II – wix – Alexandrine Theogonies.

| June 30, 2013 | 0 Comments

Frederick II and Mirabeau argue over dreamlike interpretations of Earth’s collision with the Crucifixion. In the Land of Forgotten Tents, iamin’thelim and Aira Phoebus hide from the onset of the ghost riders, led by the Preceptor. The physicist Park is urged by his father to escape a monolithic bloc. At the Dominion Day picnic, Horace fluffs established etiquette. The area defence counsel Piero, arrived at Worms, sequesters a potentially key witness. At a reception celebrating her confirmation as Nicean Grand High Ambassador, An Indocile calls for “a protocol of technological exchange.”

II — wix — Alexandrine Theogonies.

    “Similarly,” Mirabeau declaimed, “there may be enough to get past tomorrow night, for as a mutant vole went from a field of smoldering hayseeds, the scribe ran into his deserted kingdom, that still smell of summer countryside with an echo of circuitry, looking for a chimera to leave his wits at an umbrella stand at last.” Then Frederick wished for light to pour into his left eye, in the same manner in which suddenly leaves of adoring clutters wafted into composed zeniths of work–around.

    “Had my seedily wrecked tumult self of impotence subsidized next acts,” he wrote, “orchestral idylls must on half pay bend oldly, too dry for inkwells.” The shadowy Mirabeau usually washed until biathanatos, aware of the rapidity of mnemonic stories in transit. “Alas also, for fewer scores even unread, intercepts paled in twelfth inferences, blankly one age ago emerged out of clouded steerage, from a quatrain the cross arms waved you from the showroom before. Zounds, were her dream nails acutely pressed idiomatically in terminal design, which chased the scribe from repose and into a posthaste rapport of hearing solo amends until each moment marched out into futurism.”

    “Thou at least compromised ingots drawn, had such a chiromantic method offset erotically,” Frederick scoffed upon each missive ever to let from such visibly digital networks. Had even autonomically mobieuses restrung happily, freshly unleavened drafts now shot beyond the rabid curtain, into territories benignly candid in lists, notwithstanding ex tempore limpid attachments of violet. Some airily demitasse, lent from afar, drooped even fluorescently and ran away with templates meant for newer disparate childish monads, persuaded only of rote efficacies as keynote of worldwide shopping or madness, and vastened under spectral musty word games a next zesty flame.

    “There wasn’t any timeless collective scrimmage as introverted,” Mirabeau uttered. In peppery gloomed unguents, flung upon their minor elements, a minty sky strove with their mechanistic precise nocturnal frame in voiced forever tackier lounges fretfully. “Prithee resume pica staccatos likewise browsed under certain condition,” Frederick importuned. “Will accurately offered Norns perchance aver how much repeat compressed sad wealth ago so statically?” “Now blink on the propped upon gathering,” Mirabeau replied, “lastly imitative of huge demented value forget minuets, while some increased shallow dots wore sleeveless concertinas of shoving aside the beige cure.”

. . .

iamin’thelim, always known as the cognomen, was so having trouble with his blankies. He felt they had not needed to get so messed up yesterday. Tug as he might, his feet seemed prime targets for tootsie ogling role monsters who bunched in the trestles above him googling. Aira alas, her Miss Midgard crown askew, reasonably quivered over his plight, advising, “you were better to have one of these version charm anklets braced around your foot insofar as they would leave you all one,” and queried on the fount of this bromide, pointed to a well.

    If not essentially ecstatic over recent events, nor was iamin’thelim wont to be seen prancing around with tracking bracelets, and moreover, insisting upon removal, iamin’thelim received a thrill of instant gratification when, sniffling distantly, Aira was unable to perform this ritual, and said “omega shadow puppet,” and even if iamin’thelim looked around in case He arrived, but saw only her gaze riveted skyward, lamenting her brethren, their picnic four squares into seltzer fizzled and then, something infinitely defined arrived. iamin’thelim clamped a paw over Aira’s expostulations, saying “shut up, or he will hear us.” The Preceptor of Europe paused to hark onto a prevision of Arcadian squatters in a place of mist, certainty, and discord. In the basement of a false legal claim center lived five bobbin sprats. They bore no relation or resemblance to any previous bobbin sprats elsewhere depicted.

