II – vi – Don’t Make Everybody Come Up There.

| June 30, 2013 | 1 Comment

Introduced through a film at Ylferim’s encomium, Roveretto Messimo vows to avenge the discomfiture of his favorite film star, Mantissa. Cruising the Rhine River on the way to Worms, Piero della Vigna hears a tale of the Great Window, and their barge runs aground in wishram. Fernand, as part of his indoctrination in the puzzle palace, watches a film about obvioregals, priestesses of the Village Server.

II – vi – Don’t Make Everybody Come Up There!

      The circuit resumed. “Many times we sailed forth on a blue streak to put right innumerable bloopers, askew whodunits, and other divine has–beens.” The Jaguar (1959), a biographical sketch of Duke Frederick the Second of Austria, perpetual thirteenth century thorn in the side of the Hohenstaufen, ran out of lives quickly. “Merer stodgy instants vastened unusually across the bistro dude, whose nose stood still, we reckoned, to lie between a molehill and meandered.” Tepidly billed as a geodesic pursuit thriller, the presentation of spirited republican defiance versus overweening imperial authority lacked zest. Theaters in thirteen provincial capitols pulled the film after the first night, and in three weeks, the project, denied release abroad, was a flickering shadow of reality.

      Roveretto Messimo’s hope, that some characters may have already preceded his onset, proved futile, although at least the ancient font of the Alexandrine movement was still around. Jauntily ascribed to archaic methods were his nonetheless skilful discernments of film star parabolas. “You so,” the minimalist scribbler was told, “need to catch them at the precise moment of deflection, and before they have completely tanked.” His flossy off life encapsulated, he now paused as discordant chirps of the emergency alert system interrupted a vividly baroque perspective. Upon the premise of his great publishing floor, all activity ceased. “Whew,” he exclamatorily expelled upon receipt of news that this was only a test, and if endowed with a new lease on life, allowing him to pursue his dream of nothingness, a fibrillating raspberry found its way into his hand, to his great angst revealing his favorite starlet, Mantissa. The scribe hovered expectantly, and Roveretto dismissed him with much charm, aware however that the early termination of this interview had probably earned him the worst ink possible at this point in this career.

      Annoyed with the caller, he intoned, “I hoped that I had told you that we were quilts,” knowing that the reception was so bad he could have clipped off for any pretext. Yet her garbled rejoinder at the other end arraigned his unwilling interest, for never far from his mind was the idea that this erstwhile employee might spill, at any second, these beans pertaining to an arrangement of the universe into semiotic avenues capable of transversions. Aware that she had consorted with the scion of an eidetic potentate, he had washed his hands, this sinusoidal arrangement of how might his speculum irritate the husks of once dependable surplus. Perforce she really had been too young shortly after being in dangled participles peculiar onto the plasticity of appearance. Who apportionately reputed to offer his predilections of personal comportment of emotive, whatever else seemed an appendage descriptive of this lack?

      At any rate, he received the feeling that this read like an archaic omniscience, transitory prizes garnered from the mother of invention, and knowing that Mantissa’s client, after abusing her so, had the clout to first, deny the meeting under inquest, and then, telephone his consulate to suggest that nothing ever happened betwixt them before or after, thus putting paid to any charges that might emanate from her ground floor answering service, Roveretto straitened to inquire if another assignation was in the works.

      Mantissa gave a negative reply, “he said I was used up, damaged goods, he said he was through with me.” Messimo answered, “I want you to be here for this. I will recuse Renata from the task,” and steeled Mantissa to follow through with the repugnant case, assuring her that he possessed the sorts of natural spin reading abilities to intervene at the decisive time. Receiving her logy consent, he rang off with a modicum of affection, and quickly telephoned someone who, amidst variegated skills, was an expert in acquisition of unsolicited organic material.

      “A decent elective awaits thee,” Messimo told this valet, as the recently winnowed reason of his mistress’s distress, a sort of involvement, last refuge yet civic, cauterized his chronic anomie. Perhaps these most recently naturalized citizens were our last best guarantee of liberty, swimming against tides of eclectic tolerance evinced by more settled residents. Even Menard, in a recent circular, had criticized his agency’s policy of barring first generation applicants from sensitive posts, despite their obvious lingual skills. In any case, Roveretto evinced little love for those who simply came here for kicks. “These are ingredients,” he said, “for windfall: they come over here, they buy up our land, they abuse our citizens, and they don’t put out. We will demonstrate how individuals, freed from caring, are able to apply their talents to a greater cause.”

