II – viii – Finding Some Art on Monday.

| June 30, 2013 | 2 Comments

Horace ruminates on his role as toastmaster at the 1997 Dominion Day picnic. An Indocile’s nomination as Ambassador, despite widespread resistance, gets impetus from the chamberlain (all too busy). Ylferim arrives in Ossian, whose leader, Soundman, reflects upon his country’s relationship with the Global Village. Logan notes, through the flickering core sample, that Piero’s 13th century Rhine excursion has run aground near wishram, whence construction is being accelerated. Ylferim bears a message to Ossian from the Niceans warning of the approaching peril. A glimpse of the invading forces, led by the ghost riders, commissioned to evict the Niceans from Earth, follows. Behind closed doors, the Nicean principals attempt to reach consensus.

II — viii — Finding Some Art on Monday.

      A spider who was nearby saying, “lately watch ink and guess who I bleeped into yesterday, until with all get out did the man file into the destitution of renown, marked for a prehensile closeness interminably forgetful, except for periods of outreach during whence he lammed shamelessly snarly gnashed bromides, so at odds with the platitudes he’d hoped to instill during his brief tenure as toastmaster,” was spinning a web camera in the sippy cup. That, Horace had been urged to forsake, for he had hanged onto it for years, claiming that the dark green glass was soothing and encased the starlight of Iberia therein. The corporate officer responsible for decisions pertaining to the distribution and sale of certain over–the–counter medication was one day wont to issue an order. Henceforth, upon all of our boxes, was it not necessary, to quote the proviso, to drink the residue at the bottom of this cup to gain the fullest benefits of health offered by our fine product?

      As anyone may have adduced, that non sequitur reinstatement, expurgated by Horace, had incurred a further deleterious effect upon his moral compensation solidus, and fewer still might have read this far to learn or care that a diametrically reprehensible denouement occurred, straightening author of poor haiku with aversions of such magnitude toward the pleasantness of existence, insofar as he disposed of a fleet of wealth accessory to the maintenance of any number of conditioned lifestyle responses; and thus was his vilest contumely now dispensed upon objects once most desirable, until he had frenetically dissolved all pretence of affectation.

. . .

Aside from dossiers, Soundman Ahush Filfil Azali knew little of the trimly attired man in front of him, although his minimalist doublet and flowering sable surtout gave him an alien cast. For his part, Ylferim sneezed, remembering that Azali, the youngest of three, had sublet the olive somewhere of Bir–antikat nineteen years ago, to apprentice Bing Bang’s eldest tenor, marry Masha, daughter of the village actuary, and establish his zoning license far from the edge of the county zoo. If the landlord had been dead for years, a sallow gent from the Kotlas Bourse arrived to collect rent once a year.

      Most of Azali’s clients were reformers, who suffered to listen to his tenor on market day morning while downloading their pallets of gabardine. From their conversions, Azali could distinguish which district possessed a live wet hen, and which merely a sick one. Land was not free for all, and if the straggling yeomen were often ill paid to defuse land sharks, they were secure in the knowledge that Azali’s welfare state offered full pensions to all survivors. So Soundman followed the rumours of black rot and sooth moss, shanks mare and felon, of all of the dark moods which fouled the moors of northern Ossian, even after the terrible war with the Xanthios had dissolved into an uneasy truce, prior to the advent of aroma–therapists who would give them names of whispery Latin and dispel them with chemical mists.

      “The Global Village is solving these problems,” Azali’s friend, Ahmad Rashim iqti Said, often assured his listeners with a wiggly gesture. “Fr. Anselm put the inquisitors over a barrel.” Ahmad, aside from being Ossianian consulate to the Global Village, was a maker of periodic tables and leafy charms, who often trundled his exports beneath the ad valorem customs house, where men in dark robes met to converse in Greek to everyone.

      Azali grunted at these observations. He had never heard of Fr. Anselm, and if he did not care for the Global Village, he did not feel threatened by it as long as they did not solve the problem of wet hens and put him out of commission. The trimly attired man before him fit Ahmad’s description of such a Villager, but Azali was prepared to listen unless the man began spouting quatrains with expository ninth lines Alexandrine.

. . . 