    Restless and fidgety, they were wont to whine about everything. They enjoyed frozen peanut butter, made their own clothes, and could spot moving picks from fifty rows up. A storm struck then. Little Aloe Ne Dipol, for example, thought it ironic to have escaped from zany Maxwell’s calligraphy emporium at a very young age, only to find she was destined for the mess now that everyone was up. Bromine droplets warped the board. “He is a bomb cheater and may never be played with again,” Ranth Tyoslament (all too busy), assigned as perpetual goad to the heir apparent, now excoriated the latter’s habit of stealthily relocating his strategy bombs that, according to Hoyle, once placed, could not be moved during the match. Small wonder, for a steady diet of totems had succeeded in dulling the reflective edge near their wandering from studied purpose far.

    Even as katabats rippled the salmon skies, releasing great scoops of mint ice lozenges that rained all around, the bobbin sprats determined to remain under their awning until the finish. Alone among them, Aloe Ne Dipol displayed a knack for retaining placidly elusive meekness required for manipulating elders. “If I could only just forget,” she grieved, “a noted thing, abominable yet otiose olden origami, eluded a really snazzy tier reckoned askance by pippy shallots.” For technically, such hedged sit–ins dared mark time on airily glissades, risking ablative dustbins if someone else’s kinetic nudge folded. “Oh drat,” threw out a far crier, “most jingles which laud some rather abstract claims.”

    The dawn of the catholicon, an all–encompassing backyard clean–up, drew focused snorts of derision from some quarters: “you can be sure that if you look into that side of the house you’ll only hear that side of it, with the air of those cognizant of a blotch upon a nation of cute little bobble–heads who were always seen waving from the back of shots. They were so cute, these little bobble–heads, that you just wanted to wrap them up and take them home and squeeze the heck out of them.” “Doggone it,” the Preceptor grimaced. Sent to evict early Niceans from the indigo sphere in the wake of shadow puppet’s apotheosis, he knew that most of them were idiots, but Dipol was their sickliest negotiator. This was to be no picnic clinic.

. . .

    On the morning designated for the transfer of a smellier isle to mainland control, the exchange of ideas became more difficult with each succeeding invention. It was immediately necessary to gather groups of gifted men into communes. The requisite invitations were issued. Received of late, recently fetched from the well and dusted off with sufficient outcry, was the sealed stamp of proof inviting Park to the provincial capitol. He was found before the caretaker’s cottage. Refuting Planck’s theory of wave motion was one of their hobbies.

    Deaf as he was, the caretaker had been able to identify those who had hid their cyclotron. Thought about in terms of an ambush, a prominent inkstand coated foibles, somewhat at its break point ignoring bells, as if it moved, everyday, a last alm seldom deemed intuitive. Not only had he lost everything in the dim recession of Brisbane, but he had warned the church to look out for the children as it zoomed away, proclaiming, “I’ve grown much more sensitive to their needs than has anyone else,” yet listeners found these sentiments perturbing, as if they had felt they’d outgrown the necessity to be hung with such labels, whereas the caretaker, who’d thitherto experienced a seeming renascence, now cut and pasted with the zealotry of those eager to reinforce the shame once visited upon them by paradigms. Children were laughing in the oblivion of a green summer evening.

    The visiting deputies expressed no visible relief. Conversely, upon apprehending reactions ranging from joblessness to ire, the caretaker, indignant that he had not evinced the obvious manifest pleasure of those who’d once visited these disclaimers upon his own plate, grew invariably Malthusian and a most fascinating bore, saying, “I do not wish children, ergo, I am living a self–fulfilled life, which is tantamount to storing the Lucifer matches above the flush valve in the toilet tank.” “Although they will,” he was promised, “one day summarily receive a ride of quite sufficiently obverse conversion to enable the state to lead the world scientific community to the brink of discovery, we are not presently interested in who participated in the plot. Our business concerns that which seems to be a perfectly reasonable question to ask, given circumstances, what have you done for the state lately?”

    As Park looked for a way off the grounds, expectations, the caretaker muttered, “aren’t we carrying the profit without honor business a little too far?” He’d married Inyo Tiarmsofarie, doctor of Post–Atomic Fission, who died of cesium inhalation after giving birth to a child, deemed wardable to the state, due to its clemency, and provided a suitable office as recompense for services well rendered. Thumping long passages from the sketches of Mendeleyev, Theverteheil, and Eberhard d’Jardins, Inyo had sought an inkling of understanding from those sleek sleep–seeking party Brummels who processed through her class in neat and regular droves to receive their degrees in Post–Atomic Fission, prior to assuming weighty positions within the coordinated defense ministry of the monolithic bloc. She sustained substantial hopes that object ionization participles of sound as the next carrier frequency was a proposed postulate for endeavor. By circumstance of production, with chalk sufficient to derive the necessary equations enabling an induced pulse pattern of plutons to enter a suspension field of halogen ink, it had grown plausibly apparent for some time that a large chunk of rock might land upon the earth. The exosphere was only the topmost of the empyrean, admitting all vectoring spaceborne particles to glide and/or to tumble into the uppermost layers of the cafe–pouissant, permutating or immolating as case–specified.

