Thursday, November 29, 2012

Jogging With Roussel 15

By the 1950’s, Cantarel had not exactly grown bored, but had on the contrary conceived of an homage to the boredom of Theophile Gautier as conceived in the novel Mademoiselle de Maupin, specifically in the chapter ‘Rosalind and Orlando’, where M. Gautier had described a ‘strange theater’. Not wanting to recreate the life of Julie d'Aubigny (MLLE de Maupin) as an Opera, nor exactly to endeavor to write new music and libretti , he conceived to include both M. Gautier, and the mythical MLLE de Maupin in the audience of a thoroughly visionary enterprise. Cantarel was a devoted admirer of the composer Faucillon, and especially of his opera, Daedalus, so with certain elements of M. Gautier’s ‘strange theater’ in mind, he set out to both build his audience, and his miraculous set as seductively and strangely as might Daedalus himself, and which would be built, hopefully, at the opening of the real labyrinth in Crete, where he hoped he would find a wide enough plaza, or area for his living stage-play to occur.

Cantarel was especially fond of Faucillon, as he was well versed in humorous chestnuts, jokes, and stories based on cryptic word games, and applications of arcane distributions of logic, or logoic, as Faucillon styled it. One of Cantarel’s favorite stories was told to him upon the night of their first meeting in 1919, only a week after Faucillon’s Daedalus had closed after many months of constant praise in Paris. Over various glasses of wine, Faucillon dropped hints that he was a descendent of Jesus Christ, but that the name Jesus Christ was in fact, a coded message to obscure the true nature of the divine being’s actual identity. Attempting to nullify the brash man’s assertion, and jovial blasphemy, Cantarel nonetheless went to work attempting to discover the meaning of such a cryptic statement, and Faucillon allowed one last clue, “Why do you think it is the blood which is so important?” Cantarel being no stranger to the machinations of the theatrical class, started with the idea of the publicity stunt, and laid his mind on the figure of Daedalus himself, and inspected his own memory for clues, first and foremost thinking upon the labyrinth, but as the party continued on, Cantarel noticed that Faucillon continued to glance upon a painting that Cantarel had hanging in the study, an odd, and extremely rare work by an unknown artist in the manner of Cornelius Gerritsz Decker, namely a rural scene of a watermill, but when one looked closer, there was an even stranger image, very much like those practiced by Romeyn de Hooghe, especially in those dual portraits where inverting the image reveals a second portrait. Cantarel had discovered this oddity as he was a great admirer of de Hooge’s work, and owned a rather shabby print himself of de Hooge’s  zes portretten van hoofdpersonen van het Rampjaar. The painting that Faucillon’s eye kept wandering to contained one element that it seemed Faucillon slightly favored, namely the element of a small white kite, being flown by a raggedy peasant, whose eccentric dress was only outdone by the outlandish detail that the kite was lovingly dressed in feathers, and a small scantily clad boy was tied to the kite seemingly in an echo of the divine savior.  It was then that Cantarel put it all together, and he asked Faucillon politely, “Is your opera Daedalus based on family history?” To which Faucillon replied, “Were Daedalus my son, I would be proud!” Then Cantarel proceeded more  directly, “Is not your family name itself a coded form of ‘Faux Scion’ which sets in motion a decryption based on your earlier statements, namely, that Jesus is really Icarus, and God, Daedalus?” Faucillon roared with laughter. “But I am a theater man!” Cantarel immediately grasped his meaning, and chimed in sheepishly, “Ichor-ruse?” Faucillon was pouring himself another glass of the deep red Bordeaux which he then lifted in a toast, holding up the wonderful sky-blue steatite goat rhyton which Canterel had gifted him concluding the final performance of Daedalus. “To Canterel, and the transubstantiation of  ‘He has crashed.’” “And to ‘Dead, Alas’,” chimed in Cantarel, more assured their ironies, and humors had become cognates of cheer..  But there were other stranger reasons why Faucillon had been staring at the painting.

When Cantarel had noticed Faucillon looking at the painting, there were several long moments when he himself was not looking upon the painting. It was at this time, that the Cantarel of 1955, had caused to be inscribed upon the painting in large white letters, “Say nothing / It is I-C / Let’s take the opera to ancient Crete / Wait outside tonight / Or fly a kite”. Soon the evening was over, and all the guests left, except for Faucillon who seemed extraordinarily happy, and a bit drunk. “Shall I have my driver take you home, M. Faucillon?” “Well, it seems as if I am supposed to walk,” he said chuckling, and clambered out the door and into the darkness. And he did as he was asked, and not five minutes later, Cantarel stepped out of a pale blue glass doorway that opened in the air with a curt sucking sound as if one were opening a decanter sealed by vacuum. “By Daedalus!” exclaimed Faucillon. “By Doctor Welles!” said Cantarel, and he helped the shocked, but good natured old composer through the portal, and into a space Cantarel had prepared so as not to shock too deeply the fragile, yet talented personage he so admired.

Next, it was to be Theophile Gautier, and anyone else he might snag from the era. After some weeks preparation in the neighborhood, Canterel now stepped out into his new office in 1836 Paris, where he had styled himself as Leret Nachtmarj, a Pomeranian, lately of Chile’, and a brash literary agent and fantastical poet of symbolic noises, and a frequenter of Bousingot haunts, dives, and the Latin Quarter, to contrive to give several performances of his symbolic noise poetry at the regular meetings of Le Petit Cénacle [The Little Upper Room] attended by most of the standard members, and the usual bohemian types, though no one yet called themselves that, as most of the Bousingots were not much more than rough and tumble pions embracing libertinage and radical politics, though there was a new spirit of Art for Art’s Sake in the air. Cantarel was welcomed heartily into the groups because of his strange mixture of Pomeranian and South American Andean dress, the odd instruments he could pull out of his pockets and play.

One evening at ‘Jehan Duseigneur’s’ studio, the famous Le Petit Cénacle, Cantarel had decided to do something spectacular, and had brought along a new invention which was in point of fact a clever trans-temporal matter-transmitter disguised as a fanciful blood red suit of highly tooled leather armor. Canterel looked something like a cross between a medieval knight and a mythical mayan demon bird, and later, Kali. The suit was built so that Canterels from other time lines could access the suit which was infused with Erythrite, and reach their own arms out through especially adjacent sockets, or place objects in secret pockets, and then remove them as well, and also cause certain flows of materials to exit from what looked like vents, but were actually well defined trans-temporal ports. With his studies of Avestan and Mayan, and other ancient languages, Cantarel began to perform a strange dance and to chant long and winding phrases, and had even contrived a trans-temporal poly-vocality, wherein several of the other Canterel’s voices could also be heard from horn-like protuberances which projected from his bird-like bat-like helmet. It wasn’t long before luminous transparent spheres began to pop out of discrete holes in the suit and float around the room which he had darkened somewhat for increased effect, and though the rowdy Bousingot elements were already jeering, soon a silence a pervaded the crowd, as it became known that the strange bubbles were unbreakable, and even stranger could not be moved from their seemingly random and gracefully edifying paths. It was in fact as if the bubbles’ actuality was a complete inversion of their perceived sense as delicate, and fragile, if miraculous, nonces. This was no ordinary parlor trick! Gautier and Nerval were beyond entranced, and Jehan looked as if he had seen Satan himself, but there was further mischief. Soon more and more, and tinier bubbles began to file out in all directions, like a radiating fan or tail feather section from the base of Leret’s spine, and he could extend it, and snap it closed to become a tail, or bend it forward, to engulf the helmet in shimmering transparent bubbles. Then four arms shot out on either side, and Leret began to juggle singing somewhat reduced versions of his own head, all clearly alive and speaking, and then for the finale’, the heads began vomiting even more bubbles until the room was awash with them, until finally Leret let out a piercing almost Tuvan throat chord which shattered all the bubbles at once, which promptly turned to a glittering and microscopic dust, the dust of innumerable oneiric suns.