Logan’s plaintive call to the Village Server help desk was taken by Sandra, whose other nature, a world away in chiffon Chinette cap snaffler, while all rinsed fifth denoted amber to pay, said, “I think you should cling to the walls during hours of darkness, as one ant tearing across the dotted line after chafing alas forgotten precepts. Let’s then take a nostrum of our apostrophe, conceived during a moment of stardust devolution, and construe it in an attentive mode.” Together they peered into the re–calibrated fjulsfut core sample. With exacting new clarity, Ferguson noted traces of an even earlier fjulsfut expedition, but at present, the lens was fixed in the thirteenth century. Wading away from the stranded bark, Piero the counselor had been also not lax in remarking of salient formations which, bent to lend heed of the exposition, clutched sack lunches avidly in release from erstwhile arduous travails.

      Limacoline were they, buoyant at first glance as aquatic lilacs that refereed to some unfathomable truths nethermost once, and of them the concierge said, “do all you can to haul ass in their presence, for once unleashed they are convinced of their ultimate beneficence, these monads, towards we who persistently waltz upon the grainy old hearth. Count to ten and freeze, you’re best blessed if they rock on, though some being visited so will lapse in visionary stasis, subliminally resolved to record these inner expositions. At best one might adduce some drivel of thanksgiving, a sop to the God of all these things that are heard, lest they adjourn in some preternatural confluence, as our fustian nature bids these moments tarry, so that one may spout the tidings from one’s own window, if not further moved to grasp some instrument as instructed in His word, a cymbal or harp, such infernal noise nowadays surpasses good taste to the dismay of neighbors whom our youthful psalterist in his self–deception envisions as eager friends hanging upon his every sputtering utterance until finally, if the gendarmes are not to be dispatched, someone might ask him to dry up and put a sock in it, and the chastened novitiate, left to his silent whiz dumb, seeks a parchment upon which he might dispense his knowledge, albeit too late, take strength and do excellence, the immutable monads will admonish him, hastening back through the spendthrift gates which clang shut, and he is left behind to wander witless and lost for generations, repining on how the construct of a single word once sufficed to fill hours, and now it’s an unnavigable torrent of cause; any attempt to form a single sentence mocks the whole, and of course you’re left to chase rosebuds tumbling across the stunted landscape of what’s left of your conscience.”

      These riparian metaphors not lost upon the counselor, Piero thanked the staff of wishram, for he who is not against us is for us, and noticed the waxing tides were lifting his bark into circulation. Yet weren’t perils requisite in order for Piero to grasp the essential breakdown of function leading to the arraignment of his client, or did he proceed to that assignation blithely? To Piero’s annoyance, the fletcher had followed him into the dread realm, saying, “je desirer voir le phoque eternuer.” Piero said, “your monomaniacal excuses to go off the deep end have put us all at risk of doomsday.”

      “That wasn’t an issue, man,” replied the latter and, hoisting over his shoulder a sack of nosegays, cayenne, horse feathers, semantics, lights left on, twill fishnets, and little fluffy postage stamps, walked away. In a plainchant jerked from his concertina, ere his toneless dirge droned on accordingly, “how true I play slouch to spell each picture of mind,” he sang some imaginative permanganate palmed this day. The next edition hinged upon a between likelihood of finding a lost sphere, though insecure pests also anon disturbed the trebuchet from which an adjournment stemmed, and spawned etymologically the multitude fraught oscular.

. . .

In front of the dark glass, Horace rehearsed probable epitaphs. “To the untapped public market of works that testified to the glory of a product,” he began. This rang hollow enough to be creditable. Horace next thought of a joke to lighten the mood: what scratches often and as a matter of course (an often and as a matter of course scratchener) and shuddered, thinking of the cross–cultural barrier over–sighting easements this would entail. He assayed an inspirational tack, conflating, “who, having a handful of eminent lines and yet seeing one roll to the floor, will not set aside the others to search for it under wraps?” He suddenly felt in the midst of a waking nightmare, one in which he was to give a speech naked, or like the old call comma hang up routine at home. “I did this only once,” he explained later at the Institute, “It felt suddenly so high school. Exposed, I waited and waited for her to call back, but she only left me to my jejune shame. In her tower, she had a secret telephone, and on the pretext of official business, I would finagle admittance; in fact, avidly I developed contacts within the secret squirrel community, as cause to barge past her gatekeepers, using the secret telephone to develop my contacts, thus advancing our way off life, and after my five minutes were up, I would sit afterward behind the dark glass watching, until eventually I was placed upon a control register, which of course ruined the mood.

