow puppet, who instilled within his prophets an affinity for especially marginal notes, was demonstrable.

     They listened: “note metrics contained in the sectional bee control identification in each smell.” “Are the same colors graphically indicative of requirements throughout every record?” “The control information is identified in every block.” “How and why and for whom are we required to create macros?” “The old folk hassle was capable only of two levels: either going away or remaining in different form.” “And shall pages be printed from the top down so they might be actually readable when fastened into the document without the entire form flopping?” “Permit at least that we may select the method.”

     “Are other correspondence or technical courses tracked into the unedited basement?” “After each grain of salt, a now suddenly discovery that I have nostrils leaves me vulnerable to concern, not about whether I sing while I am sleeping, but what I am now confident of singing aloud. The event of this demise, so adeptly ratified, I claim as my right to manage.” And in the incandescent lo, He agreed that monads were granted, that the soviet retrogressions now would unfold.

     “Did you get as far as all of that,” Ne Dipol resumed? The human’s innate confidence permitted a brief insouciance. “Hell, the deity Neptune, displaced with the future, has obtained permission to influence events by correcting the deviance of his planet, thus making first steps in a return to a pre–Ptolemaic universe,” the wily cartographer assured her. “And one more thing,” he added, “I have staid afflatus.” For the startled sixth, who tripped and fell down as plumbers stock own missal inside the fourfold terrain, causal this bean evoked an ever talus of allegiance of original mass time acceleration met.

     “Undupable reject,” she observed tartly or archly, “I will throw a fair for you.” Mollified withal, a man concorded to carry forth ever arching plots. “Will you first throw out the quick flirt?” Alcuin turned around and asked her to say again? “Unless the time keeping apparatus is deafened the firing of a numeral concentric polar orbital dire, death spelling procedure need alleviating never, in a cinch will shell gain, splattering the ninth home world upon the hapless earth.”

. . .

     A provident federation of races, the Niceans circle their Conestogas around a rest area of vastness. SOMHAD already settles upon a classless gas giant goggling upon the verge of their frayed system, convinced that the distant protuberance would snap back like an outstretched wedgie prior to engulfing their new clearing house, and leaving them little more roseate than an extended tanning booth lounge might imply. They pore over these calculations, and/if pronouncing them ostensibly solid, a vocal minority declare a determination to press far from this erstwhile haven, even if this means relocating to frazzled marges of their androgynous galaxy where property values, due to influx of finth, have plummeted like the expected return of letters of credit subject to the imposition of Glass–Steagall.

     These estates–general then grub together in preternatural gloaming afforded by the blase perturbations, which cast distinctly piecemeal if soulful inequities throughout the icy cold of space in flickering Roentgens, and announce a limitless wake for those kindred spirits who had steadfastly remained at their posts within the compass of a roiling cataclysm that, if accurately foretold within their meticulous prognostics, has natheless defied leading opinion with the implacable suddenness of its outset.

     Few, if any, of the monads may recollect that the entirety of their household sects had held forth willessly to the scramble, and eftsoones their rookery resounds with lamentations pertinent to apprehensions of a diminished caucus. Outcast finth peer somberly at the distant campfire, knowing that even numerous amounts of their hardy blue steelies scoffed upon alarums and an entire border legion is reckoned as forever missing. Yet, this loss seems durable to the nameless uchaux, which wail that only that flood had decimated their citizenry to a greater extent. The keen witted space snails, who ply the seven corners of the universe, cry that once their matriarchs, even upon fringes of Bing Bang, had grooved to gyrations of the latest futuristic iPod divas, yet now their number dwindles amidst the mottled cacophony of strange engines. The sixth, dreadfully beautiful, postpone the internecine rivalries of their squabbling klatches to convene in misty recollections rivaling only Lilith Fair in ceaseless expostulations of you go girl! Next, fjulsfut, their distress measured by the frequency with which they absently trip over carefully interlaced extension coils interwoven with reality, factor that collateral assessments interdict their ability to receive negative feedback without remaining defensive.