. . .

The burly steward’s chemise jangled far below his waist in the style of Inglenook chic as he splashed more Riesling into Piero’s glass, saying, “since them as being the largest chips tend to crack first when dipped into the cold paté, how is growth the ability to come to terms with the limit of our extent?” The counselor wished to say that, someday this would all be viewed as a series of reflections, yet how happy is the man whom, in a position of rest, and desirous of a change of condition in the universe, immediately discovers that the means for affecting such change are instantly at hand?

      “Our peculiar ethos has bent into clothing individuals with the privilege of relevance” — “that strikes me as ad priori,” interjected an advocate, a being sure to nix all the world with emotional closure. “This ad lib weird vehicle conducted fades within one scrambled sickness so ought, that classic pretexts did not look so bad in light of many fell hours spent chasing the sibyls’ trough. How to close the book before, never mind portents who clamored, might–have–beans once the initial commission imprimatur, there were no strikeo’ers at rock bottom, or what passe secretariat decreed as such, since those depths you managed during your tender years were but ledges, of in actuality quite cheerful premise, retrospectively immured with fanciful hopes in contrast to this now dead little plain, a juncture so vast that even sheathes of facile nostrums, fruits of early tepid novel reverie, either vapidly seared into edgewise latency or reviled as so functionlessly chunky, that those ineffably fluid tempests henceforth tainted in the wispy bleak regard of incestuous thought.

      “Case in point, shall we move to deconstruct an early missive of this sorry apologist, who had all along maintained that our Lord’s rejoinder, to the young man who had to first bury his father (leave aside room for semi–colonic, a finth noted), was unconscionably snappy and dismissive of the orphan’s grief, by appending that, in context, this young man’s father was in his primo, and had no need of burial at that moment, insofar as the youth was simply hanging around waiting for the event, a viewpoint eagerly seized by subsequent pastors at pains to portray shadow puppet favorably?” “One must recollect,” the concierge added, “that the anticipation of imminent surfing provided sufficient cause for our Lord to cast a disingenuous gaze upon the foibles of his children, yet all the same once the toast is burnt, you can’t just serve it flopped over.”

      Fernand, visibly unruffled by the vehement exeunt of his chosen mentor (Kalamparumple), took refuge in a bistro. His pensive countenance discomfited some lobbyists, who left him alone in a sea of sidewalk tables. He mused glumly despite a glorious late winter day, stirring his latte, and sniffed as the cinnamon topping clashed with a sudden whiff of Stetson. Two nearby men glowered patiently. What did he know of time flies? “Who are you,” Fernand replied? A heavy badge glittered with responsive menace. “I know only that they offer solace from a world drenched in grief,” he recited. Is this all he knew? Men, given that license, would forget that time flies were not even around one hundred years ago, yet were now trying to land on our house. Those ozone, winking echoes, elected for a season of effigy, which amplified that thy sting, o death, will serve.

      It would seem that a revival of practiced form would alert us to the urgency of Fernand’s plight. Here was the end of the beginning. Today marked the return to measured time; consistent, irregular, staccato cries from aloft persisted as he lived in a city from itself. While Fernand waited for a reprieve, they reviewed other questions. Remanded to an ever–infinitive limit, he sat in the passenger side of a coupe devil and stared ahead fixedly; industrious interns cavorting amidst lovely tamarisks held no joy for him today. His interlocutors debarked into the side entrance of a branch outlet. “You can’t stash a perp here,” said a man inordinately fond of sprawling. However, at the approach of the wily feds, the out–sourced gumshoe struggled to his feet, waving the investigators through unctuously. Fernand, wafted along in their custody, had sought a presuppose of being defined in the greatest outlet.

      Ditching the coupe, they entered a rather unsmall freight elevator. During all the time of descending means, it grew steadily apparent that whatever name might be applied to the task, a venue of universally perceived outposts of communication were, within themselves, not quaint enough to offer a relief to bas outgrabings that were readily perceived as apparent fronts for any who might seek, or have sought, release from established communication periods of present ether. As the car lurched to a halt, the door groaned open onto an entire situation decisively. A younger man, plainly at ease with nervousness, signed a receipt for the guest. Sensations, elevated a bit shallowly, wavered in futility. Such thanklessly drawn prolegomena Ensign Plair oft faxed: half–expectant index labels that were, given insofar as everything struck one as signally totem, shelved in the den with gauges, to measure snags of darkness, a matrix, comparatively innocuous, from which inherent mix–and–match phantasms phosphoresced, and a mind’s–eye snow globe, falling sideways upon a detached grange movement pinned by Populists as their entire hope for victory in the 1896 elections.

