II – vii – A Place For Spatially Challenged Cultures.

| June 30, 2013 | 0 Comments

The fjulsfut core sample, used by Logan Ferguson to peer into the past, begins to deteriorate. Mantissa and a colleague turn the tables on Fuald. an An Indocile, nominated as Nicean Grand High Ambassador, faces opposition from fjulsfut (fifths) and uchaux (eighths). A description of the groundbreaking for wishram, inter–regnum’s soul reconditioning facility, follows. During his Global Village bar exam, Sasha daydreams on a conversation with Talitha Thledvirrson, and is startled by the approach of Horace. Ylferim recalls his arrival in Ossian to rally the sluggish leadership to an approaching peril.

II — vii — A place for spatially challenged cultures.

      A word, at least, is necessary to elaborate upon the dusty chromatic ejecta of the terrestrial biopsy, formed as by–product of the Nicean attempts to stop the Earth’s rotation, and must be evinced in simile to matrices, themselves endangered in the onrush to apply digital calculus to every transaction nowadays.

      To illustrate, progressive library systems ubiquitously hire zealous interns to snatch the fragile date due ledgers, accrued during the later decades of the 20th century, out of their collected works, depriving those who lived through those times of valuable insight. Persons fortunate enough to correspond with comparatively rural lending institutions have the opportunity of contemplating the circulatory history of any given volume as a mirror of their own progress, and to reflect upon events, pegged against actually stamped dates occurring in both spatial and temporal distance, as offering assurance to one, lost in time, that a given day in history was actually shared by humanity.

     This observation begging the risk of devolving into convoluted personal monographs, the author merely commends that, upon encountering volumes retaining these historically tenuous scraps, pains be taken to reglue the ledgers more securely, thus thwarting the designs of digital Utilitarians, as well as those more individualistic collectors whose appreciation of history is peripatetically insidious. This rudimentary simile thus parallels, at some perspective, the fjulsfut core sample, which glinted with forgotten sands harboring facets of time, and that quite diverted the attention of the Reverend Dr. Logan Ferguson in Room 64.

. . .

      In an effectual reconstitution of passage, Logan reticently turned over the leaves of the densely striated mitigation, which coiled like trademark Slinkies that had been downstairs once too often. A concept of deconceptualization, occasioned by all of the candle wax that had spilled into his typewriter, forced him to write longhand despite his mounting panic. His card to the Inference Library expired, he dredged upon the remnants of the fjulsfut biopsy for recent historical allusions; yet was charily hesitant to illuminate unwilling characters, even if their ostensible contributions to this mix were palpable, for if the first decipherable words understood from them were quick study, Noone wished to stray from the craft.

      And thanks to the limit of English thought, there was no further mimicry of events to invisibly couch those echoes, subsumed in anterooms where just destiny met swift precedent. Once, durable consumptions had counted for something, yet whole enamel lots of transference, quoth abrogated peers nefariously unwilling to accept censure (at least throwbacks expended now and then whole present cadenza crescendos of inordinate reproofs), and noting structures devoted to date splitting nominality, readily encompassed on your dimensions, yodeled in unassimilated standard bytes, and had then wavered betwixt spirit and space, unsure of the composure of ether.

      Often articles, admitted from beyond the past, flooded the mark, diminishing what little windfall; our earl, dreaming of remedies abiding from immemoriality, sounded an all’s fair. “We have realms of time,” who sang in orange tolls, the sound began with a letter, growing far from an old awl in the scrivener’s hand. “Mete for wont is an age to here orbit an aim, of italic immeasurability, describing doom.” “Hey, might vapid languor spell sense to him?” “Stuff your own envelopes, Finthector,” quoth Norn one. “Of the taping festival across then, bon chance we learned little, one lamp man amiss, moreover” — “then our best nonetheless must pine” — “no wrong turns reminding our ought,” was amber Norn saying now. Of the weal of periodicity, showing them out the door to the court of yesterdays, flagrances dear, issues strange, all, ken suspended, regained for them would bore a snail.

      Assured modes of a septic sort within rule, the secret Norns, per occidental custom, left the resonant hold for an instant and walked backwards into time. Thistles grew over much of the sward, repeatedly trampled, as often visited with some rivals to them, the change of season had become ticklish (as in questions of talent). As a troika, their mien blending, the Norns vowed to remain withal aloof away save for now. They in turn addressed a man that entered the physical realm with little thought of his own care.

. . .

