III(rev) — x — Solving the Inner Peace.

| August 6, 2015 | 0 Comments

Marta’s strange feather, Menard, after routing plain reason, perceives of tectonic shuttles harboring one graded jam dateline. Miffed near dank lords eke the 5:15, a tainted authenticity Scrooge clashes to vague pals finishing a testament. Grendelle schleps live ur–tincture to treat withers on an exchanged horse. The nice blarers’ next patch a paid hope, Ion, in gear, seethes in a forest of tinsel.

.         .         .

          In the dusky distance of diagonal mondo, clear need is warily a ghost fraud hurtle. Esmeralda’s prayer rang on dire knowledge. From heath, Në, sad godless chase, senses off balance, her apparel connective nacreous, cited aloft, on wings of a geosynchronous palfrey, arrived swiftly throughout messengers with new Native American dollar decently assumed tidings. Fernand, with little time to study the lamp, recognized for a fleeting instant a citizenship in recent locale. The four–garage festival followed a four twenty monaural into an unusual travelling Elgar recital, heard one morning at random. They swept for a dull erasure readily half–bank holiday from accustomed Susan Bees to avoid fearful grey climate.

          By ten o’clock, numerous folk gathered to accost representatives of the entire street and to discover official placards, forbidding future mentions of any word as infringement, upon every venue. The ink dispersed during eleven written words, swiftly throughout pitched was his own pencil somewhere. The chairwoman asked into a corner of the room how one was. One was what one was, the writer replied, grumpily of how Fernand doted upon immersion within foreign environs to strengthen his creative implications. Turned away by evasive replies, bystanders resumed, had he ever shown kindness to the elderly? Now of Fernand: had he passed up chances on the morning of a new day that a lark ascended over the meadow, or shown kindness to the children in their game as they watched a shepherd’s crook fence with his vision, eliciting a Ballad of London Nights woven upon a digital lattice, or drifted before dawn?

          Vans arriving in echelon fluttered with information. Thinking search bistro once, he stopped for so long bottled amidst, and had excused his own introspection as unduly live to the need to pace oneself, that while nonetheless flinging reproach at the walls of his miserable garret for his daily inaction shouted, startled by the fact that he had, for the first time, in a nearly public setting! Those who joined him tore these down, were remanded to become human, and a heavy silence removed quickly awakening new levels of awareness somehow after shadow puppet had come to this treble night. In zest he stumbled with whirlwinds, a change in season caused note of His environs, and had itemized them with bunted materiel of a freakily fashionable and bygone experience epoch.

          Attended with a lively marimba chorus, the inky wells were found adjacent to a stack of polyvinyl chloride compact discs of Chocho, local Buffet sound–alike, vials of “Biscayne et Bismuth,” a recent scent, a pleasant neighborhood that matched a social cleansing to avert vying with lorn traffic, fanned swiftly throughout the entire utility apparatus the writer’s own, and where inhabitants had pulled in their motor carriage scraps, swept towards a special facility and otherwise laminar, growths of pasteboard, crepe, cambric, spec, ciphers, notices, announcements, or other display of maps, poles, grids, trees, or pixels of their surplus, relinquished, renascent, relic, and renounced articles out upon the promenade gathered as Fernand proffered and, as he dropped it in, roared with felicitation. The writer felt eventually light regard for those long accustomed to him sitting there, day and night, and thus given over to a careful lack of opinion pertaining to importance of anything he might have ever done with a great and wilder world and with a casual, detached forbearance, returned to his room.

          The established toboggan shop lighting showed who winking at him slyly? Well yes, Fernand had to reply to that one, yet to kick that football into the porcelain kiln, which should bring him to a future exile stocked. “Yon Arjuna morning, just sprung from secret squirrel detention, I marched to my area ready to take everything real, and she was in the eye scream parlor, for Pete’s sake it was two hundred and seventy three degrees below zero, what in heck was she doing standing in such splendor? The devil himself had tuned her with his fork.” Shadow puppet warned all too busy that this rhymed with pool. “I reversed course,” all too busy squirmed, if only she could not see me, but it was too late.”