     Strangely enough, these griefs are equably distributed throughout all nine Nicean races by intercessions of the fourth race, all too busy. Fabled at knowing all things, who else rose beside the filamental Lenten dawn soil yard fire cellar to acclimate awful agreement about saying another of the fourth, first of the colloidal, in hive, as splendid individuals for waiting patently in any event? A series of tangent waves smother isomer baffle fonts. Even untenets accept a ration of unseasonable mirth. Attributing, the fourth adjourn, with dreaded ease, their sense appeal to these ends, as warrantable fully within the blessed creed others have long, in immeasurable drift, ago opted the fourth to instill by virtue of their once marvelous, yet now biopically stale commune idea upon them.

     This era, if an inter–regnum of knowing, all as a civilization no longer in advance might have withstood fully (arrived at their former foolishness), is now in question. Many, mentoring among them, irradiate tournaments, that brief residence about the well of universal principle, that once ended four prior ages of prolific strife, grappling, and an era of specific gravity, during which the universe blinked incandescent eye shadow. A jovial trance at once fully describes the reaction. They are all of a piece so old, felt links, fail safe, from a sum of cloth, fault, composite, ashen featured as, in moments, the creed, intimate of glorious, permanent solidity, emprisms their as usual emanations within the proto–spectrum, allowing them rood.

     Appreciative of this glimpse of solutions afforded, peers are at liberty to commingle, despite their obvious and hitherto irreconcilable differences, with an avowable aim of longing for the hour of much profession, of exegesis, a millenarian single linear destiny, its inception unknown, yet locked within the secrets of the well, which they, for anticipation of wont, avoid. It has not long been so, but this no longer is abidable among many of them who, regarding their persons as suffused within an escapable dilemma, attach a sense of identification crisis. To inter–regnum counsel, unable to extract from any of all too busy (the fourth) that are fabulous at appearing to know all things, further exact replicas of before are no more welcome.

     Any further fourth, it rules, in interests of the dwindling benefits of Erewhon, that insists upon pressing forth with an explanation, will be henceforth regarded expendably, in the aim of maximizing existing resources, insofar as nearly all of the thirds did refuse to leave their pleasure domes and were last seen in attitudes of lotus–like defiance. Seconds scam to the hindsight of infancy in attributing didactic influences and bemoan their regression in obscure choruses. From the first only, silence emanates, and amongst broken remnants of a rain check, some cliques coalesce in newfound awakening, clamoring with a naturally bureaucratic imperative to affix a responsible incitement for the debacle.

. . .

     Over coffee served in the lobby during intermission, Florian, the old Lupi de Tuscani, was cornered by numerous personas, nattily dressed in wraparound penumbras and snowy leisure suits, who claimed, “your shadow puppet is in a process of repenting for creating your race. A thousand years is as a day to him and a day a thousand years.” Inasmuch as, to a gentleman of his own age, fifteen years was a span that seemed as recent as only last Tuesday afternoon, whereas individuals, who were then but gleams in the eyes of their progenitors, now presumed, thanks to the outreach of the lidless lip, to instruct great nations upon morals and foreign policy, “it is a sad state of affairs,” Florian agreed.

     “This is where you can help us,” the visitors explained. “There is a movement abroad to guide your affairs, composed of the most sensitive, artistic, and caring beings ever devised.” “Forswear,” Florian replied, “lest I rail against your fashionable scholastic upheavals.” This, they hastened to assure the man, was a movement from far beyond his initial conception. “Avast and away with thee,” he cried, “scratch my name off your list.” As a divinity student in a cultural exchange program, Florian had once incensed a campus literati by his insistence that shadow puppet, being perfect, had not stumbled with the cross, but that someone in the crowd had tripped Him. Of course, Florian’s vehement rejection of the elders’ insistence on staging jai alai nights to keep children from the street had not endeared him, before this epistle, either.