After the lights had come back up, there was awe and silence, but eventually, the youthful and lively nature of the audience held sway, and the drinking and carousing continued in earnest, but Cantarel had planned well as to be the last of the performances that night, for his was certainly a show-stopper. After he had disrobed, and discretely dropped his more dangerous items through a time hole at the bottom of his trousse, he returned to join his new bohemian comrades, who were not too much younger than he, or at least how he appeared to be. When Gautier and Nerval approached him with open, and admiring faces, he said at once to them, “I am very much interested in your ideas for the theater! Could we meet at my office to discuss this sometime.” After a few polite, and restrained comments of wonder, the three all exchanged cards of introduction, and Cantarel let them know that any of their friends were welcome as well, and they would all be pleasantly surprised, he hoped, for he had an offer, ‘of a small adventure.’ Cantarel then left amid a tidy clutch of boisterous and waxy bouzingo hats to retire and prepare.
Since time was of no matter, since they could enter it whenever and wherever they wanted, Cantarel and Faucillon began training the singers and musicians and building the strange costume which would become as well the main prop, and indeed, the set for the entire production, for Cantarel had now further conceived of the production as mobile, the role of Daedalus being given to Cantarel’s best baritone, none other than the Chlorlock named Professor Majesty, who was immediately interested in an opera whose singers and musicians would be completely Chlortronic, and whose set would be his own complex mechanical suit, and whose subject was very close to his own heart, being as he was somewhat directly descended from Socrates, who, while historically disagreeing with the Daedalusianism of sacred kineticism, had now reformed somewhat, seeing in kineticism a kind of Platonic ideal in itself, an immovable reality of absolute movement which he reconciled by means of Heraclitus’ teachings, and tempered further by readings in Taoism, and quantum physics. And so Canterel went about constructing another trans-temporal suit which would act as the stage for the chlortronic version of Faucillon’s Daedalus, little walkways, and fold out sections of the palace at Knossos, and the various backdrops that would appear both in front of and behind Daedalus’ face covering his body from head to toe.

It was not long after this that Cantarel, after plotting his apprehension of the astonishing figure of Julie d'Aubigny, set off to collect her, having already made arrangements with another astonishing figure, and a friend of Cantarel’s since the 1920’s, Luigi Barbasetti, whom Cantarel had known best when Luigi had become the fencing instructor at the Automobile and Golfing Clubs of Rome, which Cantarel sometimes visited, taking lessons from the frightfully spry and wonderful personage. The elegant gentleman’s worthy book, “The Art of the Foil” was much treasured by Cantarel who saw in its driving and methodical explication towards perfection in technique while remaining faithful to the ponderous and irrefutable lessons of history, while at the same time creating a contemporary and subjectively fresh approach, a thing of much value. Cantarel, knowing of Luigi’s passion for sword collecting, found an easy mark as he presented Luigi with a seemingly brand new sword from ancient Japan, though while unusable by this master of the Italian-French school, nonetheless pleased immensely this scholar of the metallurgy of sword craft, an avid collector of oddities. Cantarel and Luigi set off for Paris 1688 to hatch a plot to win the heart of the notoriously fickle and mad, Mademoiselle La Maupin.  Appearing at the scene of an illegal duel, where Julie’s lover, and fencing teacher, Serannes, had just killed a man, and were being chased by a quaggle of angry and fence-worthy noblemen which Serannes and Julie, being only two would not likely be able to quell without much injury and perhaps even death, Cantarel and Barbasetti arrived in a marvelous coach of yellow glass whose doors were themselves trans-temporal portals. Luigi, ostentationsly dressed in period costume, leapt through the portal, and immediately put down one of Serannes and Julie’s opponents, and then rapidly two more, while Cantarel circled in the bizarre carriage whose horses were actually eloi-equid-chlortronic cyborgs controlled by Cantagraelians within their bodies. Calling out to Julie across the stumbling mass, “Mademoiselle La Maupin, Serannes, allow us to be of assistance, and make your escape before the Police arrive!” Eventually all parties had clambered aboard the carriage, and at once the entirety of that far away place and time were gone, the carriage rumbling noisily down an immense white and purple marble hall, babbling robotic busts filing past at an astonishing rate as the carriage clambered on toward the room that Cantarel had prepared for these erstwhile lovers, and Luigi beaming over two foils he had managed to steal from the angry and somewhat, it can be said, drunken, opponents who were no match for the matchless expert of the fencing sport. The event was coming together marvelously.

The last and final piece of the puzzle, Canterel thought, was to finalize certain preparations he had made in ancient Crete. The problem with all of this, was that the myth of the labyrinth was, in certain respects, absolutely true. Canterel had been introduced to Daedalus in a formal court setting, and subsequently had been allowed to visit his workshops, and while primitive, they were certainly far ahead of the curve for his day, and Cantarel had begun to plot a way of preserving this marvelous man and his work, creating a magnificent Eloi body, and an entire tribe of Chlorlock craftsfolk to house his mind and skills, and those of his top craftspeople as well. Since Daedalus was also the commander and caretaker of the labyrinth itself, he would need to be safely removed to fulfill his plan. Also, there was some discrepancy between the rustic, yet lively actuality of Daedalus, and the Minoans themselves, it could be said, and the mythic version presented in the opera, which would indeed be at odds. The opera would have to be performed only for the eyes of Cantarel’s selected audience, as the Cretans, though wonderful, were in fact, compared to most modern persons, closer to what one might call ‘cretins’, they were lovably primitive, but a bit rough. Daedalus had indeed created a sexual prosthesis for the bizarrely promiscuous Queen Pasiphae, and while she may have actually had intercourse with a white bull, she was still using the contraption, as her fetish  was not simply to desire that great beast, but to be mounted as a beast, and over and over it seems, and she had produced an entire plethora of deformed children, mostly due to the seed of one man, who unknown to her, and Canterel for a time, was a trans-temporal variant of Henry Ford, who called himself Sherlock Ford, or Phoseon, and whose imperfect rendering of Dr. Welles temporal technology had made his own genetic material highly suspect. It seems that in one of Earth’s innumerable trans-temporal timelines, Henry Ford had used espionage to steal the secret of Dr. Welles’ time-machine, and was using ancient Minoa as a perverted sexual playground and ‘production floor’ for mythic monsters. The greatest of the Cretan Fordian monsters had turned out to be the Minotaur, a hirsute yet wonderful boy, who had begun to grow horns, and successively grow more violent and primitive as he aged, until he began a killing spree, becoming a monstrous serial killer, which King Minos and Daedalus had asked Phoseon ‘Sherlock’ to catch, as this was how he was known at court, as a wily  detective of mysteries, and not as the very progenitor of many of the court’s most shameful secrets. Eventually, Cantarel having sent numerous viewing frames into Crete for an extended time, had discovered the awful secret, and had decided up a plan to rid the ancient past of Henry Phoseon Sherlock Ford, trans-temporal pervert explorer detective. He had a replica made of Daedalus’ prosthetic sex cow, then fashioned a mindless Chlorlock goddess to inhabit it, but one whose vagina was coated with an amazingly powerful hallucinogen, an anxiety producing hallucinogen which would render Phoseon impotent as long as he stayed in any timeframe but his own. Henry Ford would only be able to achieve erection in his own correct frame. Acting boldly, Cantarel, or Phaneronoemikon, as he was known delivered his ‘Trojan cow’ to the home of Phoseon Sherlock Ford, and within months, the terrible sexual tourist was eliminated. At the same time he instituted a range of genetic therapies to assuage the pain of the monsters that Henry had sired, and even contrived to soften the burning libido of Queen Pasiphae by importing a rare breed of dove, known as the Zenaida dove, which Cantarel had genetically altered so that displayed on their bright orange breasts, each dove displayed what looked like a random brushstroke’s version of an ancient Egyptian Ankh, Canterel having originally made these doves as a linguistic pun on the word Zenaida itself, being both an admirer of Verdi’s opera, and Zen calligraphy. The doves’ powerful song had a history of itself, having melted the heart of a famous pirate in the Florida Keys, causing him to mend his ways after hearing their song from an alligator-apple tree, the Anona glabra, or Pond Apple as it was also called, a well-known story of the 18th century.