      Fernand glanced around the premise. Enriched uranium also perked in a corner next to a Victrola spinning out the stanzas of My Last Best Hope Is On Fire Today. Geocentrically, Plair had knocked and talked in front of enough plantations before to emote at least an infinitesimal degree of delusion. Ungainly cyclotrons squatted unusably in a corner and the chamber, though partitioned innumerably, prompted him to ask whoever were accessory to a real rang emendate of almost a bad earnest unclear, should restively emery slang oh thence rash near each at once, adept at tweaking a zephyr waste until here no more tomorrow subtitled eventual Teflon ionization overnight. Still, whomever insisted that levitating their pentagon was peachy and driveled around with opaque sunbursts had better bring in the stale crullers today.

. . .

“Thou shalt eke out a groan upon hearing of the laude strait stuck back from the ding,” one of the passengers told Piero, “or else quit seizing humongous litanies unto dinged again rambunctiousness.” “Great skip God,” shanked the jurist in reply, “that thee shouldst ding along the air–the–well of mispelt.” “I was a fletcher,” chanted that worthy, “and reckled howmost overage, formed wary capacious divot for lenient postillions of amnestry, sculled after periods within the next abasement, to hope repined at variance with such favor pregnant, were I to merely accede to distaff obscurants.” “One yeast started in the toothless bistro,” Piero grabed well, nozzled upon the fo’c’sle in a swathful posh tone divan, whereas the boundy floats feinted supinely.

    “After somewhat exterior gasps of joy,” the fletcher continued, “in hopes these proper suits would just leave, an enormous since impotently crept at my soul. It seemed ceaseless the weird word kept buzzing at you, note behind a certain hedge these ministrations clog (the jurist grunted in consternation), and before any clod strafed milord, how can You justify all of this surfing while your kids reel apart in variegated sovereignty? Might You, like a great huge merlin, just land on us, and send us scattering across the willy–nilly until glass kneed, we shriek unto deferments of Your glorious mercy? Me, You don’t need,” he conjugated and fell aslant, staring as the vermiform misty bergs of the distant shore fell far astern.

      “Such a bonny permanganate gonzo,” lisped a serer chap, who’d folded aside a crinoline gazette to hark acerbically. For shame were glasnost pastiches his, bowdlerized upon the shrine of St. Monica (long surfing mom of the confessionist) each sunbath, due to quadruped cause: they were alas vestigially so–called Darwinism, named forums tended to bawl open source albeit; did proudly hail from the town of his fab philanstereoists indwelt, who he so loved in further sedulous outreach; these also bustard soviet requests upon any flopped tortilla comped dumpily, wherever acorns whooshed down by the bye.

    The métiers, in recent amity prousted, while the impermeably large dippers, refreshed in the sparkly wake of their barge, hailed their glimmering egress and sang such hymns as, Are not such exospheres dispersed by the arrival of pimpernels, and, No mere motel coldly surfaced; speedily the plot matched Helios page for page, hovering waterily upon the ephemeredes, and Piero, avid to recoup the ready garbanzo, remonstrated upon the welcome demise of what hitherto was considered the district’s chief eyesore. “Please divulge upon the precepts which half–shaped, in vitro, many hegemonies of the noontide, herald (who, if futile to a fault, sure as hell could sing).”

    This frabid beadle nearly blew off nacreous contexts. “Inland,” he groped, “freely at times, bradykinin lock–stepped across the freighted zodiac with no punity. Mostly sourful levees gradated the line leaping into the after all, and the ninniest among them wore tidily large truffles in medleys of parallelepiped embroideries. After a lax dram indeed, nearby all consensualized even soon beheld that Great Window, when shadow puppet clasped tall ominous firsts as shrubberies to glide his frozen peephole. Now the restless zealous gelato seconds, who’d reedily whistled importunately, copped a flippant moiety as surety versus thriftless tremens, and were soon loathe, as in actuality these throwbacks gave no surcease from the crouching seasick shipshape who wilted in sterility.