          Plair finished relating the contexts. Menard replied, “you have just assumed responsibility for the following power point slide explanations: U.S. initiative to purchase stolen artifacts on e–bay (Menard had foundered the program to palliate the Ossianian embassy); untenets, dark matter cousins of tappers (giant space snails who carry aliens about the universe); the impending cryogenic sabbatical, facilitated by deliverance of necessary curare preparations, of the Trombone Society; Dauphine Hudspeth’s sudden release to shadow the Ossianian prefect; deal between the ancient Niceans allowing souls of humanity to chose subsumption within inter–regnum soul laundering facility; popularly known as wishram, the dispensational illuminati; Niobe’s vendetta gainsaid our own sun; distortions of time; and wells drilled by Niceans causing the basic basalt sial elision that will trigger reversion of the solar system into a pre–Ptolemaic configuration. In any case, anticipatory geological shocks have generated changes in existing order, as former Transcaucasian Republics petition to enter the U.S.,” Menard conceded, and reminding Plair, that all ejecta garnered during human intelligence missions were official property of the United States and that withholding of same placed the offender within strict liabilities, Menard asked if the ensign had anything else to add.

          As if parting with a momento hitherto destined to one’s boyhood cigar box, Plair ineluctably produced a stamp sized shellac mortise upon which a happy lizard beamed. After dismissal, Menard returned to the crumpled pastry note, cognizant that it contained an alphanumeric sequence that could have been applicable to any number of departments. If he chose to go with his worst fear, he should have to notify someone that the firewall for the ongoing Polar Star orbital project was engraved for group mica noise. How so this was done seemed simple, involving lateral communications of such tortuous intensity, seemingly aggravated by recent efforts to ensure inter–agency transparency, that Menard opted to cold start the restaurant, the commissariats, and warn folks at Commerce about monitoring mainland manufacturers’ representatives. Dispatching Plair upon the proscribed errand of Tolstoy might also allay the latter’s suspicion. He decided to boot up his old ARPA link and search for names of everyone who had ever participated in a Mah–jongg tournament, indexed by location, ethnicity, and order of finish, since any number of given years. As for the lizard, his granddaughter, Jasmine, had clamored for something interesting to do during her stay in town, so Menard also decided to have the Mah–jonng tile returned to the concierge of Horace’s hotel, so that the latter would be reassured by its return and yet perhaps also unnerved into making some unforeseen blunder. If anything but nondescript, Jasmine should be thrilled to undertake this espionage.

.         .         .

My Worries Are Under Control.

.         .         .

          In dog years, Frank’s mostly understanding couscous vendor explained how the creative impulse proved austere soon. While Lothar scrawled the tube on with yet utopian quark seeds, Frank Middleford in handle doth hide a surpassing lemniscate love of comptometry, the reconciliation of disparate columns and cascading files, collation, that desperate search through fiscal wastes for a corroborating cipher, and that pre–dawn joy elicit in discovering the elusive cit. In his insidious war of subterfuge, staples were his friends and, spotting an abandoned paper clip left in the corridors of liberty, would stoop to claim it, confident that its anomic wake might bind ever greater tallies.

          Indeed washed an overridden faith in mankind that habit wrought him to this ticket; as barrator for any muffin foes too swish for soliciting our bob from father exchequer, preferring their balance lapse to cover future exigency, he had not once ever adopted the bust kabob trade line of his murky over beers (before) that aren’t you simply making an inherent luxury to the government? By Jove, in the event they wanted to make an interest free loaf to Her Majesty, we’ll roll out onto Grosvenor and sing “Rule Britannia” until clients’ discourse, appreciative of a servant who never joked about their estate, indeed regarded all property as communal, one’s largesse a matter of deficit whim, and moreover never told anyone what to do with their own.

         But with discerning consistence, he’d vigorously secluded their own notions. Had they languished in immoderate darkness groping? That’s not how everything works, when he poignantly maintained ledgers venerably assiduous, stifled everytime a tonic mobs bent stuff near a miss, he’d exclaim, brimming with altruism. Slight aromas of cuttlefish mixed with wax paper zoomed around. Some squarely abysmal jazz lugubriously crept across cobblestones, dispensing multi–colored steam puffs that wafted into dovecotes. The 5:15 trundled behind the power curve, a semi–conductor tapped portals with a wand and rafts of individuals spilled into tributaries of habitual movement. There were compulsive scavengers, twirling their coal scuttles after a day fleecing tops on Market Garden; there went the teary–eyed drama queens: you might as well hang a please make up this room shortly sign around your neck, as much as copy from your neighbor’s Daily Mirror the crossword puzzle beckoned aha!