Finally the day came, the night before having been the happiest celebration ever seen at the Palace of Knossos, and it could be said with some veracity, that every single person for miles around was passed out drunk and sleeping deeply except the Minotaur, as Canterel had delivered a minor ‘Phoenician’ miracle for the celebration, a gigantic amphora whose innards were a complicated temporal portal allowing the contents of an entire winery to flow through time and out a single spigot. People of every class and cant and cast, had come from miles around to fill their jugs and wineskins with Canterel - Phaneronoemikon’s excellent trans-temporal Bordeaux. Cantarel had asked the Minotaur to turn in early, so that he too, might be able to watch the early morning Opera, which Canterel had set to be performed at dawn.

As there were too many wandering revelers in the night, Canterel had to content himself with building his operatic stage within the labyrinth itself, in the chambers of the Minotaur, who would be attending the performance, since in the meantime, Canterel had made much progress with the young man’s education and genetic therapy for his brutish animus, rendering him almost foppish, or at any rate, good-natured and curious, and besides, Cantarel had provided him with two lovely Chlorlock mistresses who were, unknown to Minotaur, and themselves, versions of the Minotaur himself, to assure rapport, and to wryly give continuance to at least some version of Minoan perversity. “Professor Socrates Majesty,” was billed on the Programme in the main role of Daedalus, and his excellent baritone voice was a paragon of richness. Who could have known that within the historical genetic figure of Socrates was the throat of a born Opera singer! The other characters were many, but they were all more or less, smaller versions of Professor Majesty himself, though some were simple chlortrons, and others, the musicians, were Chlorlock-Eloi hybrids. This was to be more or less, a “table-top opera”  as only Socrates Majesty was a full-human-sized individual. The other actors, who were mainly various versions of the traditional Greek chorus, all popped out of Professor Majesty’s trans-temporal time suit-stage set, a thoroughly Cubist affaire, all crimson wool, and faux marble foam, and Daedalus himself wore a golden grasshopper crown, the grasshopper having bonsai tree horns filled with miniature versions of more Zenaida doves which were trained to coo in various interludes to soothe the audience after louder sections.

The Minotaur sat in the center of the audience area, front row, as it were, his two Chlorlock mistresses like svelt green feminine bulls, fully female, but having horns to echo their lover. Canterel was seating everyone he had brought according to a list which functioned boustrophedonically:

[Julie d'Aubigny][Theophile Gautier][Mcinotauress 1] [The Minotaur][Mcinotauress 2] [Gerard Nerval] [The Baroness Dudevant][Cantarel][Faucillon][Jehan Duseigneur][Serannes][lady Bousingot 1] [Bousingot 1][Doctor Orson H.G. Welles][Pablo Picasso][Salvador Dali][John Ashbery][Luigi Barbasetti] [Romeyn de Hooghe][Raymond Roussel][Charlotte Dufréne][Giuseppe Verdi]

As the opera was in French, the Minotaurs would certainly not be confused by any mention of their jailor’s person. Daedalus-Majesty would sing in the center of a rather smallish area about the size of a large dining room in an ordinary Parisian townhome of the upper middle class, and the Chlortron orchestra would in fact, sit atop a beautiful baroque mahogany table the rowdy Bousingot couple had been good enough to steal, but which later Canterel would return discretely. Since there were miniature elements to the production, each seat had growing before it a large mutant lily from whose golden pistils hung various sizes of gigantic dew drops which served as opera glasses to see the tiny chlortron choruses and orchestra. The seats themselves were ‘mother of pearl stalls’ as imagined by Gautier in his ‘strange theater’ mentioned in ‘Mlle. de Maupin’, while the curtain was a trained swarm of butterflies whose density and dispersal were controlled by a pheromonic harmonica that Canterel controlled. Glow worms took the place of footlights in the cavernous labyrinthal dining hall, and a golden mechanical scarab played the part of conductor. Professor Majesty’s transtemporal stage suit also included any sound effects like thunder or lightning, but there was only one scene where this was used, during the inspiration song of Daedalus where he conceived of the powerful idea of the labyrinth as an extrapolation or echo of the cardinal directions themselves. The proud and wonderful Doctor Majesty then wended his way through the entire opera which went off without a single flaw, and by 10 o’clock in the morning when the first Cretans were lazily awakening from their own night of debauchery and excellent wine, the entire opera was completed and dismantled, and only the happy grunts of the Minotaur and his maids could be heard outside the entrance to the forboding labyrinth.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Jogging With Roussel 14

It was January 19th, 1889, the day before Raymond Roussel’s 12th birthday. Raymond Roussel was the gifted child who Canterel had seen at Ernesta Wallace’s children’s soiree a few years before, acting so brilliantly in the little Orientalist play that Abu Dakni had reconstructed from old Elamite sources, and Cantarel had published, and Ernesta had found so charming, Ernesta being the eccentric niece of the famous art collector, and philanthropist of the Siege of Paris, Sir Richard Wallace, who had donated so many of those wonderful drinking fountains now called ‘Wallace Fountains’, to the city of Paris, and who was nearing the end of his life, as Raymond on this day was fidgeting with his mother’s maiden name, writing down a little scenario in his room at his family’s country home in Neuilly. At first, Raymond, took the name, Marguerite Moreau-Chaslon, and turned it around in his mind, Nolsac Eau Rome, but by and by, began to think of the Moreau name itself, and of his brother’s book on Gustave Moreau, the famous painter, and to add this spirit to his thinking, and suddenly thought of “Mademoiselle Ars Guerrite on a chaise longue of Moreau.” After he had carefully written this down, he went to find his brother Georges, the artist of the family, who was sketching in the garden, and an actual student of Moreau’s. “Georges, can you draw me an ‘odalisque’ in the manner of Gustave Moreau, whose body is made of an unknown mineral called Guerrite, which though beautiful, appears to be at war with itself, but even so, may lounge serenely upon a velvet divan, or chaise longue, and which might have as well, a little brass plaque that reads, ‘c’est la guerre’ (that’s war, it cannot be helped)?” At which, Georges, having grown somewhat bored sketching winter trees, pulled out fresh paper and laid down his pencil at once, laying out the contours of the guerrite crystal odalisque first, its surface a tumult like one might see in certain battle scenes of Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonier, or Édouard Detaille, not G. Moreau who abhorred war, the crystals and micro-contours at war with themselves, then filled in the rest, as little Raymond had suggested. Raymond beamed! And Georges went back to work sketching trees, Raymond running off to dream, of the strange, heavy and serene, crystal of war, a truth within a fiction, within a truth within a fiction, the latter truth a conviction, and the latter fiction, a will.

