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General Intertextuality found himself years later as the Icing Squad he faced poised near that cusp adrift in time that floates always around the day when his great-uncle Sammy took him to meet Fire. Mind not the names lost and lost meanings named: the people missed, because of love, you know; the feelings tossed, the talent thrown away! Sailboats sail, and hunters diving go. It's not that dark old night has hid her from us... no. You'd find her, if you went along that trail; Her voice faded to an echo from the dark cold void: "Know Mores!" The primal word still spins the worldly lore!
You see the story do, but not that whore.
"Let us learn to joke... then perhaps we shall love the truth. But let us beware of telling our jokes till they have been bettered by the wakes of conversation." - l'Ourobohr
Just as compressing a fluid past a first-order phase transition inevitably catalyzes hitherto unemerged phenomena, so will the aggressed square-packing of a lecture hall eventually collide the elliptic peg with a dodecahedral hole; for although most students, whether having undergone graduation like so much unwashed glassware, or yet bearing the whips and scorns of time-worn institutions, resemble Euclid's nonsense better than a brick of solid oxygen, the rare exceptions emerge differently shaped from the factory schools. Amusing in retrospect as may be the lattice defects that emerge from such collisions, they do tend to strain the participants.
I found myself sitting right near the audience geocenter, a similar-humored friend at my left having dogged me to my seat, which I had picked not due to its vacancy, but due to the occupant to its right. I'd yet to speak with her, but thanks to the curse of uncorrected distance hearing, I'd heard enough to tumble headfirst down the slippery slope of puppy infatuation: she'd related to friends of the same dual-major that her new hobby was treating her daily dogpark visits as the opportunity to meet Mr Right. Sadly, I had no familiar canine excuse to present myself to her in such a manner, having parted ways from my best friend two years earlier. Reminding myself that even if we'd met while watching our dogs sniff eachother's butts, we probably wouldn't be imitating them right away, instead wasting countless kilolitres of air exchanging nonsense in the hope of breaking the proverbial ice (or at the very least, thawing it out a little).
Naturally, somatic vessel of the flaggelar germline that I am, I sought an opening; and naturally, being bored to death (and back again) of the inane claptrap flapping about between the well-packed squares all around, I sought an original opening. As I fished for worthwhile words, she began fishing for the right pen in her cute little case... on which were printed, in block capitals, three to a side, the words:
SO MUCH WORK SO LITTLE TIME
... which, in case you're unfamiliar with the physical sciences, is the six-word story of everything we learned that semester. Blinded by coincidence, I blurted out a shot from the hip, taking the time to neither draw nor even greet my opponent: "... that a special case for thermodynamics class?"
Her response, short and sweet, was painfully close to "LOL!", but lo and behold: she elided that second coronal lateral fricative as an unpronouncable terminal phoneme, leaving instead the last first word a man wants to hear.
PLEASE DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU ARE A JUNGIAN, FREUDIAN, ANALLYSTERANT, OR ANY OTHER SORT OF TWO-BIT CROCK-SHIT WITCH DOCTOR.
Naturally, I was in some rather open campus environment: too many people to know many personally, let alone recognize faces at a glance. Sure, sometimes someones seemed familiar, but life's a bitch, innit? Until I recognized... her.
One of the few truths I'll ever label a lie is that in this dream, her identity caused a stale stack resurrection (or perhaps a register collision, if you swing that kind of metaphor) with someone I've not met in a long time; last we spoke, she likely got justly insulted by some connotation of exactly what I said to her about a guy she fucked.
(at this point, the lies resume)
We made eye contact, and I'm quite sure she recognized me back. Maybe she winked, or smiled, or let her eyes linger; but she was in a flock, and such flocks flow. I saw her again a few times in a similar manner and concluded that there must be some performance of a visiting dance troupe, because I remembered her as a skilled dancer from a young age. Maybe I could verify that conclusion, and thus actually talk with her, rather than just smiling at eachother across the void?