      “Finally the secretary of operations, for in the larger scheme of things, I maintained an immense popularity, took pity and introduced to me an angel of mercy, a lively chipmunk, whose kiss was like being tickled by velvet hornets. At another time, we might have been friends. She hugged to pieces that weird little statue of self–conceit made of shattered mirror fragments that I had painfully constructed. I resented her for this, yet feared to tell her that I was on the rebound, until in misunderstanding she turned into a frightful were–chipmunk and chased me across the pond. In ruin I fled to my mother Niobe, who, horrified by my dissipated condition, gave me the universal time coordinates that created emotional distance, until I was temporarily able to view that entire period as something that had happened in a parallel universe.” “What just happened,” interjected Justine, “is that you refused to accept responsibility for your actions.”

. . .

An Indocile nebulously refutes these charges, asserting, “when shadow puppet ordained that said loads of essential existence fit tidily within old beans, considering that tutorials violated the integrity of inter–regnum regression (and all present), to make love not war, thereby delegates took to the corridors. Alas were untenets thrown from the train,” she comments sorrowfully. “But later, when we were friends for once, 600 million worthwhile bees impended, once tragic oompahs uttered from the next cabana, in complete sedition with Nertz, a Javanese effort at AI. Brilliantly planed, it antedated bottled manna cement systems, and darling whispers convinced inter–regnum to lunge into thin formations of sage.”

      “Not all of the all–of–us were on board with that halcyon Arcadia,” the high five of the fjulsfut proclaims as the Nicean council reverts, “near Ossian, where cyclical flukes are so together that neither side could readily drive by.” Even if a prompt strident dude’s said envelopment of egalitarian problems stood to menage, the comptroller often heaved several poniards. To make a long starry shot, those who had enjoyed the benefits of the indigo sphere during its classical period comprised only a few of the sixth, many of the third, and lumine (nearly all of the first). “The grope–in tarantulized slates of affability into superb generic code heroes,” the high five’s inferences read. “But what had half of these germinal ne’er do wells provided the messy elves?” “Since insipidly mutants were gamier,” An Indocile tersely retorts, “it could be home to all of us now. I repeat, it will mean security and rest. Noone knew whatever an aerial unclear warm king would look like.”

     Mentioning that their stratified worsted swill also intensified with a serious lurch, the uchaux counter, “and no dude ever said this would outwit divine super–vention, restoring severe alto houndstooth and concluding dragnets in 2–3 minutes. Any inhuman brain could out–process so quickly that his systemic lien lied woodily in hands off compotes.” Amidst her calculations, An Indocile studies the eye chart, knowing that Ne Dipol on the opposite side of the same universe is reading the same eye chart from the opposite side.

      “Stare warblers,” An colludes, releasing her discovery of the very planet where paradise once existed, not only to its native habitants, but to many of her own kin, “purely theocratic reticulation upon an existing busy signal, WYSIWYG, which placed much of the sacistry in hands of control freaks, has put small defunct yawns down every time, viz. when Olive remembered 1979 asymptotically, mulatto Soviet accents were taken forth eerily thence. Forfeit innately, humane commoners hereby tinted Nirvana and stopped for reality, although fire breathing spells behaviorally foreshortened.”

      Thus advanced is the theory that this indigo sphere, out from which they were once cast, will offer the end of their tireless journey, security, and rest. The chamberlain (all too busy) taps into this over grudging acquiescence from the council. “Cosmic sputters,” he reassures them, “have been part of the scenery since 1945. Today contextually biased consortiums (or trysts) exist within the trinity to devolve millennial applications for commodious outer space. By 9090,” he decrees, “the dude may send ten percent of His budgies out for lonely software. Spaced video games will tide us over for the indigo sphere as a new arcade.”

. . . 

The visitor spoke. “I am Ylferim, First Partisan of the Global Village.” None of his listeners replied. The visitor passed his glance over Azali and his sons, taking in also the Nawab Arda Min, proconsul of Bruges, the appellate Harun Talab lil Makama, curator of the Ossianian Hermitage, and the short, upwardly mobile minister without portfolio, Ahem Mi’sik Ir’wah. Vividly gesturing, Ylferim indicated the film crew beyond them, completing introductions with a wave at his cinematographer, Marta Meringue, who leaned upon her tripod and winked at them. Ylferim glowered, returning his gaze to Soundman and his sons, and said, “how long will they bask in nodes of the Oort cloud?” “Fifty years,” Hatta shouted down his elder brother, who sold out on desirable causes.