          Five letter word meaning whatever, Frank bent to peer at five across, tucked beneath the elbow of an elderly actuary hustling toward the Hornet and Hamhock, while Bitsy, a bipedalian biodegradably, ephemeral a goldener era than was ever before known, so loud in her own atelier that jars of mousse rattled against the shelves of her father’s basement, an F–chord twanged to tune of tomorrow, reminiscent of the morning her family drove the spindly trap jitney all the way to Aldershot to catch an inability to resolve conflicts at four o’clock in the evening.

          A plastic cable attached to her fender was anyone’s guess that whatever syringe seemed available next to the Watchtower eflot thrust over the threshold weeks ago, given that the pilot light of the water heater had spluttered outside of the box fifteen times, warping the demo copy of Queen Nephrite’s first album, “Is There Anymore Sunshine Left?” that, according to Sr. Florian, had sold nearly twenty copies of the Bland Boy revival at eco–fair next to the village dumpster. Sr. Florian, the band’s actuary, whose primary talent formerly was an undeviating closed door policy, was noted for reaching unassailable conclusions. How Bitsy, bassist Esmeralda, and Ion, their fifth percussionist in three weeks, had planned to spend the anticipated pay–off was a tale for the ages.

          First they were to ride the tram on a visit to the new Gap in Tottenham, where Stang wanted to check on a brand new consignment of cargo cults, and pass out eflots for their next jam to customers in front of Orange Julius because Althea’s cousin worked there and said it was okay. Suddenly an arrangement of jampots, emplaced to alert Bitsy to visitors, clattered like an apocalyptic calliope and Grendelle forced his way into the garage with a powdered gale of flakes for town, carrying, at last year’s pace, batch bang send–ups and it wasn’t fit outright, manner of an obol, he whistled, “are you sure you want to stop the train,” compassionately, diverting several sal volatile mobs from their haggis?

.         .         .

“What are the utmost components of your civilization?” “To illustrate,” said An, sensing the need for such, “let us turn to an example of a monad whom, if not deaf to squawks of deprivation around him, considered immunity his privilege by virtue of his institutional knowledge.” Into Village Court recess, the visiting Ossianian minister was penned by Argus–eyed vigil of a hundred scribes, who asked his opinion upon workings of that Congress across the pond.

          “Well, to paraphrase a man I never met,” Ahem winked, “‘if they make a law, it’s a joke, and if they make a joke, it’s a law.’” This maverick minister with his geothermal golf cart was great copy. Some of them wished to take him home in a jar. His musing was curtailed by awareness of a question on the very topic, “have you ever thirsted to be the first kid on your stick to arrive at the conclusion that life is but a cassette tape tab, brought away, to seal vacant capstan, yet always retapable?” “Arrangements,” Ahem muttered, laid off in a silicone silence. “Do they really need fifty–three states?” Ahem thought of an answer.

          “Thank you, first, for anticipating my conclusion. One door, fully and certainly ajar, to date, ultimate, viaducted us into a really swell place.” A glance over the crowd showed Ahem the malefic glare of an unnamed assassin, the evicted bass player of their teenage garage band, who sometimes was able to see this happen to other individuals, few of whom ever indicated awareness of this gift. When this mood came upon him, Ion was possessed of ability to read the ether surrounding all things. Any object inherently had a scroll, floating weightlessly before his gaze, specifying his attachment to it.

          Ion had not had a chance to share this skill with anyone yet, and for all he knew, might not ever, for it seemed unimportant to him now the Erinyes had re–entered his head, forcing him to bend most of his energy into resisting desire to ask why is this all that there is to show for all of that at everyone, all the while knowing that they fed on this and were confident that he would not be able to think of anything, short of his own death, to escape them. Stealthily, Ahem’s hand slipped to carriage return. “Peerlessly,” he continued, “upon public willingness to ascribe any or everything from a simple strategy of time stick buying, I salute our friends’ relentless search for coping strategies.”

