Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Jogging With Roussel 18 (Part 2)

          ‘The Buick’ turned out to be part of Docter Welles pet project for altering the biosphere the of O/x space, or ‘Oddspace’ as Doctor Welles styled it, a vehicle using trans-temporal quantum flux modulation frames for propulsion, and for the surface modulation of Oddspace. The advanced vehicle was all tucked up lovingly underneath a sky-blue 1953 Buick Roadmaster Skylark, the TTQFM frames basically centered underneath the wheelwells facing downward, though in reality, this was just one mode, as multiple frames could instantly spring to life in a field all around the vehicle, and there was also a nest of robot machinery which hung down from underneath which could place, or manipulate objects or materials coming out of the car, or being removed by it. “Ode’s Chem?” said Cantagrael continuing the implicit thematic schemata. “Absolutely Brill, dear Boy!” chimed Orson as they roared out into Oddspace spewing birds, thrips, and faux orange marmalade which sooned turned to harmless oxygenating compounds and dispersed. “Ought’s Kem?” rejoined Cantagrael. “And by that do you mean, a suggestive blackness,  the Jungian’s nigredo, that, forgive me, puncta, which is ‘too conscious’, or un-conscious of unconsciousness?” proferred Welles. “Perhaps,” said Cantagrael, “but call me ‘little gypsy’.”

          They were traveling through the beautiful garden which Doctor Welles had fashioned around the perimeter of Deep F.R.E.D. floating along a road made of bricks of solid gold. Martial Cantarel, and Doctor Orson Welles had reason to be blithe, for in truth, as alchemists of the highest order, they need not be reduced to the vulgarities of transforming lead to gold, but could in fact tune in a Universe’s worth of pure gold, or any material for that matter, and pipe it into their space in any form they pleased, for the other name for O/x space, and Oddspace was Oz, or Oxygenia, and strangely enough, the TOTTG (totem of trans-temporal glory), or Megaxl-O/x was itself an echo of the Otz Chiim, and it was an odd scheme, and getting odder, moment by moment.

          ‘Little Gypsy’ was now dressed as an Egyptian Pharaoh. In full formal dress wearing the double crown of the upper and the lower, and sporting kohl-rimmed eyes. Tiny golden chamelons sat on his shoulders their long tongues shooting out periodically to sample atmospheric chemistry as they drove along into the dunes of pink sands which seemed to stretch into eternity, as indeed they most likely did. “Put your seatbelt on ‘little gypsy pharaoh’, I feel like doing something in alabaster and amber,” warned Doctor Welles, the Skylark starting to sound different as Orson loaded programs with an Erythrite hand-held tablet. “What about Ambalabaster, or alaber?” said little gypsy pharaoh. “That’s fine, it all has to be structuralized with nanometallicrystallonics anyway..” At that the car careened wildly up, a large TTQFM frame having appeared underneath the car like changing the tip on a pen to wide nib, like a calligraphy pen, they were leaving behind a solid stone band of alabaster patterned with amber which modulated into amber patterned with alabaster, they were drawing a twisty calligraphic architectural boucle like a lambda intersected by a lambda with a clover’s leaf of loops at the top, then spinning chains of sculptural nutrients implanted with wild flowers, like wreathes of birds, these synthetic bowers drooped over the structure, and at the bottom, Orson force filled a reservoir where the wreathe took sup, and filled its veins, and there was a canopy of bird chain furred in wild flowers. They parked on a dais of lapis bricks in the center of the small lake, and little gypsy pharaoh conjured an ancient teabush for the island of lapis pulling it out of virtuality with its rootball secured in a throbbing sphere of carhnumus, or biologized dirt, which he sat down in a depression full of water that Doctor Welles had left in the center. 

           “We should leave a guru here,” said Cantagrael. “I’ve got just the thing,” said Orson, “I’ve been looking at the late work of Magritte, and at old Buddhist painting. He should be a pale blue 5-piped Sherlock Holmes Jetsun Dolma!” “Why pale blue?” said little gypsy Pharaoh Cantagrael. “In homage to the Buick!” said Orson. Cantagrael popped two of his chlortrons out through his nostrils he was laughing so hard. “Should we leave a few grape vines and a bazouki for it to play?” “Capital idea, old man, and big pot of cheese and rice!” cried Orson pulling up his being modeling program on the tablet. Soon, the 5-piped Sherlock Jetsun Dolma was sitting before them, meditating while playing a marvelous song on the bazouki. In front of it was a large pot of cheese and rice which would never be emptied, and so would serve as food for any of the Dorothy or Alice pilgrims which should happen to come its way. “Leave it a limited tablet too,” said Cantagrael. It can’t just play that damn thing all day.” “I think it's stoned,” said Orson. “I think it's stone, by shemony, what did you make its body out of?” LG-Pharaoh Cantagrael wondered. “It’s living paint!” laughed Dr. Welles, “lapis and mica infused carhnumus…” “Let’s jet black to the pyr, I’m getting some time-line updates I need to attend to, and it’s tea-time!” said the little Pharaoh, his kohl-rimmed eyes smeared and running from tears of joy and laughter.