Jogging with Roussel 13

It is December 5, 1930, and Martial Cantarel is having a small intimate dinner for some of his friends who gather regularly to discuss Orientalist subjects, and to hold infrequent show and tell sessions bringing in objects of curiosity. Among those present are Dr. Lucien Proin, a local alienist and exceedingly good-natured curious man, Nedda Skariovsky, a mysterious Eastern European woman whose magnetic presence and knowledge of ancient Eastern languages was profound and intimidating, Francois Postel, a vibrant young man of 20 descended if only dubiously, from the great 16th century Orientalist Guillaume Postel, Abu Dakni, an Iranian painter with a far-ranging knowledge of Persian Miniatures, and various students who popped up from time to time to listen to the sparkling conversation, and view the incomparable rarities presented. This evening Martial Cantarel, Nedda, and Abu Dakni had been very involved in discussing the vicissitudes of Pre-islamic Iran, and then the Pre-Zoroastrian cultures as well, and finally, in discussing the Yaz and Margiana cultures in relation to a text that Martial Cantarel had shown to the group some weeks before, an Avestan spell book which Abu Dakni was keenly interested in, and had promised to elucidate further with an amazing discovery of his own, which strangely, Nedda Skariovsky also seemed to know something about, if only in the vaguest manner, muttering a broken phrase, seemingly in Avestan that sounded something like “Nivoir etyeti nizbayanguhanmana,” which Ab Dakni translated to the astonished group as something close to, “Why do you conceal praise of my wondrous home?” As the group had gathered this month, Abu Dakni had four art students carry in a marvelous, and seemingly very heavy trunk which was of an extraordinary construction and shape, like a regular round topped trunk that had been extruded into an oval, or toroid, and which did not hinge, but had only viewing doors placed around the circumference, and sections on top which slid open. After an excellent dinner of pheasant, and various eastern salads, the group retired to the large Cabinet where Cantarel held his show and tell sessions, this time only allowing himself, Nedda, Abu Dakni, Francois, Lucien, and Abu-Dakni’s main student assistant Marie to enter the private denoument of the rare and exceptional object. Abu Dakni then told a story about how he came to acquire the object before he would reveal its contents.

It seems that many years ago in 1899, Abu Dakni had been collecting old Persian books in the region of what was once Bactria, and had found an exceedingly rare volume by Ferdowsi of Tus describing the impetus of the Persian tradition of ‘miniature painting’ contained as an added section along with the normal selection of stories one finds in the Shahnameh, or Epic of Kings. It told of an early Avestan priest who had used magic to shrink himself and his palace, and all its inhabitants down to a small size, and by doing so render them virtually immortal, but the story went further and told the story of how Rustam, the well known hero, had by accident discovered the miniature city, and wrested it from its hiding place high in the mountains, and brought it as a gift to a young princess in the city of Herat. It was then that the Princess, a young girl at the time, fell in love with a tiny court painter who lived inside the city and whose paintings she coveted, and which were given to her willingly on account of her great beauty and fearsome size. The princess fearing her precious treasure would be discovered as a blasphemy kept its real nature secret, but introduced to Persia the tradition of miniature painting which lived on, though its origins had receded into obscurity. And strangely enough, in the back of the book was a roughly scrawled map of some contemporaneity which Abu Dakni endeavored to follow, and hired porters, and guides and went into the mountains of Afghanistan where he found remnants of the old Durrani Empire in a high mountain stronghold where he met an old man who spoke Avestan, and who sold Abu Dakni the trunk and its contents with a warning, “Marhka makha mahi, madhomaethana hukereta,” which Abu Dakni could make no sense of. The old man then said, “Beware of licentious women!” which made Abu Dakni smile, but not laugh, as he wished to show the old man a great deal of respect. For years, Abu Dakni said, he had thought it only a curiously carved stone, and perhaps the doll house of a rich member of the once great Durrani empire, though he could not see how it could have been possible to carve such an intricately manifested object with so many perfectly formed parts.

At the end of this rousing story, Abu Dakni ceremoniously began to unlatch the intricate trunk covering to reveal a stunningly carved mineralogical masterpiece. Made of obsidian and alabaster, there was a perfectly round center ring whose tubularity was ovoid, as if an egg’s silhouette had been extruded to form a solid ring of obsidian surrounded by a miniature and exceedingly detailed alabaster city of a multitude of tiny but elaborate multi-story buildings which all curved in one direction as if they were perhaps meant to be read as a form of cursive calligraphy. There was another outer obsidian ring which was also a modulated calligraphic architextural hybrid and was both a palace and a wall around the city, so that when you looked at the entirety there was some sense of a visual pun, namely, that the convention of a city around a walled castle had been mutated to become a wall that was also a palace surrounding a city. The Orientalist group pulled in close to view the elegant and rare object, and Cantarel and Lucien were down on their knees looking into some of the little windows and grilles through which marvels could be seen, when all of sudden, standing completely naked in the center of the city was Nedda Skariovsky, her hair standing up as if electrified, and then she spoke these words, “BAODHO AD ADHAOYAMNO,” at which the city’s alabaster uniformly lit up as if from an inner light, then, “AHMAI GEREDHMAHI GRAMTO,” at which the city began to vibrate and lift off its trunk pedestal floating up to where Nedda could manipulate certain of the city’s buildings like manual controls. Next, she said, “HAPTANKHAITIM HARAITHYO SPENISHTA,” and the city unlocked itself like a puzzle, inner and outer rings growing farther apart pushing everyone back against the walls of the room, and wind began to blow out from some of the turrets in the city loudly like horns, and Nedda’s hair began to grow upward and twist into a vortex and pass into a purple cloud studded with emerald flashes of lightning where it disappeared disconcertingly, the cloud growing larger to fill the entire upper region of the large room. Then came the final words, “VAYA FRAKAFRAMA RETHREMCAYOISH,” which seemingly froze everything in the room, including Nedda, and there was a stunning silence, but as time passed, something even more curious happened, a new kind of light came from the alabaster or into it, rendering the entire model a living x-ray, so that everyone in the room could see that around the perimeter of the tiny city, little spherical rooms were lighting up and inside them tiny beings were being raised from miniature sarcophaguses, each wearing a helmet fashioned in the likeness of a snail’s shell. All of them began to file down to a passageway leading to the navel of Nedda Skariovsky whose insides one could also see. Inside of Nedda Skariovsky there were already scores of tiny snail helmeted little beings, some holding complicated astrolabes, some musical instruments, and some of the little beings were holding things which looked like both. Looking closer, Canatarel and Abu Dakni perceived that these tiny beings were in fact botanico-gastropodal hybrids, plant-snails, their pale silver green translucent skin revealing tiny networks of purple veins inside which, and Cantarel had put on a pair of telescopic goggles to see them, shell-less aquatic snails floating like flying carpets, or nudibranchial Spanish dancers. Then, the little helmeted beings began to file out into the city into diverse regions, and some went inside Nedda, and the city became more articulated as the puzzle piece quartiers slid along invisible pinions and linkages into revolving and counter-revolving rings of architextural calligraphy, and Nedda’s hand began to move certain buildings as the erstwhile controls of an unknown process, and the entire assembly began to move upward, including Nedda, apparently its pilot, into the purple cloud, and disappear! After the event was over, Abu Dakia looked at Cantarel who was chuckling, and said, “And to think, that thing was found in a region originally called ‘Derangia’ by the Romans!” To which Cantarel replied, “Never a dull moment in Orientalist studies, my friends! Let’s drink and sing the praises of our Parisian Persiana!” Khóng-dek-lèn had wandered in from the library and was rubbing up against Cantarel’s calf with his bald feline head. Francois Postel chimed in, “She seems to have been the ‘licentious woman’, and she certainly took much license with your property, Abu!” “Yes, completely the reverse of easy come, easy go,” said Doctor Proin following Marie out into warm carpeted rooms, sphinxes of stained glass and marquetry like marbled endpapers. “Something I never expected,” muttered Canterel, “trouble with the trans-temporal natives! I would certainly like to meet one of those snail scribes, and hear a little more about their remarkable journey!”