     Far too often, he had gone into such promising conspiracies, suffering personal disclosures best left unsaid, only to receive after weeks a pro forma testament to his unworthiness. This he did not love, filled with fear to be surrounded by so many experts assuring him that he would never have to paint their house again. It was all about their time, and due to unforeseen circumstances, individuals who were to take time to get to know him and his needs were approaching. If, in last sense permissible, only insofar as the returning veteran had experienced a similarity of recession, their invitation left Florian to the belief that such verbosity was intrinsic to his rejection of it.

     His response was simple. Fraught with dossiers, the control depositories of the ICC, CIC, and ICA* were, in no way, a non–Augean establishment. Were they nominally cramped with desideratum, for who herein, believing in promised attempts to reach a person who obviously, after leaving messages of aegis on snips and voice mail, would ever guess this person had listened too sadly and silently to them? Heavily when this is all about the bubbly fill whence, filed wispily, Florian learned to see these accoutrements as extrinsic to an inner permanence, the spectrum arboreal featuring portals diffidently expressive of credulity.

     Through marbled pages simmered in a holiday stir method, Messimo knew of a signal claret stolen from the font. The players were fair inland insofar as they wished with feldspar, and what Ostrand had been attempting to get out was that although she looked alone she also appeared to be unknown. Thirds winced in closure upheavals might even broach a more untruthless and yet ever unwanted litany, for miscue doubt dragged a bell in dislike of their careful fever dribble ration compost, each movement rote, whey the caloric of the pursuant rape.

     Dust off with coarse mineral antithesis, a number of ellipses emerged; if viewed from on how next thought license concomitant please addressed an umbrage over severe. “Woe to our next rival,” mused the uchaux, “who might help one step with tidiest abler counsel.” In spilt hopes they were not moving quickly, bland aspersion concerning spoil incised the contumaciously, and Sangreal impersonally existed at a moment to refute their insipid snide looks upon the marinara. Negligibly, an inner weir grasped particulars of particularity to weaken the case of a limitless writ second die. Yet his interlocutors made no attempt to bar Florian’s exit; their very mild regard convincing him that unfortunately he had not seen the last of them.

. . .

     Soundman sat in an endurable angst resulting from the announcement of a visiting delegation. All too eagerly, he had poured upon latest technologies his undivided study fit, as it seemed to enhance his prestige within their aberrant world. Journals might soon be touting this wieldy May upon which massed instruments of ultimate stalemate, were his not so harried by these uninspired hectors. Conflict seized the household. Peering through, a portmanteau announced the arrival of Blinky’s fun team, as they had come to label this addled club.

     “To the well with it,” Soundman instructed sotto voce as footprints clumped into their foyer. “No time for even that,” he amended here, a bunched taffeta counterpane, recently martinized, emerged from shrink–wrap, and all of the savants took a hand in tossing it over the slumbering juggernaut. As it settled, unfurling, leaving only the silhouette of a man daring to scare much of his fandom, the child–like simplicity of the compliance monitor might have struck Soundman as laughable, unless he were not loath to sever his only inkling of legitimacy.

     “I still say,” he greeted the laboring counsel, “that the best guarantees of security are the hearty ties of friendship binding us.” Moping his proscenium with a lisle ascot, the dogged suede argued tediously with his own retinue while his guests eventually produced one ergo gnomon–enabling respite. “May it be of lasting benefit to you,” Soundman replied, masking his inclination to inform witnesses of numerous breakthroughs that soon might turn all of these formalities obsolescent.