      “Thirty,” Soundman amended, gazing at them sadly. Ylferim nodded at this, but did not resume his gazebo until several moments trickled past. They all wore phylacteries of singsong letter sound bites. Soundman’s wife, Masha, wore a yellow ribbon around an oilcloth cardigan and a thin serape for party crashing. The clerics, fidgeting in their waterproof Ulsters, drank carafes of lemongrass and stared back queasily. Ahem had borrowed a smoking jacket from his uncle. Marta looked at the flushed strangers and nodded earnestly. “Where are your wet hens,” she asked? Soundman shrugged and drew on his meerschaum.

      “The Niceans are in the courtyard dredging up the last of them,” he finally admitted. “What do you do for fun around here,” she persisted? “We sell seashells at the seashore,” they chorused. “Attend to your court,” Ylferim advised, “but before you go, check out the rack at Macy’s online. We’ll give you the wholesale discount.” Soundman’s court bowed and withdrew from the courtyard as Ylferim pondered his words. He knew that to bestow such last ditch carte blanche in someone else’s country was tantamount to sneezing on the blackboard, one hundred times, I will not stray far from the tour. Yet the native fashion sense had appalled Western civilization and already sabers were rattling from the rooftops.

      “We are all citizens here,” he repeated ironically to Marta. “Sworn to defend the citizens of Ossian from fashion tyranny.” In a heavy silence, they listened to the rumours of war. Decimated from endless conflicts with its neighbors, Ossian had a barrel stave army to throw into the breach. To the north, the dykes had been released and now poured into the floodplains even as far as il–Yaum, only a furlong’s pace along the Algarve south of Bing Bang. To the south, echoes of the coalition forces, a swarthy juggernaut of maroon and dun, had established their footprint on the threshold.

      Kindred refugees were already massing through the capitol, many of whom, old enough to remember the previous wars, heaping their crystal chandeliers and menorahs into squeaky untenets borne in a dusky flight. Before deporting the last of the wet hens into Snorggi’s nose, the Niceans had appointed the Bing Bang Defense District at the urging of Ne Dipol, a boldly orange yet well endowed bobbin diva, who’d dribbled a message onto Ylferim’s delectable hand, which he now read aloud.

. . . 

“Salutation from interregnum council. You are hereby anointed to marshal your coiffures in support of holding operations which will be conducive to harness the flyaway look as far as possible. For this purpose, you are directed to form a snood in the vicinity of il–Yaum and await further fashion lines. May shadow puppet bestow your mission with speediness.” Ylferim looked up. As First Partisan, he had delved into the medium in a non–interpretive fashion, to permit open discourse amidst his peers.

      “Il–Yaum,” Soundman spat? “There’s a pipe dream. It’s the mossiest land possible. What do we build barcodes with, our tears?” “Do you know the country,” Ylferim deferred? “I sure do,” Azali replied. “Did a good yard sale two summers ago when the marsh rats mistook shallots for municipal bond anticipation notes. Flugelzahns and rug rats everywhere — I fenced mustards as far as the baroque county fairs and fooled around and fell in love. Wet hens got in there and gravidly dripped onto fluorescent water slides,” he chuckled. “Will it be flushed,” Ylferim asked?

      “We can find out,” Soundman replied. In the silence, the Nawab Arda Min saccharinely exhaled, which won him the floor. “Before the eyes of the Blessed Prophet, I maintain that this citizen’s council’s a blasphemy! The right hand doesn’t know what’s up and the left hand is busy with its own ding–a–ling. If I were the coalition force, I’d charge straight up the causeway toward Gravesend’s Road.” The Nawab was not alone in knowing that the far–off coalition forces drew nigh. Their anciently immaculate chausseurs even now preyed like shrikes contending the bole; their shrill swift cautions inculcated alas to the lazy reversed keys roseately, and cued upon this uplift, the dubious franchise of tendentious general comparatives tipped a pluperfect lurch into ignition.