Jogging With Rossel 12

It was precisely 3 AM when 70 or so, of the Cantagrael Chlorlocks were sleeping soundly in their physio-impoddities within Cantarel's first Eloi vehicle sometimes called Eok Own, when they were awoken by internal signals from the other 30. Eok Own had his own suite in O/x space within the pyramind of Deep F.R.E.D.. A message had come by dove that an extremely beautiful world had been found by one of the timenauts at about 14 million years out, the timenauts were already calling Atlantis. Eok Own got up quickly and dressed in a little silk nightshirt lovingly and calligraphically embroidered with genetic and temporal algorithms and slipped on a pair of ragged and tassled moccasins  and went down to the viewing room to take a peek. There were a few Chlorlock scientists already taking readings from the instruments, and Eok Own spoke to his favorite, Professor Majesty, an enormous Chlorlock mind-plant made from various splices of venerable figures from history whose face resembled that of Socrates himself. "What have we found Professor Majesty?" "It appears these marvelous beings have built a single immense city along the central axis of the earth through its core, or perhaps they are two connected cities, for the structure flanges out at the poles, and seems to be powered by the magnetic core of the Earth itself! They also seem to be able to control the inclination of the planet’s axis via magnetic modulation.” “Have we ambassadored yet?" "Nobody available at this moment," said Professor Majesty. "What are they," said Eok. "It appears they are meta-amphibian pixellates," Professor Majesty mused, "Snake-like or eel-like beings furred in transparent metallic silicon that cluster into larger pseudo-bipedal forms, and communicate exo/internally by means of electric charges generated dermally, and they are water breathers. We’re calling them Eeloi Yeti." The Cantagrael Chlorlocks were in a bit of a quandary as their forebear, Cantarel was possessed of a morbid fear of anything remotely snakelike. Suddenly Eok Tone, the Eloi vehicle which housed Doctor Orson Welles entered the room in a Jules Vernesque diving suit replete with bio-mimicry elements so that he appeared to be both 19th century and obviously biotech.. "Tone!" "Not that crazy thing!" cried Own. "Listen, said Eok Tone, let's do a Chlorlock transfusion, and get you suited up, I want to see this thing!" The two disappeared down a large vaulted hallway covered in mosaics of teeth.  Taking a side corridor into a little drawing room, some of the chlorlocks from Eok Tone and some from Eok Own traded places within their hosts to offset Own’s chlorlock’s inherited OCD tendencies. “Own, they look like Yetis anyway! Let’s get you suited up!” “Call me Ispolzuette,” Eok Own chortled, “Dr. Hernesque!” “Hirnest, and Honesk!” declared Tone / Welles. Soon the two intrepid would-be time-nauts were clambering down the totem rigging and out onto the massive braid that dangled 14 Million years in the future, which was closer to 80 million years in the future from O/x space itself. Emerging deep under the sea near the South Pole, the two friends began clambering across the short space to the massive gleaming white structure that was the city of the Eeloi Yeti. Finding no guards or sentries of any kind, the two entered into the city through an ornate baroque oval frame teeming with sea life, all luminous squirming coelenterates and dendritic ambiguity. Suddenly, they were seized in a luminous rainbow whirlwind of silky silicon fibers, surrounded by hundreds of free-swimming Eeloi  whose silicon fur turned out to be something closer to spider’s webbing, and was emitted under control, as the Eeloi’s skins were covered in spinnerettes! In a more or less gentle fashion, Own and Tone, or ‘Ispolzuette and Hernesque,’ were taken into the lower city of Faonduul.. Own and Tone had fallen into a chromatic trance, and were both babbling like idiots, when the colors finally ceased, and they found themselves inside of a long capsule like room, their primitive suits removed and laid in a heap. “We’re breathing normally underwater,” said Own. “I doubt very much that it is water,” surmised Dr. Hernesque. Suddenly, an elegant Eeloi Yeti figure appeared at the far end of the capsule and beckoned them to follow. Down several short hallways whose moldings seemed to be made of living plastic coral, the pair followed until they were led into an underwater library where a massive Eeloi Yeti was waiting, and there was the added strangeness that there seemed to be exact echoes of everyone in the room made of single, animated holographic airbubbles which served to act like shadows. Own felt a tremble of fear, but Tone spoke right up not knowing exactly if his voice would be heard, “We are here as ambassadors of a cryptic organization of Courageous Explorers of Temporality!” “Indeed!” replied an obviously human, and female voice, and at that, the Eeloi Yeti began to disintegrate, the individual eeloi falling away from a beautiful 5 meter tall Ginger Rogers whose bright crimson skin the pair recognized as Erythrite based genetics. She was beautiful. Tone stepped forward to kiss her hand, when the woman pulled aside her elegant luminous silicon gown to reveal a pale green rectum-navel which was already opening, a long fingernail gang-plank coming out, and 6 little Chlorlock versions of Agent Ray Echenoz-Bolger marching out smiling. “Welcome to CIA headquarters, boys!” Own was shocked. Tone /Hernesque looked to the left of the Erythritic Eloi Ginger Rogers to notice a large glass case full of miniature, and slightly modified versions of his own time machine, like tiny powerful toys, each a fully functional time craft he surmised. “It’s time we joined forces,” said the little clade of Echenoz-Bolgers, “We’re taking an enlightened approach to history construction here..”

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Jogging with Roussel 11

It was sometime in the Fall of 1965 that CIA agent Ray Echenoz-Bolger had agreed to meet with a man named Ninrutas Erbaf in a café not far from 15 bis Boulevard Jules Sandeau in Paris called Les Niobmol. He claimed to have a strange object and story which he wished not to make public, but to turn over to the American government on account of his love for his wife, an American woman who had recently died. Agent E-B made note of the man’s curious appearance after the meeting in a little notebook whose pages we still have:  wildly flaming gray hair as if shocked by electricity / a mustache vaguely tinted green and twisted / into two points like those of Salvador Dali /and wearing only a tight cotton undershirt / to reveal a musculature like that of an acrobat / from the circus, and a scarf of deep crimson - a leather satchel with an odd rubber handle / Mr. Erbaf then began to recount the details of a shocking story, one whose contours Agent Echenoz-Bolger was acutely interested in, namely that of an alternate timeline that involved Canterel himself illustrated best by describing  the thwarted siege of Paris by the Nazis. It seems that Canterel was very worried that Paris would fall, and not having had time to muster his resources to protect the whole of France from the terrible madman’s forces would in any case reverse history and protect Paris. As the Nazis approached Paris, Canterel began to bring in beings he had made from other timelines, the first was an enormous version of the cat Khóng-dek-lèn whose brain and nervous system he had been able to genetically encode with erythrite. The enormous animal who had descended from Canterel’s original pet retained all of the loyalty of the original but contained much more ferocity and intelligence. Instead of the dull metal cone of his forebear, this new Khóng-dek-lèn wore a shimmering metallic crystalline cone bristling with dendritic emitter arrays. Able to foster powerful magnetic fields, the creature could not be damaged by any conventional projectile as its native field was super sensitive, and could react minutely to any incoming object. Accompanying the animal were four divisions of Erythrite Hoplites, red skinned soldiers of ancient Greece whose minds were primitive but fell under the control of Khóng-dek-lèn as foot soldiers. Designed under the tutelage of none other than Nicola Tesla, these electrically powerful beings using only specially designed spear analogs could release their Erythritic charges in exquisitely powerful bolts rending flesh and metal equally. Canteral released Khóng-dek-lèn and the Erthyrites and saved Paris. Agent E-B was very skeptical: “How did that timeline fail to become the main reality?” “It is the main reality,” claimed Erbaf. “The timeline in which we find ourselves here is a darker hybrid line instigated by Nazis toward the end of the war.” “Then why did you come back here,” queried Agent E-B? “Because of you!” Erbaf exclaimed smiling, then chuckling. At that Erbaf pulled open the rumpled old leathern trousse, and revealed a rather large portrait bust of Agent Echenoz-Bolger himself as an old man made completely of Erythrite. Accompanying the bust was a mechanical box, and a smaller sack of attachments which Erbaf laid out on the table wearing a silky pair of green gloves. Agent E-B noticed blue sparks of electricity dancing at the ends of Erbaf’s mustache as he handled the bust. As he built the mechanism, Ray Echenoz-Bolger could only stare with open mouth at his older self  depicted so nobly. “Take hold of this bar,” said Erbaf.  Erbaf had taken out a waxy metal bar and connected it to the box, and then to the bust, suddenly Ray Echenoz-Bolger was in contact with himself in another timeline. As Erbaf worked the controls and knobs, Ray Echenoz-Bolger met nearly a hundred different versions of himself in teletemporal communion with the bust. “I will teach you how to operate the controls,” smiled Ninrutas Erbaf quixotically, as a tiny blonde-haired woman came out of his hair and sat down on his shoulder.