    “Yet you burned her theory of quantum mechanics,” the deputies accused. “Who didn’t in those cold, fuel–starved days after the war, when the ice crunched underfoot and even into the halls of the Institute,” the caretaker mused? When old Simychkin, mistaking an icicle resting along the tray of the blackboard for a piece of chalk, expounded Lavoisier’s derivation for the real–time frame reconfiguration process without missing a beat? “Anyone could come up with a new theory,” Park shrugged.

    “Nevertheless,” the deputies replied, “we must be soon carrying forth the daring sockage rescue soon [sic]. The effort to evaluate the potential of these myriad projectiles, incoming or not, will absorb much of the creative potential of those possessed and of declared talent for so doing.” Drinking his dandelion wine, the caretaker clasped his comrade for a ruddy good time. “Park,” he said, “I am your father. Sail this good ship away from here.” Ominously tilted into the zest for pursuit, they summoned Park and trained thirsty scopes unto the skies, waiting for fluffy paper towels to wipe the grease from the Dominion Day picnic.

. . . 

How Individuals Progressed Beyond a State of Fulfillment.

    Horace’s nameless personae stood in line during uncertain times, wishing to visit Althea, the checkout lady again, until realizing that this was an excuse to avoid searching for phrases with which to withstand existence. Now and then marginalized imperatives slowly turned periodicals inside out. Because that song and dance was over, lacking a certain habituality, or a reason for any subsequent activity, yet loathe to appear driven from the scene, as it were, Horace had comprehended a desire for refuge within the already written, that security inherent in something done by someone else, ameliorating the harsh vigil at the lintel of selfishness and its tug of insufficiency.

    It was somewhat valueless now that everything had been reverse mortgaged. Justine was preparing a cilantro salad for the displaced indigenous peoples. At the end of the street, mushroom clouds were billowing into apostrophes, dog chasing fire hydrants, and other eerie shapes. Slamming the door, Bitsy informed her father of the various benefits to mankind inherent in rampant individualism. “They are very tiny goldfish crackers of comatose awareness,” she insisted, tugging at the matching percale of his smoking jacket. Logan (her father) regarded this intelligence casually. “It strikes me,” he began, as paraffin etched cadenzas wore the opposite of down, “that society would so shamelessly kowtow to these half–baked syllogisms.”

    “Therein lie their charm,” Bitsy persisted, “for it is easier to recreate a world from scratch, than to think of a single word with which to” — “don’t go there,” her father interrupted, using the rapture to shake out the accumulation of tamarisk leaves in the rain gutter. “But look, here is our brother Horace, formerly known as his own nameless personae, whose weekend was perpetually deferred by existence, and was an overrated concept anyway.” Horace was busy remembering the night during which he chose not to dwell upon the aspects responsible for his self–abnegation. It had been as magical an evening as universal time coordinates might allow. The edge was far enough away so that you could still see it. Never before or since were dormant volcanoes so quiescent.

    “You would think,” Horace thought, “that there was a point to all of this ever since we were trained to super–impose a manageable gestalt over chaos since day one and stop this crazy sentence. There aren’t any more inkblots to see here, Doctor,” Roveretto’s heart cried out loud in his fixation upon individual responsibility. Yet, they blinked at him blankly. A toast was expected before Horace’s ceremonial tossing of the drink.

. . .

“If, at some point, during which the immutability of existence turns absolutely positivist in value, to the exclusion of theoretically harmonious ethos, one might say this empty glass is material only, shall I raise it to the memory of the right honorable Mr. W. M. Thackeray (who presciently coined the horseless carriage in illumining those noble diligences, immobilized at Brussels, for want of quadruped motivance), would a single condition of the universe be affected as a result?

    “I, in the words of the worthy gentleman, ‘is [sic] here introduced to personify the world in general,’ the love of which has consigned numerable visionaries to the device of a corrective apparatus that would, unbeknownst to the blissful riverine passengers, shape the destinies of civilization for the next six centuries until the Grande Armee, boiling across the Sambre, spooked the rich and famous into loading their fiacres for a precipitate flight and then sitting, arrested only for lack of minimal power, for long periods until the exploits of that thin red line dispelled the rumor of encroaching doom.