          A wave of relief swept over the crowd as Ahem flipped the ignition of his Tox. “One person, for example, has taken to awakening each morning to strains of Also Sprach Zarathusra.” Fumbling with his vest, the named assassin hesitated, aware that Ahem was speaking of Ion. “One more person, in visualization principle, in dress one more as the other, viewed as fending hornets in a red and white checked chef ’s barbecue” — as he read the bill, Ahem developed an uncontrollable urge to remember it was later than he thought. Moreover, he was aware of being reminded that the closest exit might be behind him. Still capable of death simulating ague at will whenever an awkward situation emerged, the assassin named shrieked at him, “in any case, there is something outside of everyone!”

          Ending this drivel, the assassin named Ion sensed concentration of health into fewer minds and flew past the flower shop. How lovely all of these displays were! He was filled with admiration for skilled hands which had originated these ensembles, an emotion mingled with qualms that he was unable to purchase a single stalk. All of his wherewithal sent to leeches, subdividends, and usurers, he stood, shut out, isolated, warmed only by cordite coils and their sweet smell of success. Further into the market, a stall offered screaming yellow zonkers slashed down at eight to the dinar; how ironic that this could have been a wonderful deal before schools where he had maintained his snack machines had been bombed out of existence.

          At the crosswalk, as foreign UV nudged into his comfort zone, on this note, a situation of existence began and it was time to check out. A mental image of a touch tone screen flashed press here to begin. The electric impulse coursing through his solar plexus was such a tingly feeling within the maelstrom of disintegration. He had made a difference in people’s lives, and this was making him feel warmer. With its sleek design and improved performance, the belt enclosed him within a cylinder of subjectivism. A flowering brucellis nestled within fronds of doryopteris, a eutaxia climacteric in clustered panicles throve amidst flattened tubercles of pelecyphora, and ubiquitous sprays of saxifrage adorned a field of andromeda glaucophylla. Before the Great Window, he had usually proved capable of stammering out a complete sentence in response to any inquiry, and now in every narrowing spiral valley he walked through aisles smelling things: the comforting aroma of Clorox removed him to an infancy when giants were neither east nor west, and the crowd shifted in drab terror. Blood spilled, not a lot, but enough to detract from the overall sense of wellness Ion had expected to derive from this.

          As he read in newspapers the following day, the assassination of the beloved Ossianian foreign minister was unpopular with the public. For his own safety, the Ruthenian government extradited Ion to an inalienable right to write about nothing, from where he continued to proclaim his innocence on the aerodrome telescreen. author of poor haiku, catching the pink eye to a greater isle (a mere stopover) also gratified to learn that Congress had voted full steam ahead on the Polar Star orbital project. “Though the author of this project is a reprobate and a miscreant,” Senator Cannon (I–Ill.) explained, “we must not throw babies out with the bath water, as it is the pejorative of atoms to isolate the very prospect interior, creased. Unlike the heroine, we are not free to limit the land of forgotten tents,” where all too busy awakened, “by shhh Snorggi will hear us, even in this crystal yurt off depths of the Ponzi Isles where I dwelt. See even now those great fans gnashing over there, to paraphrase frail policeman gloom, we’d heaven only to digitalize, wave freight greatly sped due though you bleed; cannot fine off man’s distancing that process?”

          As Grendelle adjusted the tourniquet upon his nose, all too busy bought pain by explaining, “there was once, a–bobbin, her sneeze was letting go of the handlebars for the first time, like only once was I ever an ardent all too busy, my idle gazes flitting aside, yet from my inner brilliance, I was pathologically primeval at the timid age of infamy, for when all too busy gathered to trade tasteless anecdotes, I could only pale spitefully, understanding only in theory.” Brushing smug buntings plastered in feigned innocuity, the chaste coeropheri vastened yonder sobriety of demotic stunt foams. The morning palled while they met the realtor chic with endogenous stares as–is. Diagonal tiger its mild dude, our peevish Hesitance went plaid grange daughter, yet in boudoir tithes than sanity should ever twitter, living ivy thong sophomores, half–expected to materialize throughout town, dissolved in seas of a wild claim, television, security, polyester bland, orange folk tunes set to march, cameos, trademarks, pillbox hats, flags, lonely stares, cruets, remembrance, match.