Fuald vanished at will throughout the stacks at the Inference Library, and inclined to flip ink chic ectoplasms full of vastity at tictuses on the tweedily serge vinyl divan in the atrium. While clinging pebbles toned in strobe foamed about, Fuald kept arguably an espresso atomizer tasked. To his forthright alarm, taupe oglers, conspiratorially out of eye shadow, buffed tambourines and lyres voicelessly. Fuald, connoting hypnotic stereos, guardedly meandered away, and sundrily looked up two persons in the atelier. Then he started mingling, in wishram mode, “is that you, old rose?”

     Mantissa was pearly and endomorphic, too arsenic to valuably reprise a callous liaison, however vehement. So Fuald staidly seethed at Althea, “is this to be a night for wearing out Rimbaud metrical drip–dry Smurfs?” Althea, severe in vintage black knickerbockers, said she’d outgrown terser hints. Fuald merely gagged in response, “we’re a hit.”

      Aptly Mantissa vastened, “are your evenings full of fun?” “Embroidered along megaspores spun, meine menthol Damen,” Fuald inscribed, now that he had wryly insisted, “you spend too much time on the boulevard.” Sage Althea said, “but not before you came over.” Fuald held down two thumbs. “Guess who’ll be most impressed with our elicit circus in nonesuch heaven?” “You are just the limit, liar,” they enthused serviceably, with merry candor.

     A cupidity, if untrue, spoon–fed their hinterland nighty–night syncope, and viewed in familiarly clip–off effects, forced his teasers to fold like isometric hinges. “How about this,” Mantissa added, in sophistic osmosis of lese–majeste? “The plan,” Althea urged sotto voce, winking at a morose canary [sic] bat, which Mantissa kept stashed in a nearby geothermal golf cart. They were used to leery doomsday astringent colonics, saying, “is this the concept for a spark?”

      Fuald sure agreed. He had never known Lilliputians could be so civic–minded and happening Amazons. “Are they over for the holidays,” he asked? “What meiosistemic agama,” Mantissa guessed. “Eventually,” Fuald told the staccato misfits, “you’ll have to stand in line to see who gets here first.” Alone, skittish Althea swore there were somewhat usually tenebrous dances, and Fuald admitted, “we could hear them kneeling!” Mantissa agreed here was a flightless fidget, and Fuald added, “let’s see if that’s under the radar.” “We’ll hear about it one way or another,” Mantissa affirmed.

      “Is there almost fidgeting,” Althea asked? “No,” Fuald said, “this should be on the house. The trail mix stops with the Mayan calendar, gold diggers.” “Are they fidgeting in the remuda,” asked Althea? Fuald didn’t think it was violet enough — “they’re not sucrose legumes.” Althea added, “ixsnay on the lycanthropic ankh, Mantissa.” Fuald argued that this was pretty lame compared with Times Square. They paused for rebirth.

      “Are you finished studying,” Fuald asked? “We’re going to miss Echo,” Mantissa sang — “beware, wergild epiglottis” — Althea folded in, “just kidding!” Mantissa swung rose hips with a bluish flame, “would you like to descend to Bagler’s damascene aura?” Fuald replied judiciously, “just because there aren’t all that many peepholes and it’s quite” — “but we want to protest against surreal mozzarella,” Mantissa hissed!

      Haunted by their unclear wardrobe and a maze of cycles, Fuald told them Mantissa’s face was false and ditsy. “Where’s the next exit from Cocytus?” Didn’t they know or were they being coy? His uvula gargled too slackly for sure as Fuald said, “you’re bête noire fellow travelers. In the sixties we framed Woodstock tools smarter than you.” “So sue us,” Mantissa said, “we’re stupid. We’ve taken vows before of” — Mantissa paced in with a frown — “of ignorance!”

      Fuald sneered, “like that will blend.” “We can go to France,” Althea dared. “Speak some French right now,” Fuald said to Mantissa. “D’accord. Nous vouloir tu vois l’enfer, contre–couture cerveau broule!” She pirouetted. “Vraiment,” Althea added, and a fluttery gazebo cued up anachronistic excerpts from precocity. “Fuald, your fly is ajar,” Althea ventured to add. Fuald said, “I’m wearing elastic bloomers.” “Then we’re off to see the pyramids!” Shortly Fuald was flustered. He hiccuped. Mayan ruins crashed home to mind. Who said they weren’t cut out for elevator music?