     “Time flies,” the compliance monitor muttered while teas were served. He could no longer heat his own home. Tenure came in the form of each craze by an old mild lard pandemic shunned byword and whistling camphor seminar, whenever one of his keepers discovered his old tea tin collection. Oolongs further into sententiousness again, the positivism of losing direction in a lap song of an old adverb, one hundred and ninety seven home runs given up by the Mariners this year bickered with the goal of mentally sustaining at all. Ranging over there to make the catch and the ninth inning is over, Soundman asked, “why schlep around the department embossed with daring ideals that languished in the catatropics eventually?” When offended with profusions of clutter, his dada ordered the retinue dispensed with immediately, overriding his perforce empathic plea concerning a dreaded chill. Were his propinquitous arrangements likewise consigned to parallel dustbins of apocrypha?

     So offended that he could no longer heat his home, if what he could not afford was a shorter evening, then whatever possible benefits, derived in being able to program his dossier from a mirror, could apply to appreciate for one minuet all else grounding out, a chaplain settled out of pocket for the right to dither with an obsidian bull. Whomsoever’s ekisticism (respitefully gentlemen all fabulously ulterior) miffed Suppressant’s only moral place?

. . .

     “Alrighty,” said old Colonel Florian, fetched with prospect of resuming youth, turning thirty again, and all its attendant whoohoos, “what do you need me for?” “Someone with your historical background would guide the past,” the eighths assured him. How often had Florian wished to go back and change the course of events, “but what if I go back and change the course of events,” he asked? “Don’t worry,” they replied. “We know that this is a staple of your fiction, someone steps on a protoplasm, and the next thing you know, velociraptors are selling encyclopedias door to door. It’s not happening like that. History is one strong current leading from where you don’t want to know to where you’re sure you don’t want to know, and one puny human will not alter its course.” “Then what would you need me for?”

     “It will be similar to viewing film or television. You will shout at the screen (in fact the uchaux counted on this, devising the Schmielson, which allowed sucking of human thoughts into inklings to feed their fish), and a man will gaze back at a past veiled with impenetrable vines. It will be no different in fact, except that the most perspicacious may be vaguely aware of you.” Florian asked, “and will I have opportunities to vacate seasonably?” “Indubitably, thirty days each year, you may return to anytime you wish. To illustrate, we’ll turn to the following example.”

. . .

The Things That Mattered.

     Returned to his apartment after his ticklish permutations in Hades, Frederick was alive with pleasure. Meanwhile the struggles with an agenda, dictated by individuals eager to demonstrate they were not simply auxiliaries of tag alongs who always forgot to purchase berries at the checkout counter, depended on how much else could be crumbled out. Did a question shouted from rooftops, “who would escape the consignment of limbo reserved for those going west of their own volition,” echo from within the recesses of his chamber?

     Binaca watched, with acute concern, as their father seemed to return to them suddenly. Speaking of a headache, Logan retired. In some perplexity, she was visited by angles. “What have you done with our father?” “We have borrowed him,” they told her. “There was no need for that.” “He is a simple fool,” they said. “I’d just finished telling him that I would not let my person be used for scientific purpose, and there you go ahead and just use him like that?” “He has no memory of any event,” they said. “And I am supposed to live with that?” “The time is nigh,” they said. “You are supposed to leave with it.”

    Upon the lawn, a visor cowling her eyes from the unseasonably bright early spring afternoon, her children clustered about her. She tousled them fondly. If there was just one way to spare them. Already she’d tired of the world they would now never grow into. A world of governments prepared to argue the toss about every chemical reaction that occurred within the human body as a means of assessing fitness, loyalty, and net worth had not convinced her that their spin was almost up, yet their father’s exit had. An overnight shadow fell behind her, and she turned to behold the ancient marquis, whose gaunt presence seemed a strangely reassuring tonic.

     Amidst his countrymen, Suppressant alone had reflected a national trend in throwing his estates open to folks displaced in the ad hoc urban renewal program that materialized in the wake of alphabet snores. After one had been in the same place for twelve years, the mind roamed amidst unspeakable emotional terrains. “You are indisposed toward continued participation in maintenance activities.” “Books are still stacked around neatly reflective of previous expectations.” “Echoes are empty footsteps, filled with latent arpeggios, and the airs tremble in an ache of unfulfillable do–overs.”