Needless to say, such dreams do not collaborate with that other kind of dream. My quest led me to a room full of unrecognizable acquaintances who just got visited by a jolly fat holy man of stereotyped ethnicity. I could tell he was holy because he dressed like a hobo, yet wore an immaculate turban, and because he was there to sell drugs. Naturally, I asked him whether he accepted the only kind of coins I had kicking around as unallocated spending cash, to which he laughed and twinkled out of the story.
No worries! Salesmen don't travel in vain, and the buncha fukken junkies now gladly split the purchased wares among themselves (and everybody got two share). Perennial outgroup member that I am, I wondered aloud as to the kind of flower they had bought, and whether any one of them felt like reselling. Before I even repeated the name of the coin, I realized that it would be in vain: they ignored me in favor of their greedy delight at crumbling that golden brown between their fingers.
My momentary disappointment didn't quite hit rock bottom, though: although I prefer vaporizing active essentials from Cannabis blossoms purchased uncut, the remembrance of hashish's complementary advantage of greater edibility reassured me... as I awoke to the sound of a pigeon alighting at my windowsill.
OOPS: I ACCIDENTALLY THE HOLE SONNET
Like all good tales, this one began! Not under sail, nor farming tans... I'd seen that man, (about my dog), and found firm footing in a bog. She wasn't there, but -- everywhere; Gills or wings would be no help. Nor audiences, as you learned from Delp. My spacetime, just: adjust, or tear. Perhaps she hears, or reads, or counts my words while them cardinals, counts, and overlords lord over the seven seas where Musa sails away on the MC Memora "Ahhhhh, GIRL!", (as Johnnie cried) ... well he cried and cried and up and died; or "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH" as Johnnie said, when that shmuck missed that other one's head. The story's yours, but not for you! (all you need'za to be bru tay too)
Vodalus caught my attention shortly after forsaking the cemetery wall scaling quest due to energy minimization locating the unlocked gate, ajar in the windless fog; while not quite jet, fur so black doesn't easily blend with trash and pavement. No need for mewling at such hours, either: all sentient life worth its weight in traction notices itself at such times. Feline slinks, feeble leaps, and a single gentle bite at the meat of my petting hand trigger her laughing whisper, imagined clear as she reads to herself the simplest rejection textable before touching the glass to fire it off: "I recommend cats"
Vodalus remained silent - for all I know, muted in the ongoing struggle against would-be Autarch agents (may His tears rain joy upon our deserts!) - yet the Master of Apprentices at the Library of Rambleon couldn't resist whipping out the best prop, an inertia-fed [BRAND NAME REDACTED], and whispering back: "Gavar'it-pa dee TSEIT?"
Passing through the inhospitable wasteland between the cactic sanctuary and the muddy slope colloquiallized by students as "Vietnam" on my way from the academic accelerator to Master Ultan's nearest dungeon, yet again reared that heady temptation - to forcibly install an assymettric training wheel upon a couple's calm conversation. Biting like a good dog, I but in: "As you must have heard them quote by now, 'there are two types of people in this world: those who like to hear their voice upon your ears, and those who like parchment inking friction'.".
Without missing a beat, she knocked me out of the ballpark and into the land of insufficiently studied prewar bullshit: "so THAT's why the world is splitting!"
Since I spend too much time editing, instead of publishing, and I edit too much in the mind, instead of on the page (whether paper, web, or virtual), the risk runs real of simply losing ideas to those natural shocks that make cowards of us all - just witness the day-score since my last post! - I'll thus publish at the very least this crumb collection:
- Power and Pseudonymity
- Value and Mutability
- The Sound of Thought
- Those Ills We Have
- The Name of Action
- The Dream of Time
- The Point of Aim
- The Game of Life
- Cultivating Man
though order lies within the list above you'll find it came not from the voice within the eye adjusted till its needs were met and fingers catered to its every whim then lacking substance in so short a post the poster went in search of rhyming words no reason for each sentence to begin no season for the fleeting life of birds when writing sonnets, some will follow form they rhyme in alternation, of a muse others from God inspiration take such clever, much despicable - a ruse! yet here is found Umberto's key to fame I speak of her, yet do not say her name