II – x – In Another Paradise.

| June 30, 2013 | 2 Comments

Horace’s breach of etiquette enabling the physicist Park to merge through the DMZ, he receives censure in the House of Commons from Frank Middleford, M.P. Lothar Flusstapfer travels to Las Vegas. iamin’thelim recalls his former stint as headmaster of a school for dybbuks practicing their jump skills at the fringes of the universe. Ylferim, arrived in Ossian to film a biopic of its leading citizens, encounters cultural barriers. Inspectors, searching for wet hens, interview Wahid in his post at wishram, and Conrad of Flippenberg appears from the 13th century to denounce the facility.


II — x — In Another Paradise.

As Horace gulped the toast, the visiting delegation stared at him dryly. Honestly, he thought they were going to type straight through the hour. Threads of yesterdays repudiated into the seamless ore of passage. Intractably hovering beyond the ephemeredes of spoilsport conscience, references began crammed looks distinctly blank throughout odd eons, and smothering totality imbued every inkling with formless conferral infinitely. Towards minute isosceles askance were uniform beliefs disported to seem by law as producing songs and enveloping echoes ware of consequence certain and/or crucial to arrangements of breaching impunity.

That, of all unknown properties, qua entity, being least disposed to simulate condition, so that is why each put all under direct capacity of a whole whoa. Woe to who whom were forced to resume their natural liberality because of dissolution? Many of icy fo’c’sle mirrors argent even smothered forceless urgency; Runnymede attar sial thoughts coursed an implication stealing in clattering lens toward a dark ergot lash more forsaken than annoyance iris irritate embedded. The practical moment that might have allowed for invention of the current cyan ideally stet comptrometer arrived in a titivation and left without forwarding a dress.

Of increased ware then, they fasted to set aside prior entanglements in time for another festival; as a topic of scorn and ejecta magma, other vigorous virtue suspense stemmed from an art. The contingent fee simply struck their locusts of loci as such hundredweight balls that glengarry principles, figured in the motion to revoke their singular charter, diverted from the process of moving fads forward. On and on a man wondered at all of the contumely graphite swirling around a corner. If the last thing I knew rustled old sign fewmet etchings, forasmuch the risked souls than it all seemed to obvious tote, that their land once more formed at Horace. He was perplexed to be intuitive of a gradual reception found bland. The gate mount verily upon hinges of stannous fluoride then in sickness as in hell yawned; into angry otiose tactile fights a rusted finth laughed okay out of key! What is that red room representative jotting upon a podium of single tablets were some then compact? A depiction of poor betrayal suffused some with livid scope. Then tickled in bolts of savant clot, an unwieldy grog, restricted in very complex weights of eighty–seven flowers ambivalent, capped the sentence. Most of the interns actually nattered about errands, in ever yet pricier depositions to measure the public indifference as to how all feeling toward a name, yet at the cylindrical epicenter of apogee that forgotten Iphgene swore here service, while via feats of elsewhere the sham retrieved, vapidly recouched, a redirect fee simple in the works.

Warning of the risk of fire, the visiting delegation ordered their erstwhile roasts to keep all combustible materials at least three feet away from the front, side, and back of this theater. “Not wishing to be present at such an event,” the governor said, “we are all for the present resolution that such material be withdrawn.” Amid the confusion, the peoples’ commissioner charged that the British government had coaxed the physicist Park into the Gordian Room of the Raccoon Lounge, whence, in accordance with the negotiating tables of the 1972 ABM treaty, he was immune from extradition. Seeing crisis in opportunity, the honorable Frank Middleford, M.P., had railed at the spectacle of Her Majesty’s government shunting physicists, “however talented, into the lap of our gallant U.S. allies; and for failing, in his role as libator, to toss the symbolic gin and tonic into the face of the mainland envoy at the auld lange syne sort of a last stiff upper lip transfer of sovereignty with all due persistence, we wonder of what caliber is the man who coaxed Horace into agreeing to perform the dread ritual?” The members playing the classical shuffle were day in and out his friends, and Frank constantly intended to remand their effort with some semblance of pledged support, until he had attempted to listen too critically to their response of his conservative intimations.

. . . 