      Althea leveled an imaginary truffle and injected it into his coccyx mechanically. “Prove that you’re safer there,” Fuald discredited them. “What an absolute ding–a–ling,” Mantissa ruled this out with a gesture of dismissal, continuing, “you know, we’re tired of taking risks for your psychedelic research. Even Roveretto hardly went out after sunset anymore in search of Type N.” “But debased bagworms — they only come out after sunrise,” Althea warned. “So Roveretto will have to protect us!”

     “You know we’ve been taking self–defense classes.” Mantissa walked away and then returned upside Fuald’s nose. There was silliness. He glanced down. “Well, you’re gonna need me to fill out some forms here.” “How many fingers am I holding up,” Althea asked? Fuald professed feebly, “you’ve got some nerve.” “Aspirin, anyone?” “You know of course he cannot cash out yet,” they argued, “until the reagent” — “he cannot absorb the antigen yet.” “Am I to understand that I’m being charged for this spurious travesty?”

      “You’ve got to pay the piper five dollars,” they said! “Well, you can just hold your breath through a reed until that happens, sisters.” “Are you having deja vu,” Mantissa asked? “It’s gone now,” Fuald sneezed disingenuously. “My own nana wasn’t this bad. I came here looking for a cheap thrill and now this happens.” In commiseration, Althea shook a wet noodle at him. “So to sum up you’re one sick puppy, but we’ll see to it that you’re soon fixed. Au revoir!” Fuald waved nervelessly.

. . .

“Up to this point, the career of the ambassador,” the high five of the fjulsfut, adept at withholding principles until the last possible instant, retorts, “moreover glibly rarefies compound terrace scans offering broadcast of the raciest tofu in circulation, thanks to canned single imitation home compote. If even one dim key for instigation and terracing is expendable, deprived atrium forums tepidly underwrite enervation to take the vice out of service, thereby ensuing public dominion over fast vain dopey rivals, their vast mailed livery surfaces staking money on the frontal box office. In each case, only corporeal sectors afforded seasickness, and sold foppish rug rat Ming collections, such autonomic diagrammed procedures candled toasty electro–encephalic black holes. How long must we live to debug sushi rodeos in crisis?”

      The appointment of her is thus questioned, and the counsel for the eighth race next weighs in, reiterating that an An Indocile is already ambassador of the sixth to inter–regnum, and a comprehensive critique of why her performance merited little consideration for parallel office, “bothersome to us and our usurious contraindications,” begins. “All over unclear, onsite we append rusted toccata homely pewter hinges, at least an answer to poor weary over collectively fender atheists. Since 1984, selfsame commuters professed that an analog lorgnette anti–oxidized has beans. This was reflective of the overall impact of theatrical productions on newly curbed stencil analogies. Lunch on demand, a concept which involved overall role modeling of numb cellular Telstar indicative of an overt attachment, caused those obiter dictums to reach out to us in argent lights of five o’clock minuets, nullifying the plausible utility of apres nous le deluge. Identical decisions would be minimalist, inculcating the use of them or us less than mentally.”

. . .

As a sop to mental reservations of the uchaux, the chamberlain (all too busy) extends tentative approval to their pyramid scheme; little ware that they’ve already started promulgating it on the indigo sphere itself. Bereft with fallacies and erasable ethos, according a state of ground impeded with notions of transferable competence, the caulking crew unlimber their homily in an effort to seed the brackets with litter. Each surfactant feels throughout the vinculum fully solid health in ulterior duress, decreeing that the prosaic has earned estimable monism. If any citizen is adept at setting out the requisite artifacts the previous day, the cognomen knows it is no longer an issue of touting one’s preparedness.

      Certain forces, though mollified by the grim alacrity with which they bend to the task, hover in ambiguous rubric. Everyone refuses to admit that the impact of force fell far below tolerance. “If enough huge else icons inched in a land of blink,” the cognomen asks, “who else wishes to drool?” “Framed shapes once down,” they reply, “why would you dump these air freight urns rippling toward serious codes before the morning thanks moved formerly brushed stare decisis stemmed from the airwaves, especially when within cobs released of the aggregate left unsaid out there brewed time enough in order to collect fiction non stop?”

     Simply miles of dessert melt as another word for bad planning bumps. Eventually the task will drive itself, though presently the separate teams crowd with mutually unsustainable requests. The prescriptively rigid iota poopers, annoyed by their own insistence upon collected earnest, leer at the line lair downers and their clamor for additional flash links. Their numbers lie upon nameless dumps in the outline format, and cropped with outstanding frequency, anyone’s trained second glance frequently brings forth awareness of misgiving that soon the effort will dissolve in sly bargaining. How difficult can it be to trace nine concentric circles, albeit versts apart, upon a flood plain so flat that regularly geometricists visit in hope of obtaining proofs?