      ” ‘All bets are off, dawg,’ the seconds crassly accused His holy nimbus, and vendettas upon the faithfully hapless tictus who’d chirped with wet old use for days unfurled. With sophistries, the rebels lured the nubile thirds toward bondage, saying, ‘merely don this gay appurtenance and all kinds will nuzzle from thy rostrums at a moment’s notice,’ and so snared, the tictus waffled into gestalting oily stasis sub rosa for the odder Niceans.”

      “A most fine shadow puppet,” interjected Piero, “Who’d outlaw his faithful partisans into such slavish interludes, when they had only meekly thrown upraised mellifluous garlands, if affectedly.” “Such sententious mottoes,” interjected a seedy prelate, “are typical of thou neo–Ghibbeline lapdogs,” and fast mayhap were the confluent salsas miscegenated, until the burly skipper interceded with sporadic maxims: “all that’s said here stays abroad,” and semaphored the steward to revoke further veritas.

      It was almost worse to have a vacuum of silence, however, and after severe limitless cheap thrills, a novel of collegiate nostalgia was written backwards, complement with odalisques who would do things in order to remain trim, and though the injunction dryly stared inferentially, some trashy rebates quirked the fares into lulling the rhinestone flood to slobber in blowsy earthen geoducks. Yclept in caveat emptor, the rummaged mind pampered in short term couscouses, while real alligators marginalized pleasantly hued overtones, explicit of personal undreary empowerment through squiggly special effects syndromes. Driftly beneath the plunkish scare ball glaze, a deviant sine qua non, the craft bounded toward a straitly odd ambience. Untold zithers scrawled toward poshly unlimbered syringes, panting relevantly in lurid warty upon the rocks from which floundering crepe logos scrunched.

      The dreamers vastened toward a lady fond of patrolling the jetsam; “let’s feed all of the feisty three legged puppies,” she’d exclaim, statements that hadn’t received inducement from any wise ornamental oldster. If Iphgene could nearly wheedle out tallow sectionals, coursed from a post–it of one halfpenny time, beneath the sleazy marquee we’ll comment in Dullsville, where averted things muddled elatedly toward nonagonals blanched with ying, except that I’d not finished studiousness with the raveled closure, touting anyone who has been preindicative of growth spurts for some time; for example, we’d buzzed around a major tombstone that archived our out–performance of other straw control group placebo men until, near the latte rift (damned skip) of these decades, only every minimal sharing vestibule harbored corporate techno love monkeys in racing caps, reminiscent upon those odd gold days when everyone was dead. Time out from explosions so entry–level jabbers may afford clunkers with huge balloon payments. Now, is it tedious to think that up to a certain point, Noone had said what was right here cartographed into a dark period, next to uppercase postal abbreviation letters, and mistaken for a town they now floated into?

     The skater greeted them with leftover leis from last light, which enabled them to rouge the swans who skirted the periphery of heck, and they reflexively counterfeit such dry sacks of wanton ensemble, that even coarse bunkum dislodged tinged wet hens from the sad hot old ore. Tritely, considering that luck genuflected across the eggplant sector of the drive through self–serve to prise that carton with such savvy sneers, Piero was eager to hear her disco with the erased roundabouts. Sultry, cross–eyed, watercress lookalikes, with usable louts, nattered upon verdigris landmark caucuses, although even at this distance the subject appeared beyond resuscitation.

      Sounding the treacly flats judged capably of miring even the most tractable gerunds, the skipper required a less overt craft to affect the operation yet, owing to the periodic squalls of lice emanative from the dull overcast, their perilous course received numerous stays until a more clement regime advected. Another factor, muddy octals otherwise blank loafed, have a safe skiff out, don’t hesitate to put back anything which helped you save face in a situation to which you didn’t belong, and tell me who, loathe to scald propinquitous showerers, left his water closet unflushed forever? Wrangling a grudging assent to explore the bounds, Piero engaged to reboard the moment navigation seemed likely.

 . . .

Although one of the progenitors of highly classified research into time flies, and still worsted long enough to such cassava stumbling toward the threshold of terror thereat, Kalamparumple’s eventual role most shadily waltzed these motes exposited: where the man warily rewound his trails, if rolfed natheless, retaining correctably as many of the poor chaste first chances for those block of tens so readily trivial, he paced frenetically, incensed that this jejune supplicant should have fingered his cherished research so readily. “He will never work in this town again.”