To find the evening’s quiescence better, Lothar initially migrated through scary hollows, which intimated the impossibility of refraining from assignment of intelligence to the carefree carnegiea gigantea, whose limbos purported to fly in every whichever direction. So one willfully ascribed, encountering entire cities of perspicacious flora that hypnotized the census within the murky dunes almost; and likened progressive vistas overtime, drew distantly truant pluralities conventionally shaped. Yet, effluvial spurs sank across their pathos dwindlingly definitive of rapprochement. North of a certain parallelepiped, the squeegee aureoles gave way to vast sage wastes that were now his back–up plan for the misery of emptiness occasioned by the Ulster break.

Lothar had dropped enough acorns before this to know that, unless situational assessments occurred, he was unprepared to assign specific degrees of agoraphobia to his plight. From the verticule, he dangled like a participle in a sixth grade primer (we saw a large patch of strawberries coming up the hill), and the environs of the meadows, reversely mortgaged to a fault, sprawled like someone who had just received an unexpected remittance. It had not always been this way: Lothar’s father, a swing set salesman, flew them all across the pond on a wooden nickel in the early sixties, where he rented a Winnebago, which dwarfed them into insignificance as they plowed across the Painted Desert, a destination common to their countrymen, who lamented the treatment of indigenous populations while snapping up as many magic carpets as their floor space back home would admit.

On a Sabbath dare, they’d left the mammoth at a rest stop and Volksmarch’ed across the valley floor, reaching a camp trailer park revival punctuated with salutary cries, and afterwards Lothar was appalled as his brave father spurned invitations from the pastoral staff to return to their vocation. Across the red–rocked floor they were driven, hogans and kivas whirling aside, passing twenty mule Borax teams which signaled the demise of the westward ho manifest destiny, until the strange glottal nadir wind talker commentary they’d tuned into faded beyond line of sight in a whoosh of phosphorescence, and after a recreational lakeside respite during which Lothar’s father smacked him with the pole for being skunked by hatchery seedlings, he had recalled little of the subsequent canyon lands.

. . .

Park had arrived at the point in which individual light waves were discerned, where the merest ripple of leaf, hitherto shrugged off as part of the general turbulence, was now regarded as a winking of God’s eye that did not call attention to itself in the wilderness, from which Park’s mind already labored to construct features that may be architecturally familiar. The basalt wall, pockmarked with crudities, described a natural chord of some one hundred and twenty degrees, at the center of which a jetting cascade of water slipped over the rim to plunge free fall about fifty feet to a jutting outcrop of stone, before reforming and continuing the drop another eighty feet to the palisade below, along the banks of which grew volcanic ash so heavily mossed that their limbs appeared to be sporting green oven mitts.

In their midst towered a single lodgepole, an outcast from brethren who favored the high steep slopes near the top of the raving. Park, crouched in the largest of the rock wall recesses near the top of the southwest arc face, was able to regard the cataract from a vantage superior to that offered by the discrete bench posted at the trail switchback some one hundred and seventy feet below. From that point, one needed to crane back one’s head, while convinced that this must be the finest of all possible views, and to any infirm, inattentive, or distracted enough, this was certainly the best case. Park, who in his present fair moment, was none of these conditions, had spotted an underpinning talus cut, itself the bed of a trickling stream, amidst the undergrowth at the far side of the pool and, using this to scale slipperily onto the oblique basalt arc wall, grasped a projecting copse to scramble the final ten feet.

“Oh moment stay,” he shouted in. This was the largest and easiest of the caverns to which access was possible. From here, the waterfalls were seen as falling away from the observer. Park had achieved a true glimpse of geologic time. Natural striations in the rock wall formed several levels of winking schists; most, being merely pockmarks in the declivity, were of too small and hazardous access to afford alternative perches. However, in the soft glow of an afternoon spring overcast, flagrant with verdure, Park imagined that he was the progenitor of an ancient cliff dwelling society of individuals in complete accord. He did not particularly long for the presence of other humans at that time, inasmuch as the prevalent ideal of creativity was to stick heads out of moving mountains and make passes at local livestock.