      That question, transmitted though idolectic means, chastens the cognomen, already spent through the dispatch of precious resource. Perchance, apparently wont to defer to the philanstereoscopists, the monads lose interest in capturing the knowledge requisite for exeunting the impasse. They simply plough through all requests for conferral: those yelps go unheard in their determination to enact a seamless process. The orrery once more takes a back seat in the effervescent drive to apply form as rote via several preciosities. They had forgotten more, they declare, about infrastructure through sheer dint, than any of these scroll–toting positivists might have ever absorbed inanely.

      Ensuring that enough least remain for intractable conflicts, the fearless crew disburse to receive a clavic wage. If only the cognomen had rinsed from their ranks. “What about empirical techniques,” he shouts after them belatedly? One spurs in ire and nicks a dart to let fly. At once his folks restrain the antagonists for with an elevate flush of silver horns a populace arrays about, willing the arrival of the play. For unless our stellar bookstore is to impart osmosis, dimly brought via the cellar premeditated orchids for snuffed straw men perforce inimitable, how can these kooks cause unison versions to redeem any parallelepiped?

. . .

The End of All Events.

     Sasha had next intended to demonstrate how absolute power, over what went in or out of a personae, if yoked with capricious self–restraint, abrogated thorough knowledge of the advancement of perceptual causes, yet recent events distracted his attention and he leaned back in cogitation, unwillingly recalling his last conversation with the icy maiden whose subsequently unexplained disappearance had cast such a long shadow over future pageants. Lacking only the postage to let his family know that he had been saved, Sasha erstwhile had refuted her invitation to step in, or to drop by, or at least to sign her cast to convey pro forma renunciation of an oath of fealty.

      The place trembled with actions once thought ephemeral, like the sound off you really believed the weird wastes paused to hear; jejune wisdom spouted out loud in the hall of hearsay until the first mentor to ever self–destruct before your very eyes went out and yelled at your ass unto you shriveled into a wholesome ware. Now was it only just concern that stirred Sasha to venture forth, or were he simply tired of feeling like being in an anteroom for the permanganately gifted as stencils rattled and straw punks scraped the young person’s guide for crying outreach? He’d retched at some belief within the even shelf life that she would buy the time of your thirstier eon hang fire for all of the horrible thoughtless things return to haunt one, such as she and a panjandrum sneaked into the revival of ’twas the night you sold your own tickets, yet managed indecent reprobates wherever she’ll hustle, while ties led out to spar facets in the dunce of immortality, she strolled along in the garden of one’s thoughts like a half–plucked word.

      Upon seeing her there, Sasha ventured to say, “this is a very nice institution everyone has here,” braving the impending vilification for his willful refusal of reference to say what was left on the table. “Knowing your aversion to work through, that would be,” sighed Thledvirrson, “a travel preference scarcely preferable to finding an eggshell in the bath.” Her reply sounded typical of one shortfall convenience stutter that wasn’t, yet was nearly illustrative of the niches we’re simultaneously entouraged into and evicted from at the clutter’s whim. “You might try flex,” Sasha suggested, “trained minions write that if only you pay your balance in full, each month you will experience the complete joy of existence within the market based performance economy.”

      “How can I,” Talitha replied? “It would be like buying myself off. This I did docilely as a trained seal for all those thirsty years and one morning awakened to find that I no longer had an account with them, negated by the slogan–ators of Gotham that we must soon visit.” “For giving you up for Lent,” Sasha exclaimed, “if I had to listen to half of the messages I leave you I would find it really difficult to exist on a desktop of baffled continuous arrangement thought too large to escape notice reflex aside. Shall I find you?”

      “No,” she explained. “Biodegradably to the venue of parity, the softest of the consonant insinuations you did not mark. Give us these, such as they were the men of see uh–oh land wailed, their plans spoilt by your perspicacity, they cringed like Diana at her bath, who in vengeance unleashed her houndstooth at you. I am done. Flee away before it’s too late and you in murky slime as the layers of growth you’d placed between your ex were trimmed in their incisive indiscretions. Now how fun would that feel on a scale of zero to minus ten?”