Monday, November 19, 2012

Jogging with Roussel 10

O/x space: In an endless desert of pink sand, a pink rubberized C3PO android is kicking a large rubber Mickey Mouse android head towards an enormous mirrored obsidian pyramid in the distance. The Mickey Mouse head keeps saying, “Prometheus Minnie!” over and over. Finally, pink rubber C3PO opens a flap in the back of Mickey’s head and pulls out a little green mouse, pushes a button on his own forearm and opens up a time pixel box hanging in the air and puts the mouse inside. “Decorrupt!” says pink C3PO to no one in particular..Out in the desert, one can see other pink rubber C3PO's wearing the big Mickey augmentation helmets used to dowse for spice worms for the zithers. He skints off toward the pyramind of Deep F.R.E.D. and the Ginger Herm. Up through the rosy dunes he goes and into the lavender waterfall that pours from the mouth of a black granite sphinx with the face of Canterel with the luminous turquoise colored eyes of the Fremen, to enter the long approach hallway through the plinth. After many hours of negotiating crooked, infuriating passages, C3PO reaches the dramatic inner sanctum, a vaulted massive geode space whose several flat floor-like facets are connected by jewelry-like lapidary bridge structures that all fall away from an amazing ‘optically distrurbed’ altar-like area where various thrones and fetish objects, and instruments and machines are clustered. Deep F.R.E.D., called “Don Cantagrael” here in the inner chamber,  is dancing to a song written by Maurice Foret called “The Dance of the Diamond Doll” played by an orchestra of pink rubber C3PO’s. Don Cantagrael is an Eloi-enhanced super chlorlock host and stands about 50 meters tall. Dressed in a shimmering gold thread tuxedo, his face is a hybrid of Fred Astair and Red Foxx as young men. Every so often, Don Cantagrael will stop his wonderful dancing, and pull out a pair of diamond scissors and snip off a small section of hair that constantly pours from the surface of the smooth black monolith itself about 55 meters tall, its hair falling, growing, down into a luminous mote that surrounds the monolith’s dais. In the lower regions of the pyramind, this hair is braided into 2-5 “deep time” braids that form the originating exposition of Deep F.R.E.D.’s oracular deep time colonization, which allow special Chlorlock timenauts to explore ever deeper arenas of the temporal flux by crawling along these braids into portals held open by the powerful forces of the monolith’s ginger hair strands, which are of unknown construction, but are thought to be made of something called trans-temporal hyproteomics.. The  ‘Ginger Herm’ was the first monolith discovered in the modern earth age and was uncovered on the Moon at the site of an unnaturally powerful magnetic field near the crater Tycho. It was called the Tycho Magnetic Anomaly 1 ("TMA-1") before the monolith was discovered. After this was discovered to be an alien artifact, its name became the "Tycho Monolith Anomaly 1" (still TMA-1), but after Don Cantagrael slept upon it in the year 2018, Don Cantagrael having come back in time to do so from 904, 321, the Ginger Herm was born, and it opened up O/x space, and they began deep oracular time dowsing using braided hyproteomics.   The dance of deep F.R.E.D. Don Cantagrael and his diamond scissors used to cut ‘non-ginger’ lines is part of one of the monolith's temporal shamanics programs it was set to enact millions of years ago once it was able to generate larger hybrid beings like the Eloi-Chlorlock lines. The music has ended, and the Ginger Herm takes a break. The pink rubber C3PO’s are putting on human skins they pull from a hollow diamond on a stand filled with opalescent waters. After they are all ‘nude humans’, they begin to play “The ballet of Glory” which is when in the lower levels, Chlorlock timenauts begin to explore the latest strands to test whether on not to attach them to the Totem of Transtemporal Glory, the TTG, or Megaxl-O/x. The Chlorlock timenauts wear special suits fitted with breathing tanks full of Melange spice-gas birthed from the worm zithers of Don Cantagrael which fill one of the many levels of the pyramind. Sometimes one can hear the powerful drone of the spice worm zithers as they sing out the time-folding Melange.

All Sagas 11

one single gland
a disunity
form (und mirtillo our landlordess)
in force
without the rest
their vulgar today
the offal [all sages monsters /like/ perfumed bibles)
be your own divinity
as universe *(genus)

or talk leaf
with the Sauvegardes
the story compressed
the foolish line filled only
with itself
the rape of the Sabine
outrage vaccine (its spiry mirthles)
Buddha Beddoes mudra meadows

where yellow grapes
involve a volcano with a sign
a girl looks into drama
or Adam
thinks sable fish
Sweden (above her ankles chalked the rosy clay)
pronunication the hulk
all sabulous light
in junked mouths
the strand

strangely pineal
a brain like a funnel
torque word
Sagakomi (seek all ideology yes O miryachit)
clerks put in their sacs
only individual emmenagogues
tears of cum for medicine
poetry cannot yield
as omnirational the lightwave
pillbox [informe{
its lyre (nature uninformed but only information)

11 the color
all color 11
as rational signal
grande habit
none more organic
real (one argument, integument, sea muscled bell, skinless iridescent screaming)
wholesome dead
soucar (mewrthris to a high endemon'd glossy fruit)
what is interpenetrable
the capable surface is all hybrid

collapsing clap sing
idiots (it's protein to gravid my aesthenia)
soul sick mouth of soup
sounding void all embrace
all reject
all efface (social disinterest fully) [mostly]
toward its water board
the junky even worse
sun fair (twilit lox all miry in lovely and delicious whormonyns)
to Nabob Argot

supplement: cavalry
11 sagas (before the absent powers)
the whole art
and mystery of banking
beard toward the sea
and out of me (niblick's head all chattering, a clam in soup who hefts praise for bunkers)
Izarra splashing finely (thick coats, spooned indifference, ribs showing, buying cameras to hide)
E.G. Izod your mineral tilting
Capra jaala
whazzat [M spark prime of Miss Jean Brodie, hye thee to gongs in wells)
Jacobian ellipsoid of equilibrium

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Jogging with Roussel 9

It was 9:25 am on the morning of September 11, 2001 that a secret meeting was taking place between CIA Black Ops ‘Time Czar’ Ray Echenoz-Bolger, and the US Army’s head of the top-secret ‘Temporality Division’, General Bernadette Syrenee, lovingly called “Fitzy.” Held in a non-descript outer office of the pentagon, on the wall is a painting of Ginger Rogers in full nudity but in the guise of Hermes, or Mercury, wearing winged silver sandals, and a chrome helmet with wings. She is carrying a caduceus staff, but it is lumpy and misshapen, and is in fact, a mutant caduceus vegetable whose crown appears to bear the tiny head of Red Foxx with a pink anemone’ mohawk which is smoking a cigarette. Instead of a navel, she has a pale green rectum, and out of it are flying, in a halo belt, a ring of Oz’ finest winged green monkeys wearing Roman leather armor and golden helmets, some of them chewing on short stubby cigars, and carrying machine guns. Agent Echenoz-Bolger looks up from his computer’s monitor and says to Fitzy, “Canterel and Welles are cross-breeding their Chlorlocks, and we have six of our agents in the mix as well, giving us something like a 12 percent chance of correcting the Oz colony at 1M/GsubX if their hybrid gene-lines are not detected by the Anubian symbionts.” Fitzy adjusted her brassiere subtly, then, “Do we have trans-temporal support from deep F.R.E.D.?” “Yes, we’re capping Canterel’s Locus Solus resurrectine mine in 18 temporal zones, beginning in 2013, I believe, but there are trans-temporal holes in our technology, so it’s a crapshoot at best..” “Is deep F.R.E.D. with the Ginger Herm in O/x space?” “Now and forever, we hope, and the Chlorlock-Haqq-Sanfordian Rangers are accessing the gene lines needed to fulfill the damaged time lines of their Queen vehicle, Blonde Amateratsu..” “Does it gives us back the Mayan Eloi lines?” “No, but it does effectively block Spanish incursion into the new world in 6 of the trans-temporal variants.” “We are making great headway into a total Spanish-Vril route of the main synthetic trans-temporal space, allowing for Mayan-Chlorlock space colonization.” “Is that Eloi enhanced?” “Can’t do it any other way, Fitzy, frequency blonde rids us of blood sacrifice for 10 thousand years!” “Thank deep F.R.E.D.” “And the mesomidichlorians.” “To the great SOAP..” “To the ultimate pulp..” [9:37:46: Flight 77 crashes into the western side of the Pentagon at 530 mph (853 km/h, 237 m/s, or 460 knots) and starts a violent fire. The section of the Pentagon hit consists mainly of newly renovated, unoccupied offices. All 64 people on board are killed, as are 125 Pentagon personnel.]