Park dreamed instead of a nearby dusky race of innocent consanguinity, who shared alike, and watched each single droplet of vapor coalesce in its turn and drop toward the sea for all eternity. If only one did not have to search for structure, intent, and form, one might safely remain here until death. Additionally, the muffled slams of little sentence writing machines heralded a general commotion above. Peripherally Park was startled by a bipedal head bobbling atop the viewpoint at the northwest face of the arch, twenty feet above and two hundred feet to the far side of the waterfall, from this vantage able to peer directly into the cavern, where Park had been imagining he was the progenitor of the innocent dusky race while weeded out. How long the immense has–beens stood there, he hadn’t really known, and he spat superstitiously, in keeping with his anthropological regression. The next twenty minutes featured an unbroken succession of heads bobbling briefly at the overlook and clusters of individuals had began to wend tendentiously towards the bench far below, until finally everyone went home, and Park was able to make an unobserved descent from the DMZ with a song in his heart.

. . .

“Whew,” said iamin’thelim, “he’s gone.” “Who was that masked palmer,” Aira asked? iamin’thelim replied crabbily, “just yesterday, I was chipper headmaster to a thriving school of dybbuks, and now this.” He recalled happier times when his charges learned the ropes at jump school. The jumpmaster, an ancient fjulsfut whose gnarled face attested to countless hours on the line, cursed his students mercilessly. “All right, you Saracen sprats! Drop your tarps and grab your carps. Almighty, what wickedness I must have done to deserve this lot of pansies?”

The jumpmaster’s plaintive cry spilled the novices from restive slumber, achieved despite plank cots and moth–ridden blankets admitting gentle blasts of a frosty gale that spilled beneath the unsecured flaps of the surplus tent. Their feet hit the floor, only it was crabgrass and mud, and irritably clothed, they scrabbled to thread laces through interminable series of eyelets, armed only with failing flashlights tucked beneath their pits. They fumbled for their rucksacks, which had toppled during the night and now lay inextricably mingled in mire, to scurry this way and that, here to erect a fire zone, there to secure a perimeter, here to dig, there to stand, everywhere to cover. Willy–nilly they scuttled about the cantonment, losing half of their equipment in a process for which the bursar would soon chide them all. “Relax,” the jumpmaster barked, “and watch how it’s really done.”

If at all soundtracks skipped through standing rooms scarcely perceptive across those issues termed few, Iphgene the skater tentatively rigged demented googols upon the rime. Viewed by some monads as thinly veiled whose ever happily after beans paid off, so the feds won’t want me around I’ll lief check into a miracle Med vacation knack of using other’s self–deprecations (what would you call a person), in contrast to belligerent divas who turn even more aggrandizing than those who treat their behavior as a matter of record, and dismantling communal reefs, the novices lurched into past surrogacy of their own etched vinculum. “Off timid fly,” Iphgene begat such inklings, their simplicity of really cold etage non–linearly, in knowledge that her beauty stimulated emotions of horrible accents, men peeked at her in hopes mingled with if only she would leave. It wasn’t her fault, reason contended and advanced as such horseplay, even if in her absence men truncated the very fact that she wins in the world made them want to jump off, or decorate their cells with fin–de–siecle pop icon femme fatales bestowing an illusion of control.

Given that one’s life is as full as one lacks facilities to process it, and that only when a person has attained a modicum of comatose awareness, do life’s phaetons recede in fearfully homogenous perception, leaving a blasted emptiness of sunny nostalgia consonant with recognition of the enormity of pink elephant seals, is the contextual knowledge of man’s (and lose the term gender–neutrality) predilection for misapplication of specific terms said to be epicene. Somehow geodes weirdly hopped after thematic dearths more capable of mimesis than was held in universal constraint, and inasmuch as other ex tempore bowdleries fizzled, like that last lob into the sunburst with appearances indecorously wafted until sure of plasticity swiftly disowned. Nor whereby had each glasnost parishioner filmed thespian handfuls, mostly pleased effete shapers wobbled in declasse spurts of frisky nominalism, had iamin’thelim, reverently dismal, squished all equity from their ink. Untentets floated upon the margins of unrequited night deposit boxes, temporizing a renewable of whole tossed polemics indemnifiably perverse.

. . .

Ylferim reeled past all decorum, and addressed the Nawab Arda Min, “you perhaps have a shiny caftan to flaunt onto the runway.” The others, even at bargain basement prices, had plaid peignoirs, chintz trousseaus, and Panama pajamas. Marta regarded the heavy web cam at her side, a single–lock F–stop that her father had kept in the garage, well oiled but as yet unaimed. She remembered his hasty instructions as she departed for law school, too old to cash in on her tea tin collection. She recalled the dusty china tea gunpowder and hoped she would not have to waken their slumbering mettle. “We have our orders,” Ylferim finished!