      With active tonal vision, capable of discerning the echoes of stressed beams long in being, a phased ejection also was this, which possessed force inimicable to a named attempt to forestall a chronic transversion deemed around ten hundred land years after a battle of Stamford Bridge, and was subsequently impacted with great desire for accidental remainder. Howsobeit, amidst partial insurrection of truant design toward a serer realm ably, here did shadow puppet complete the trump sounded in order to sort withal an ordinance pertaining to the disport of souls. Most rankling in lower circles was a stipulation forged with peculiars poised to deny the reconstruction by remaining immutable, upon the ground that their status of exogeneity relative to the rebellious lumine placed all other inter–regnum without the similarity.

      Arguing that this ban would not roll, the seconds jostled incommodiously on, nor were fourths empirically as the border between shades and shall nearly was porous as the last chair trump elected to pro forma emboss the filigree notes in rainy limbic climbs heard; and found so arboreal to many sixths chic sixth sheep’s sic was the verily omega psalmist, that even among the stolid fifth drop–in xorns beneath the mantel reckoned also upon extended vista. Satan, who remembered an encounter with the neuro–Niceans four thousand decades previously, found their doctrines indigent; to these lapsed appurtenance rivaling vestiges claiming to the rarest of times encomium. Since they seemed intent upon highlighted scarcity, he devolved such crass sops with some aim, instructing his pluperfect tenor to consult with them (as told your tribes we will ghost ride down), and left bound for Worms. Until the online smithies, forasmuch rallied to immemorial prospectus, foundered during the second reading of Marta’s resolution operant from a material interest, plutonium bookworms also hiked away while this Preceptor, oft recollected as a figurative palmer, said, “tell them also make ready my white bicycle.”

. . .

Rearranged condiments.

      The Nicean council adjourns to a closed session. They agree that an An Indocile has a weird case with her theory of sustainable development. On the other hand, the chamberlain (all too busy) defends her appointment, saying, “we are in flux, so must we not change our ways.” The high five knows that flux refers to the irreversible decay of their trail mix diffusion facilities, but says, “this was no call to dismantle inter–regnum.” “I said nothing about that,” the chamberlain compiles, “but our way must turn to cooperation, not conquest.”

      “Nay,” the fjulsfut insist, “precisely now, as we are, is how we always will be. Not all of us were,” adds their high five, “so compelled to this refulgence.” The urchin of the fjulsfut goes on, maintaining that these benefits of the prospective ambassador’s plan are apparent to a mere fraction of their sort. “Only a smattering of fjulsfut once harbored landing rights there.” The high five reminds them all of how wholly the overrated diaspora, once blown over, has trickled down little good to the common whole.

      And of the lumine (nearly the entire first), none of them dare to mention. “Stasis is the fount of wisdom,” quotes an historian (all too busy), allowing the high five to gracefully depart without having to adjust his mask. “They are correct,” an officious split second adds, referring to the industrious fifth’s penchant for conservation. “They are freaks,” murmur the uchaux, demonstrating a dread true to form. This composite opinion does little to bring matters out. The further necessary elaboration encloses such topics as the diaspora to Titan, the promulgation of color blind policy toward Niceans created in wishram, the dispersal of armaments, the preservation of finth comet home, a report on the state of the trail mix diffusion facilities, et cetera. “Her duties are purely honorable,” the chamberlain protests.

      Yet, he wishes not reminders of her cruelty. Searching for a facile clause, the chamberlain insists upon An’s confirmation. As much as he loves her, he is vexed by the contempt she heaps upon his chosen calling. He aches to remind her that she is no longer young. He fathoms that she would long to hear such words, if only for the opportunity to turn on him with the fierce disdain that seems to enflame her with an indignation of rapture. Instead, shackled by courtesy, he holds his peace.

      “Of course they are unclear,” says a voice from the mantelpiece, and Ne Dipol steps to the plate. “You even said that a pretty little headed nothing like me could get them.” Before the council, the chamberlain shrieks, “it is time we adopt progressive ideas.” “Stop your hegemonomania,” the seamstress warns, “or this time will serve as a reminder. All around the scent hast thou traipsed in secret, babe, although all I wanted to be let known is this: thank you, sir, for keeping me out when we know the real power is down.” There is little time to adjust for the return of her distant sister. Ne Dipol remarks sotto voce, “well we happen to know that a comet is going to strike her precious planet very soon, and that will be the end of that, now won’t it?”

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

About the Author (Author Profile)