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Friday, November 16, 2012

Jogging with Roussel 8

It was the afternoon of August 5, 1945, and off the sourthernmost  tip of the island of Yoniguni, a woman named Midori Kyūketsuki was asleep on the deck of an abandoned trawler which was drifting in open waters. Once a prostitute and drug addict, she had gone insane and began swimming the night before, intending to kill herself. Upon the verge of waking up, a pale yellow glass frame appeared hanging in the air near to her body about the size of a doorway. For only a few minutes, the glass doorframe hummed, its noise growing louder, eventually waking the poor woman who looked up just in time to see something frightening and amazing. Four large men came through the doorway in military uniforms. Their uniforms were black, but they wore armbands like the ones she had seen in the cinema of Nazis, but instead of red swastikas, the armbands bore the face of Fred Astaire wearing a top hat and a long curly blonde goatee. As her eyes focused more acutely, she found herself surrounded by four obviously negro soldiers, but whose skin was emerald green. The leader of the group stepped forward and bowed courteously removing his hat exposing a short-cropped blonde afro. “ I am General Rhejed Balbet..” Then, he spoke to her in an amiable, if imperfect, Japanese, “Watashi no joō wa, ima koso chansuda.. “ (My Queen, the time has come..) As he spoke, Midori noticed at once that the man’s teeth were made of yellow glass, and that he had fangs like that of a vampire! And with that, the men helped her to her feet, and carried her through the mysterious yellow glass portal.

Hypnogogs to room 101 from Ralph Nature on Vimeo.

Jogging with Roussel 7

It was October 27, 1905, Martial Canterel was in Richmond, Surrey, England, walking along a deserted thoroughfare lit only by one streetlamp. As the wind whipped up, a slatted shutter banged noisily against a stone wall. Accompanying Martial was a small blonde curly headed child whose face seemed inordinately passive and tranquil. Seeming unsure of his surroundings, Martial was peering through an open window to assure himself he was at the correct address. Through the window, a man in elegant clothing was taking a dried a plant from between the pages of a large crimson book. Martial knocked three times on the door in darkness. Soon, the door was opened by a small dark gypsy woman obviously in her late 60’s. Martial and the child went in. They were shown to the elegantly appointed library where the man regarded them warmly from behind the desk. The man’s name was Orson Welles. Orson spoke first, filling his calabash pipe. “Has it worked then?” said Orson.  Canterel motioned toward the child, “See for yourself..” “How many are on board?”  Canterel smiled, “About a hundred..” “May I see one then?” said Doctor Welles.. Martial Canterel put the child in front of him, who was not actually a child at all, but a genetically altered being that Canterel had created using information and genetic material Dr. Welles had brought back from the year 802, 701. “Who are they, then?” said Doctor Welles. “At the present time, they are only me, but resurrectine in sufficient quantity would allow any person to have their mind, and mental faculties, memory, etc transferred to an Eloi body like this. With sufficient fruit, this body will last at least a thousand years, maybe longer, but the Chlorotrons must reproduce, but they do so with very little information loss.” “Please, allow me to meet you!” said Dr. Welles.. “Very well..” The Eloi Chlorotron host unbuttoned its little jacket and shirt, and revealed a smooth stomach which had instead of a bellybutton, a pale green rectum which opened itself like an organic porthole. Out came a translucent green fingernail, like a catwalk, diving board, or balcony, then, out stepped two little green men, each about 3.2 centimeters tall. One of them smiled, and bowed. The other did a strange little dance.. “What period shall we retire to then?” said Dr. Welles. “What do you suggest?” said Martial, bringing out a phial of luminous green fluid and a syringe. “Care for a memory?” The gypsy woman had undressed in the back of the library. Another Eloi host stepped into the circle of light around the massive wooden desk. The two ‘children’ joined hands sweetly.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Jogging with Roussel 6

At 391 Av. Victor Hugo, Montmorency, a retired post-mistress, MME Vera Surgyne was performing her own Tarot atop a curiously covered table. The table was a large, perfectly square affair, somewhat Edwardian in character, but whose  top MME Surgyne had covered in 28 non-identical copies of René Descartes’ Meditationes de prima philosophia, in qua Dei existentia et animæ immortalitas demonstrator, or Meditations on First Philosophy, as it is often called in the later editions such as many of these. Then, laid perfectly atop each book, was a post-card of Raphael’s Madonna as Beautiful Gardener, each of which had been detourned by a friend of MME Surgyne, as she was a Mail Artist involved in a global conspiracy of philatelic dimensions, being a rather good-natured, jaunty, head post-mistress. Then the whole construction was fitted under glass, atop which, at present, she was rather lazily practicing Tarot, having seen in it some principle she thought might be used to govern both music and gardening, two of her other passions.  The deck she was using was something of a masterpiece as well. Crafted by a Mail Art friend of hers whom she knew only as “Willy”, the deck was a lovingly rendered replica of the Visconti Tarot, what is sometimes called the Cary-Yale pack, whose author Bembo Bonifacio had created in 1445, and which included a female knight and valet, perhaps signifying its use by the female members of the Milanese court. At present, that very card had come up, and MME was glancing down at it, absent-mindedly fantasizing, associating the female knight’s crown-wreathe with a kind of toroidal garden city in outer space housing a bizarre all feminine world of nude gardeners, and a strange cascading system of basins which some of the angelic gardeners were taking water from in glass gourds, gourds that held tiny homuncular men, completely green in color, when her cellphone rang, but which she did not answer, but instead, entered further into her Tarot induced trance, and moving deeper into the toroidal garden city, spied a luminous cupola where the gardeners were preparing a female ‘time-knight’ by feeding her in exact sequences, specific herbs whose names were being read ceremonially by a kind of gardener priestess at a leafy podium. Behind the lovely ‘time knight’, whose skin was exceedingly pale and luminous, there was a marvelous machine of stone and metal inside of a crystalline seed, and a dull hum pervading the scene, a vegetable drone of growth. As MME Surgyne became annoyed at the ringtone which had returned several times, she slowly came back to earth, but as she did, she realized, the time knight was in fact a sort of sacralization of the universal postal object, a love letter, a teleplastic hagio-extropic-iconism.. “Hulloo!” she announced, smoothly enacting the gui-phone’s surface, “Vera?” “Yesss..”“What’s up?” It was her friend Levi Hikaletik. “Just doing this visionary Tarot thing I do sometimes..” Levi chuckled, “Aah, yess, le dessous—Descartes?” “Cogito Ergot Sum!” replied MME Surgyne, placing her eye on a yellow apple across the room, and rising to fetch it. It was then, that Vera realized that the ‘time-knight’ had been her fitness instructor Flora Crinis-Sane, and that the vision was an echo of both the hanging gardens of Babylon, and the curious imagery inside the Voynich manuscript.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Jogging with Roussel 5