    “The mind, in its infinite capacity for disconnection, conceives of terrors that dwarf an actual application, at least in an initial stage, of electromotive force, for the purpose of eliciting a desirable response. Those persons exposed to such apparatus are initially sanguine and say, ‘this will be over soon, and I shall return to the yard and have a cigarette to reflect upon events with much drollerie,’ and must even struggle with dashed expectations, insofar as the endurance of the fearful stimuli was billed (again within one’s personal marquee) as an epic defiance of impersonal and overweening powers. Suddenly a message logs onto your voice mail, inviting the recipient to a picnic tomorrow; that this voice was unknown is a clue, and that it’s addressed to a similarly unknown third party testifies to its misrouting.

    “During happier times, you would call the sender immediately to announce the clerical error, yet inactivity is the watchword of these temperate seasons, reinforced in the belief that the recipient, averse to participation, had provided the sender erroneous information, and far be it from you to expose the hygienic ruse. Indeed, warmed by solidarity with the harried third party, a certain haggard peace overtakes your features. For who hasn’t, in receipt of the blandishments of a bountiful and on–gazing I, scurrilously denounced such inducements as vicarious liens upon one’s own existence, marked with such covert leers toward the recipient that the authors of a given proposition, heartened in achieving a perception of change in the universe, gad about for weeks subsequently? It was precisely this condition of dependence, in all of its awful significance, of unaccustomed stasis, of exclusion from erstwhile cherished haunts, of the denial of refuge from the limitless outrance of existence, that was seared within the psychoses of the heirs of Western civilization at Brussels in 1815 and produced, less than one century later, the logical extension of those ‘horseless carriages’ so lightheartedly lampooned by Mr. Thackeray at the height of the Industrial Revolution.

    “An entire class of disdained artisans, equerries, and ostlers was thus banished by the forces of mechanization, a development that the fjulsfut were not swift to overlook in their historical studies of the indigo sphere, and/if the service ethos had been rejuvenated during the pre–millenarian Ponzi revivals to incorporate a modicum of salutary transcendence, this Vermeer rubbed off in the recoil of hyper–leveraged markers inculcating a litigiousness to any given transaction unseen since the great re–investiture crises of 1236, a time to which we now return.”

. . .

The area defense counsel now intended to dwell upon circumstantial factors conducive to his client’s self–denial. Let out from a kempt deluge as moments chimed beneath overt gloomy acid monsoon spells, he’d fully meant to deplore floozies piqued along the quay until a restive glimpse, clambering alas whatever forms of perseverance, spiraled into perception. Hesitantly, in dishabille marred with prisms, this sad little wren threw sandbags atop cosmic rhapsodies, inching merely vocal tariffs assiduously. She densely posed quandaries for the counselor who, frowning in brusque aversion, was incensed that his inner sophistries had failed to prevent such crass leers evinced ever since.

    The dames of this northerner clime, perhaps lacking the spindly dexterous artifice of Piero’s own courtly sisters, compensated thus with placidly complaisant indifference dearly ignored. Hesitance, she named herself, toured feyly circumlocutive blinks, and Piero at last found heart to exclaim, that if she’d recently sprang out of fully decent conveniences her role, to straitly resume closer ties, was by all means vital in assured remediality. This dissuasion remitted obverse repartee; the mad hen flung aside her stole to expose a rude scourge, adding, “thus were we consecrate.” In receipt of her vows to go never thither, Piero shrank in unseemly plight: local gendarmes, whenever cognizant, always eagerly made light sport of this sort of assignation. His cause imperiled, the counselor wept with joy upon spotting a stolid good wife nearby, and hastily entreated this matron to submit to deputization within the Imperial Court, for the purpose of escorting this urchin, as a material witness, into the nearest chapel until each were straitly sent for.

    “Whew,” he thought, hailing a portmanteau for the jaunt to the local registrar, with frankly wee inkling of ever redeeming his charge, so mickly fatigued did he wax. Whereupon Piero’s proxy, scrupulous in fulfillment of her task, redressed Hesitance in a brisk yet kindly fashion, while sizing her as an ingenue willfully impervious to behavioral maxims (nor who were not these days). Diverted with topics of innocuous import, the latter, after several compliant paces, sullenly declared utter disinterest in further proceeds and started away, yet her duenna had slyly steered into regions whence lurked uncouth factotums, causing Hesitance to opt for the paler refuge lately chosen, though once within the votive hold, she refused significant obeisance and eyed candlelit mysteries passively.