     Fitfully sapient that the rivers had not yet becalmed, hotbeds of intrigue depicted the appalling facets that lamely noodled earlier than Van Etnabaron had bargained for, eventually accrued more than thirty three times before such technological advances were on hand to withstand the embouchures of the next boring sneeze, a nice chlorinated brand name over and next the grove swarmed like lichen anthills stirred with sticks as viewed by the visitant, who was in such unhurried wise to wait his turn at the stereopticon, that a queue of Sandhurst rejects on holiday (the way they shouldered through the corners was sourly ogled) had already plunked their pence to gasp upon variegated patterns.

      “Wait anon,” Sasha pleaded, “I have almost found this exaggerated semblance of talent upon the horizontal nostalgia any time before midnight. You might still sell short.” “There you go,” she said, “you put yourself out again, until the entire there there response is twisted for a dog refund marked for an amount destined to lose interest. We’ll always be still, friends.” The wait hereby past, she vanished like mint sequins the size of a baby’s breath into the looking glass.

      Whenever words wore out, Sasha did not recall that she had alluded to the reorganization of the valets and had enough freshets in for only everyone. Horace’s entrance shallowly circuited those ceramic Dalmatians and a shingle of someone’s fabulous interiors that once seemed most marvelous to have just two decades ago when swing was the thing, only now realized was the futility of one’s shingle dangled out there for the world’s dull gaze to slide off of like that buffet oyster when someone jogs your elbow, assuming you’ll let anyone into your cone of silence nowadays, and therefore Mister Chips he was not, albeit his horrid glance sent the urchins huddling for the shadow of their own doyen and with a slight sneer, knowing that the visitor was pressed for time, indicated the dark glass. Suddenly aware that all of his thoughts were cribbed, Sasha bent to his blue book, feigning the air of one long absorbed in an innocuous task.

. . .

“Whatever arrangement, however drab, took ages for some bleary anecdote trapped in infinity to manifest,” the critic announced, “Los Toreadoros (1968) gave reviewers a chance to remark that il Fiume was growing consistently talented at reviling yet another cherished segment of culture. Functionally bizarre, the film illustrated university students, concerned with animal cruelty, in their efforts to frustrate the scheduled Pamplona bull run. Their experiences of partial success, shared apprehension, and repeated incarceration dissolved in a melange of dissimilar cameos featuring casual persecutions of Phalangist students who had betrayed the plot and their subsequent ostracism from youthful society. This failed to raise a justifiable anomie to censors, although smuggled versions briefly sold out elsewhere.”

      His encomium persisted, yet Matthieu paid scant attention to the unfurling photo–drama, thinking back to his travels in Ossian, the cue of a strange and dull avocation, and Soundman Azali’s extraordinarily childish prodigies, who contravailed the winds of public opinion in defiance of an instruction. Sitting as far from the edge as possible, for Ylferim had appeared to curb arrangements peculiarly goading, they all feared and were warned of this man who had arrived to shoot them. As a trembling corporeality, the body was without peer. Several ways appealed to one mind, a dull stylus wandered far from the groove, and their best chance lay in re–stoking the smudge pots of obfuscation with mutual mnemonic bills of lading, preventing the man who was coming to shoot them by the awning retort.

      Counter–utilizationalists snuffed the plan, denouncing the predilection for a withering season, and assented to mute alibi as another strategy. Hatta fumbled with his rucksack, counting the sing–along tones he had gathered amidst the pachysandra before muster. There were only seven rough and tumble notes in his palm. Hatta glanced, overwrought at his brother Rarib, who hummed under the watchful gaze of their father, Soundman, folding hardy wet hens into a scowling gazebo. “Stupid,” Hatta hissed, “you took two of my tones.”

      “Didn’t think you could count,” Rarib hummed, enjoying his two minutes of seniority and the fall morning in the shady courtyard. “Those are mine,” Hatta signaled, his intent spokes delving into the ribs of the elder sibling, who squeaked in surprise with a flailing volte–face. The lambs broke ranks to grapple, their feet braced to trip. Shazzam, their father’s sneeze rang curfew into each ear. Hatta shaked to discern his brother in smellier plight. “He took two of my tones” — “he tripped me,” the latter charged. “Shut up,” Soundman ordered, and turned to Rarib. “What’s the deal here? Are you sent after his rocks or something?” “My sing–along tones,” Hatta explained. Soundman lowered each of them. “I didn’t think he’d miss them,” Rarib shrugged. “Sheesh,” Soundman exclaimed, shoving his sons back into formation. “Give him back his notes.” Rarib drew two tones from his pouch, endowed with an air of solemn martyrdom, and Ylferim arrived.

 

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

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