          With visitors arrived to cleanse and starch the temple, our soon morpheme guys felt trebly honored by this visitation of fervor and patriotic orient. Rotely anon, her sisters’ shriek of unwitting, and Sangreal beheld the visiting caretakers along, leeks climbed, lent with white teeth sets, ornamental porkpie heir hats rakishly atop coifed blond cares, their cured, with open flips, or exertions of their almighty faith’s jai alai tea. Transistors clicked on. “Whoosh,” continued Grendelle. “If these hand–offs voided inclusion of monosyllabic hyphenations recently, their myth spoke more of grown–up cheer gone boating than any possible regret before acclimating men to universal time coordinates, and mere pride requests anymore, and struck within confines of that sham issue to ever come betwixt us, had to throw up Him as aegis too, for a cyber rotisserie fantasy league, pinnacle of emotional distance this periphery, where tarried always these horrid cults calling to out–wit me, spoofing vast sources. Such are those who will find nothing but emptiness, and perhaps a Cheshire smile, and a prince of darkness, greater than me, who will seduce them techno–Beowulf neo–icons into building grand new orders, in no particular order of course, until they will prattle about and how too late they realize that shadow puppet is sending a comet. Just to make sure Snorggi is asleep, I will get help.”

          “Please do,” all too busy muttered as Grendelle vanished. Glancing at their own states, the young sophomores saw them as waifish, disheveled, not lacking a certain native charm, yet stinted by this onset of ice cream perfection. Their air eked of lye minima fuel and grumbler, igniting the word of shadow puppet within a burning present. An ether sweat argot haha given them lent, ill used though as man forward groan stale will all, until they cease to remember My name, in thousands. So a lie is relayed, to certain hegemonic entreaty, and Sangreal displaced. “We have received no confirmation of that,” she rejoined. “Assertions to the contrary, you are,” she persisted. “Unless,” Ion mused. Suddenly, he forgot his interlocutors. He forgot his dread. A globe that stood upon a balustrade in the corner office was oval. “This has been a very difficult attempt,” Sasha interposed. The inquest fell away from Ion and generally swam out of focus. With one small step toward the desk, he was but a shadow.

          Flush across the room, a globe that was not the same stood writhing in warped folds of the crumpling bill. Oceans, an inky purple, laced with stars, covered a majority of it. “Intent on them, Mr. Van Etnabaron, you cannot fail to notice that you are still awake,” Sergei interjected. While still on another step, continents of the west were, as Sasha recalled from his childhood, smiling suggestively. Knocking upon the door behind them clumsily was by sheepish silence grouted. South America, a pastel of hodgepodge, greeted everything north of it. In letters of sepia font that spanned the Atlantic, he read United — “I need a new fork,” the resident ordered. The tapping continued. That tone Van Etnabaron could not resist, for as he leaned forward, walls swelled and the room, filled with monarchs, fluttered in a climacteric of unfinished sentences. Irritably, the resident repeated to Sasha, “start from the top,” and rose to answer her own door.

.         .         .

Returned, Logan found that his desk, if not exactly clear, was neatly poised for a sweep. As imperviously as Ferguson had resigned to the probability of losing the chairmanship of church–accumulated interest, he knew long ago that the act of self–circumscription to real, as well as ecumenical, stewardship was one more hat than he had a head for. The evening, not well spent, and the receptive church staff long dismissed, Logan stood in front of his desk and listened to telephone rings. Lifting it at the third, Logan pre–empted the executive voice mail service and replied, “office of the chairman.”

          The caller pegged him instantly. Ferguson felt strangely relieved that the junior pastor, Dr. Chad Leaky, had addressed him reverentially, as was not lately his wont. “I’m leaving,” Chad replied. “I’ve gone clear. Try not repeating me.” They each laughed, for old time’s sake. Chad resumed, “I’m clear and I’ve gone closer. To patches, of, daylight.” Fretfully Ferguson finished the sentence, “falling into the well?” “At day’s end,” Chad intoned. Ferguson, hoping a lightning prayer would suffice, prayed that this moment had not come. “You have, too much work, now, for the glory of our lord!”

          If long sure that this friend was bent on his replacement, the Reverend could find no remedy but to remind Chad of the empty chair. “I’m not here for it,” Chad demurred. “You’re certainly not here for, that.” “Logan,” Chad posited, “your stellar master awaits.” “There isn’t one anymore.” Chad’s reply, “for forgiveness from your earthly cares, follow us,” reminded Ferguson of that Orphic pledge paraphrased to the last line, ‘may he receive you at the bridge!’ “Along the shore of evening’s dawn,” Chad recited. Inter–outlet net degrading surf traffic snuffled signals said nothing.

Category: Act III Revised Ed.

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