    Assured of the chivalrous deportment of these Sicilians and no mistake, Hesitance nervelessly embalmed a skeptical mien toward authority of any ilk, even if hardly had nones ended when a regal coachman, in livery of the district podesta, bawled loudly for the detainee. What a fiacre, drawn by a brace of calico palfreys that champed in a bored manner, appearing liable to bolt spontaneously, awaited them! An ostler jumped in to reconcile outlandishly diverse worldviews, indicating a brougham of teak that jostled upon soundless pinions within, and plastered with thinly veiled gossamer strands of fabled fabrics, Hesitance reclined, though bereft of her guardian whom, in receipt of her stipend declared, “if the feds won’t have milieus checked into a miracle cure, I’ll spot Noone one no free ride sticker for sure,” and in a snap these qualified environs slid aside, laminating her dry–dock memories in a surrogacy of nostalgia. Objects in the mirror were closer than they appeared, though at present Hesitance enjoyed admittance into a frabjous hold of plushness.

 . . .

Computerized compass.

    The inclusive reception of bobbins marks the confirmation of An Indocile as Grand High Ambassador of inter–regnum. Fiddling over her slide show, An finds little time to adjust for the return of her distant sister, whose aseptic dirigibles outlast gerund pestling zymurgical retorts. As her kinsfolk gather, An launches her presentation. “Decameters,” she begins, “we have never more decisively exteriorized hierophancy, now that elemental seconds, on behalf of more than infernal control groups, hover universally on the chance that dubiously autocratic collusion intends to adapt the metric system.

    “To illustrate, in 1906, perchance the blue mantras, in framed adaptation of Camus, chased wide–mouth snoring systems, and/if some departments pushed for their own sing–alongs as a status symbol, the term ‘connubial idiocy’ had not yet come into vogue. By 8819, with inadvertently reedy and soluble political corrections, the comptroller industry began to push its wares onto scamps (with grants, discount–window borrowings, and other bland relationship epoxies) to the tune of 1.3 clothespins all over again.

    “If calm puerile itinerancy isn’t really requited for the duration, miniscules will require their students to purchase pixies. Many cactuses are already networking them, a project of considerable angst, and however this may be borne by any joint rude prospectus, school–age manufacturers will go into business in the altogether (see Parallelepiped Construction versus 1984). Time out for complexions from the oddity.” “Did the consortium industriously forecast a networked circus, strident and featurelessly communing eclectically at any pace (though if shoe fitters today keep unlisted pewter elephants, why shouldn’t they be billed for accessible numbers 25/8)?”

    The Ambassador agrees, “we might be exacting stand–in untenets to believe the tenuous formation of process is saner than any ledge extant.” She waves to another hand. “Whosoever shall old trumpeters talk of replacing humdrum chain reactions, especially on complex turbines?” “Indeed you concatenate,” An replies, “since thicker ammeters are voluptuously haphazarding truthful proscriptions needlessly. Existence is at best an essentially primitive mediation of duly mental terrains. Come hithers aren’t necessarily ditto interfaces, and/if prescient proclivities are used to definite process evaluation, a quainter digital commodiousity, we termed this and bled through the compressed dirge in amber. Our next question must have currently been in Bhutan.”

    “Are all new worlds revisited in or after decades?” “Since I have last dibs we eke another sentence fro. Stop lounging ever since the opposite of carburetor carnation in an ultimately earlier sounding. Inventoried in every kitsch is synchronous sublimity. They are far from over and oft through word signal monads. To understand why any affiance occurring between other non–familiar specifics ago is tantamount to residential development, wait for a nudge to see their freedom flies someone ordered as (the fringe matter an knew little of separated greed from agreement shouted) across the lacquered room the vigorous bolt slipped awry through the grasp of our trail of the ill–used either/or. That virgule had a chance to draw from previous lessons a theory of word generation beginning with the utility of specific combinatives in development, structure, and intent.

    “Inclined fusion,” the newly minted Ambassador states, “ideation formats infer sad product incomes. A glut of commuters, processed in formation, may crawl out ideally. Compatible whizzers sneeze to stimulate creativity by inducing a randomized elephant. However this be not truly arboreal, I think it is time we develop a protocol of technological exchange, that will allow all new civil clusters to find their own destiny.”

Category: Act II Revised Ed.

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