Soundman inclined his head with a suggestive bow. The Nawab Arda Min nodded brusquely at Azali’s appeal. “Very well,” Ylferim said, glancing across the village green, where Ne Dipol’s tapper, amidst a plump meteor shower, rattled off with a final load of harquebuses, leaf blowers, cordite, and wave harmonic rectifiers. “The world will find us making love, not war, and we will pelt the invaders with flowers. So let’s assemble for a group hug next to,” he considered their raiment not without taste, “the nearest outlet mall.”

With shouts of joy, they all dispersed. Half of a day was spent garnering provisions. What they asked shouldn’t have been difficult, for Ylferim was confident the shopkeepers, convinced of the righteous cause, would throw open their inventories to force majeure. Unfortunately, few haberdashers were left in Bing Bang to convince. Most had fled earlier, taking all of their bolts of pashmina, secure insofar as the Global Village prohibited requisition of unattended premises. The wholesale Yarn Yurt at Levittown was open, but the wizened attendant barfed in disbelief at Ylferim’s appeal. Only after Marta promised her backstage passes to next week’s smash amateur sing–along, did the outfitter yield forth seven bushels of last season’s Dacron weave and a rack of piquant Orlon sundresses with salubrious patterns.

As they had become ascendant, eventual cycles of Risorgimento boom flagged across a spectrum of compromise. None of the Ossianians truly believed in the man coming to shoot them. For if this had, as always happened, dementedly occurred to their accusers, than why were once they down in front of the still life building? Those who remembered old ways replied, “the man only comes to shoot the inner party.” Taunts of self–improvement heckled another mindset into effective locus. Soundman left them all and appealed for clams. “Were none present to reassure them that this was going benignly,” he asked? “Not a chance,” the people righteously opined, their gazettes charging that Soundman had forgotten his first love, his original aim, this initial intent, transporting an essay from thought to form, and had resulted in a parody of himself.

. . . 

Desultory expedience availed to wash in tears an aimless regret adducing impolitic weights against the measureless desire for a peaceful process. As these nearby bores made clear, nothing would ever get cracking unless one was persuaded to jump over a dead skunk in the middle of the road map. Soundman nonetheless thrived upon global censure, surviving enough cannonballs. While the navy guys turned out okay, senior professionals of his own hitherto most loyal service had already clamored for privilege downrange. Increasingly, Soundman sought fugue within the odd impersonal corridors that harbored kaleidoscopes of absorbing dilemmas. The tale of their discovery best left to another interim, “yet if only,” he pled, “my greatest foe would consent to meet me herein, might we establish a lasting framework?”

Most notably, a representative of the Iberian film commission had so industriously sympathized with his desire for an open door. “Is it our fault,” Azali later would grieve at this sympathetic audience, “that these neo–Platonic pedagogues had stopped their ears with partially hydrogenated soybean extract? They have disguised their bid for latter day Lebensraum under the rubric of liberty!” Noone troubled to point out that his land was now so desolate that not even he wished to live there. Across it, the visiting delegates now sped in their relentless search for wet hens. An oleaginous bee left frequent habitat for a lumps enough consent, while licenses, unmade excessively purported to be absolute in the non–emerging bond market, sufficed to ill ledgers tenuously amidst evaluation.

Initiatory of concurrent lines of inquiry, the visiting deputation proceeded dissolutely, insofar as one manageable glance, upon acreage suitably suspect, requisitioned an instant lien against principles resistant to more prolonged surveillance. Amerced, they sped upon flats of horizon nefarious for their transparent angora photosynthesis, interrupted only in the streaky shades of resurfacing infrastructures. Arrived as well, daring planarians might tenaciously insist upon revealing yards of specific womads, only to be realized upon actual detour as scrap previously catalogued. Collated aerial information comprising the bulk of an initial proposition, a landscape of closure circumlocuted by incessant overwatch yielded hardly a carefree post anymore.