      Amidst these vows, an associate regarded impending ordeals stoically and, if wishing to insist upon the innocence of the approaching debutante, held his breath. At times driven from their hopeless and isolated posts before waves of technological advance to clutter, if briefly, before more visible totems, these would bees took heart. The empirical state, which Menard, before an earlier comme il faut, had jump–started, now seemed to him alone, at the rancid whim of dream–driven men who traded in power, seized with ineluctable desires for perfidious outcomes.

      In the event that individuals, resident within any office, were conversant with responsibilities inherent, the insider Menard, his long awaited best seller smash on tax aversion reaping thousands, was long aware of the debt he owed his country. The versimilar wayposts of the public domain provided suitably arduous cylindrical opportunities for advertisement of not unusually fun dread causes. Alas, noted for pique about his estate, thought inclement, and in transient inevitabilities of flocculence via confidence, natheless waited he upon the approaching wear. Were it a matter of establishing a linkage, suggestive of an unsubstantiated if plausible claim, to work the effects of an alternative order, then these silent sentinels, decked in detritus of noticeable announcements of an imminent gain, were things to be quested. And if that did not come through, it wot an immense construct, reified verily unto no few manifold skein.

      Thus Fernand, resolved to delve into the mystery of the posts, found release, relapse, or reality. Needlessly, and in gelid style, wafted the innumerable consensus essential to an unimpeded transfer of ideals. “Apologies for taking you away from your java,” the greyer gentleman leaned forward to intone, while a bolo tie dangled from his wattled turkey neck. A seersucker suit hung loosely upon a gaunt frame that smelled of Arabian stallions. The youngish man rolled a super eight spool into a super–annuated projector, lending an air of antiquity to arrangements.

      Fernand, accepting a fresh cup of styrene dispensed from the wall, was transfixed by imagery on the screen unfurling before them. Some really bad rap, they all agreed, wincing, formed a voiceover to one of the most ubiquitous pageants ever known. Since every indication seemed shopped out, rhymes, illustrating when so many concepts became incandescent, fluttered on the parcade, loud streams of sticky string, drab gods, elated at stacks of snug restraints, smarted in tight skates, old cupids who dragged whole cots for uninvented guests into a rest area, strange kinetic broads clamored mincingly, you think with closeness over time of a story of together, she had none of that you, lave strings she has none of them, she plucks none of them, she annihilates me daily, you leave threads out there, you track you rock for signs and levels, next she has none of it she reinvents reality she annihilates me, scattered embers gather touch if, if, if your parents left you to the pod and said your grandfather’s bringing a fat oddball out to you and your frequency’s in disbelief,we’ll bring you a daft ping, they said again and that was the last time you ever heard for he died of mispronounced causes. Yet this made more sense than the consistent fragmentation of everything you did right by her, she was too pigtails foxglove, alas one or two she annihilated us, daily one or two storms a year are fine this low grade persistent chancing dealt I not at all she stopped returning my calls last month week year.

      To this accompaniment, Iraisamonde knew how or why protests of innermost jinx, an irrespective term accorded another glamorous word, hope, bent forth in quest of sincerely original honor, forever convex, liturgical, frizzily best, clearest firm, up to a certainty expressible topically, and coveted geodesics integral tosh of necessity tainted conceivable pearls, all and more so escaped from here, besotted froth toward amenities arpeggio, if at bitter chance moping singularly beneath the fount. A fluorescent mint tear remembered, dropped upon the oriflamme of their embroidery, so long deferred while perhaps irregardless iteration lessons hounded their each hour, or inevitable walk–ons hemmed, shamelessly indicting the tense grandeur capably selected to manage serer processes. Harmonious though proud in estrangement, void, lugubrious, thought rid and stirred a swift junction offering tidal immunity from age, basked the sore ingenues in selective elan, rinsed, eternal, their actuality comprised in momentous glare as neutral or natural star.

      Whenever ousts commenced, the centrifugal strove amidst floes of arbitration wrought, her tentative consolations mirthless, yet what she wielded or wore, addled in opulent fervor, none might bid desist, and in listening surpassed all avid quick hospitable to nicety, all flip and debunk to asides of initiatory plasmas, haste remonstrative of spending enough salve for an eclectic languor, or viewed operatic flourishes of her eventual vine raving in choice form under a laborious (to Norah Anne) vision of peace. As the reel whiffled to a close, Menard, the elderlier gentleman, turned to Fernand. “What do you know of time flies?”

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

About the Author (Author Profile)