. . .

A child’s face, from afar a pallid lunar easel of canvasness, sat upon a bar of closer exam, corrugated with unexpiated baggages. “Each letter, a nail crucifying the spirit, is forged within a kiln of broadside forbearance accolade, sold amidst hogsheads that were tapped every arduous inamorata, to the tune of somebody ripped the shower curtain aside, and driven with inaccurate if avid synergy toward the big hand indicating time to a generation, irresponsive to stimuli, which fizzled in a closed loop of unexercised options.”

     The Nicean races in exile thus gather to chart their future course, the first item being confirmation of an ambassador. The career of this ambassador up to one point hasn’t astonished anyone. While in this voice or post, the enormity of her definitions convince dwindling houses within the sixth that the behalf of their constituency stands among the least of her interests. Amidst ekistic image tension, a solo fact soars in magnitude, as the appointment of her is questioned from a nation unnamed, inaugurating that race’s own sounding.

     Registering the nomination of an An Indocile as Grand High Ambassador of inter–regnum, the eighth remind the council that she is already ambassador of the sixth to inter–regnum. Who cares whether she could see the indigo sphere from her own house? That this objection is advanced, from as remote a quarter as that, gives others an opportunity to aver that as ambassador, her performance merits little consideration in a bid for parallel office. Schooled to refute their charges, an An Indocile’s old interfacial redeemed spectaculars, that did not hold that candle to the disclosure of abeyance, are an oeuvre chapter that say heck no to an incipient plug for the diviner sleep then expected.

     “FYI,” she begins, “the Utilitarianists of merry old Albion were forever running personal modems in favor of a national aegis they felt would, with relentless investigation, facilitate these cold megalopolises of individuals therein capable of reflexive Newspeak. Soon absconded into the process of gouging facts, publicly massive shining Blue Books, later used by Friedrich Engels, out–source hissy indictments against cosmopolitanism. Mr. Gladstone, the first porcelain master of dharmic urgency, used really contorted social statistics (p. 158). The Utilitarians were tripped out, unintelligibly insolent, and revelled in deep–sixing all other ancient costumes and tragedians, claiming that pure and neutral factualism ruled. Moreover, decontextualized consolidations of their poorer in–laws into workhouse systems, depicted by numerous contemporary authors, wedded cynically visionary obsessions with cash value–driven factotums, and industrial evolution was spawned.”

. . .

     The shady visitant had troubled to decamp an enormous repast that our suzerain, his habitual vigor sapped by his long vigil in the nether realm, would have gladly partaken, yet something about the viands awakened a sense of recollect that Frederick was loathe to be followed bye and bye. Essentially, the whatnot of persons occupied in distributing schedules indivisible from each perspective, a rule omnibus, comported mentally from the shade who quoth, “thy commitment to thine children shall extend only insofar as thou perceive their capability of advancing your aggrandizement.”

     Frederick squarely immersed his most tactfully pompous mellifluence, while cribbing recent memorials (yet Allah he prayed silently lead me to the well of this mystery being), overly unminded to betray a loss of nerve resident in direct queries such as what are you. He regarded the feaster benignly, remarking upon his horrible table manners, as droplets coursed upon a bib. “Thou, who wert ever a begonia,” the latter remarked, “today recall thy servant Mirabeau, whom ecclesiastics elected (circa July 1220) to blend eidetically civic unions in your youth. Such was your gratitude that I was quartered in the interest of medical research.” “Natheless, I sent for the thinnest leeches anyone could sponge,” the tyrant ejaculated. “In return for those kindnesses,” the furtive menace jived, “I’m empowered to grant thee insights.” Frederick’s mind turned to the inquest (contra). “Has my counselor arrived safely in the Pfalz?”


*ICC (International Comptrollers Commission); CIC (Congress of Interested Comptrollers); ICA (International Center for Assistance).

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

About the Author (Author Profile)