Of a week of dreamless sleep, the inspectors yearned for, bedecked from troubles. They learned that the ninth were in integral shelf life peril, their home word menaced by arrhythmic blogs; wearily faded varsities shelled irrespective forms clearly, since optical interim foci ignored noisome wonts. Coarse its dull time, spent in justifiably hardscrabble crocks frailer, and denied worsted appellant overtures for therein biopic afterthoughts nearby flooded your tasked germane, the end/if most usual natives romped well beyond spirit infusing a sempiternal slaunch. One acclaimed Ossianian, who quickly limped toward sparks of sounder valedictions somnambulantly at times, shimmered shapeless ideal inks, waived accustomed proxies aggregate, and asked sub roseately, “are whom in favor of the mess key sigh here and sold on vehemence shred any more trail mix if one opposed for landed vast resorts tough and at large.”

Lenticular litanies adopted, other osmosises, too ruly to waste the available sunshine upon at some point, nebulously burrowed late into the crowd with premises. “You’ve horned in on the camp egregiously,” the one and almost acclaimed Wahid, wobbly after arm wrestling caricatures of a spent life, who shied upon such futurities a presently lit rewarmer that dished those readily fond parlor dares taking upon an aspect of consequence, said. Of course the faculty went with alacrity to functions civilly and followed the exact et cetera erasures accurately. Pruned to within tolerance, aspens and teal asphodel grew dense enough for Wahid to invoice over their shadowed sudsy pup tents willfully turned under the elements.

Hopefully began enough scholars on these pensive imports to effectually hew out momentous lugubrities anon, demanding that those partial to rap on the harp should raise the consciousness of their listeners instead of deluding oneself that fine full oxymorons drooled into the either/or. Affrighted paralysis was in no lack though whenever the ponds trembled in shoal Geiger beaker whines, needlessly turning to spackle the corrective apparatus momentarily, they felt averse to being, thirsted for diverse badinage, and styled plumb perhaps in the potent verge of dread, invigorated only by the soily prospect if ever the inter–regnum facilities back–washed across their cherished polders. With the rise and fall of monuments crawled by apoplectic time ashily, turned too freely given in a land prominent.

Nor elsewhere could lifted visitants awry sense the warty temerity of the land, for lambs scurried beneath the maternal ewers whose owners heeded no longer the overhead growls of the seamy skies, peopled with individuals who wished they could do more than just occupy the country. Yet to damn a man’s gnarly burros or else, seemed to indicate that the native transport was like your own cigarettes vile and must cost you a day’s wage; instead here have these and besides it was likely to lead to an incident. The auspicious inquisitor Conrad, Elector of Flippenberg, arrived nearby, noticing the impeccable dentine of everyone regardless of age, and said, “you can’t keep on driving this car.”

“You must not be concerned about that,” Wahid countered. “We accept in all honesty gifts from the heart, for you are in a land of generosity to begin with. Soon we will return all that has been bestowed on us.” He knew of in due course that as a species called to mark the past chronically, humongous gaps waded in the orrery. If those ominously ogled numinous tertiaries fought to fend at temporal chasms, most arrived flat, though touted by impervious literature hallowing the imminent. These kept occupants whom once leapt homely essoins into account sufficed for howbeit–languorous bent. The near operas of a noted shock lately crept with smudgy palimpsests, enough for Wahid to translate jests imputed as reserved for this tenebrous tattoo.

The Inquisitor, sampling the foreign water, caught a whiff of fluoride. Already jealous that the citizens, in perverse loyalty to their see, had rejected his indulgence, Conrad declared, “this area is taking orders directly from the gremlin!” Were he even to turn and at any moment cease being the gravid pest of floundering torsion now, he wished to declaim his presence as the first of innumerable flowers and yet to what end waste? Mostly gnomons rid and left to a mere pendulous ignominy with even pastoral weird crashed the advance of his story revealing dwindled opinions.

Everything fully revolved in the fetch of the propinquitous lakes closer than he not now or ever had wished to be; verily there even were reports of unfounded suspicions deferred. At this late frame another butterfly succeeded in proroguing his mounted panic to under a second, where it now mightily goofed and the previous in media res ceded toward a flint crisp ficus as he hastened to the long mass at Worms. Advisedly ever how hesitant at an otiose junk, the vista gnashed into aggravated inevitabilities.




Category: Act II Revised Ed.

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