Flora Crinis-Sane had fallen asleep soundly on the evening of February 7, after jogging home from Ages Reticular spa, showering, and having a lovely glass of Laville Haut-Brion  Blanc from the well stocked cellar of M. Konfians, and relaxing for some 46 minutes with M. Konfians in his own spa watching an old American film about an aging fashion model with a strangely robotic face living in a quaint beach cottage along the New England coastline who now collected seashells on which she painted symbols so as to use them as chess pieces in a game with a young poet who came to visit her once a week whose slight speech impediment she found charming in a poet. Her dream that night was particularly clear, what one might call a lucid dream. In the dream, Flora was a young man named Angelo Essermos, an agent for a multi-national corporate conglomerate named  Ispolzuette and Hernesque, Inc. sent to the small country of Eisnark which comprised the isthmus that bisected the upper horns of Lake Constance in Northern Switzerland ostensibly to buy six properties which the company had expressed an interest  in. After speaking to his immediate superior, a woman named Nedda Skariovsky, on a hard gelatinized video tablet which he kept in a grey velvet sack designed to look like a young boy’s trousers, Angelo set out to contact a woman named Manette, a local real-estate agent for the firm Terne and Toluene, Esqs. After that, the dream seemed to shift, and become a dream within a dream; Angelo had brushed his teeth with a toothbrush that looked as if it were made from ivory, but with a clever bristle cassette the color of acid turquoise. After putting on his pajamas, he laid down to sleep in a comfortable chalet, a light snow now falling, looking slightly orange through the window in the security light set high in the pitched roof’s peak. He dreamed that night of being the Pythia of Delphi, herself readying for sleep in an elegant cave-like simulacrum of well-made but primitive furnishings. One glance in the mirror, and Angelo realized he was none other than Nedda Skariovsky. In the nude, now, Flora-Angelo-Nedda crawled into the deep furs of the bed, and looked at the last flickering of the orange flame of the oil lamp as it guttered out. In her dream, the Pythia awoke to a strange feeling as if her nipples were erect, but also separate entities, and were moving, or sliding down into her armpits which were glowing. When each nipple reached its destination, the Pythia felt a small prick, like a tiny thorn entering her armpit. Then the nipples began to grow and harden into ivory handles which extended down and out making them accessible to her hands. At one point, she knew she must grasp the nipple handles. As she pushed against them she felt a surge of intense pleasure and relief, but also an existential discomfort, as if she was simultaneously remembering and forgetting something she could not quite put her finger on. As the handles were pushed further down, a glowing line began to form across the chest of the Pythia, until all at once, the entire top of her torso popped off like a cap revealing a beautiful luminous pink transparent fungi animal, an Arcimboldoesque conglomerate held together by spidery black wires, or veins which somehow she intuited as a word, as a physical hologram of living letters which somehow spelled:

Éloignez-vous de mes manes.

When Flora awoke the next morning, Mordan was bringing in fresh peaches and ice-cream for breakfast, and glasses of Champagne. There was a small grey velvet jewelry box on the tray. It was open revealing a lovely engagement ring with an enormous pale pink diamond surrounded by rays of emeralds and rubies like a tiny twinkling floral star. Mordan was chuckling. Flora felt disturbed and confused. Mordan laughed, then, “BFF’s forevah?” Flora stuck her finger in the icecream, and said nothing but “Mud..”

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Chac Vayab

now say now say that
the sun is a bat with the head
of a flower
a thorn flower's blood
is hummingbirds
now say the feathered nectar
like a flying rat becomes
this batty flower
the sun of blood
glossophaginae now say
leaf knows all
of night
the day its blossom close
inside like a heart
unfolding like wings
petals over strings
a nectar of hummingbirds
escapes from the guitar
the bat plays singing
now say now say he says
she says for what it says
it should not say but says
a thorn's beak is for the heart's
sun, its petals strung with nectar
in the light, its blossom night,
its leaf all knowing all consuming
now say the day is a bat
of humming birds
whose blood is the nectar
of suns whose hands
are flowers
strumming bat guitars
darting like arrows
dipping their beaks
in fire

Jogging With Roussel 4

Father Ujalrex was running his left hand along the excellently tooled leather book spines of the rectory library searching for a commentary on the Zoroastrian Gathas when his hand brushed something sharp and cold. It turned out to be a book he had never seen before, An Avestan spellbook  of obvious rarity, translated in a facing page edition by a eunuch-scribe from the court of Sultan Husayn of Persia with an accompanying folio of translations of certain spells by none other than Guillaume-Antoine Olivier and Jean Guillaume Bruguière, who were the scientists sent by the Directoire to resume relations with Iran against the Empire of Russia in 1796. The scientists, however, had only translated one spell apiece, each spell relating only to their field of study. For Guillaume-Antoine, it was a spell for attaining visions by the use of a rare snail, his expertise being gastropods. For Jean Guillaume, it was a spell to create a pestilence, for he was an entomologist. The book itself seemed to have been owned by Napoleon at one point, for it bore his initials, N.B., but also the initials M.C., those of Martial Canterel! The sharp, cold, point, Father Ujalrex discovered, was from a tiny ornamental dagger studded with jewels used, it seemed, as a bookmark which had somehow over the years worked its way out through the spine. Father Ujalrex ran his eyes over the text of Guillaume-Antoine Olivier's translation and realized it was more than a spell for visions, but of a visionary immortality based on mental preparations based in the learning of the spell combined with the specific toxin of the "Jafrahika", or black cone snail sometimes called, 'the licentious woman', an extinct species related to the Conus marmoreus according to Dr. Olivier in his copious notes within the folio.

Monday, November 12, 2012


thread gilled suns repeat
that ushers original scene
where kidnapped men are tartared
and the bosom of the earth adorn
no radiant doctrine for truth
is unwelcome in Cowper's
flatting mill plateau'd
by ageless kunstchision
aware of prodigies aloft
the winds of heaven
unable to blow over them
without nausea and loathing
but sense what vagueries
surround the ulvitt mound
ptah stakes a thin red line
to the perfect corner
of a cloud, all language
stupendous idiocy
before the smoldering
pelvic cauldron
the neck hole
whose vague hiss
is a sermon of squirming things
and vast glyphs of fading
transparent wings
unless you adorn it
most of the passengers
were seized by loam

Jogging with Roussel 3

It was only one day after the Prefect of police had made inquiries about Locus Solus that he was replaced by a woman named Nedda Skariovsky. Her long blonde hair reminded Mordan Konfians of Lady Godiva, and he was immediately under spell. Her solid black jumpsuit appeared to glitter, and seemed as if covered in synthetic snake scales emitting a vague penumbra reminiscent of holographic film negatives. Highly eccentric in appearance, yet extremely beautiful for her vaguely 50ish mien or vissage, the captivated Konfians began to have intense dreams about her, and the village itself, while in absolute shock about the sudden replacement, immediately felt a sort of giddy wild pride about the new importance, obviously, that Locus Solus represented to their community, even though its importance at present seemed extraordinarily dark. A time of fear and wonder ensued, and though no violence, or harassment occurred, a sort of dream-time descended on the town of Montmorency, and slowly, all the residents began to have dreams about Nedda.

It was on the morning of February 5, 2013, that Mordan Konfians awoke from a particularly strange dream about Nedda. She was nude, and beautiful, and bathing in a solid white half-spheroid tub full of India ink in an enormous white spherical room, her long blond hair now like a Chinese ink-brush loaded with dark fluid.. As she rose from the exquisite tub, Mordan awoke, and ran to his little escritoire to write the flaming words he heard in his mind:


Jeremy Melsha

blis and blitum (vool hurmonee mundate)

:::anguis calefaciebat uva satyri 
:::parva equus eam per rubo per caligo 
:::spissum sicut cervisia portantes 
:::hastas et curvum pugionibus oram 
:::ad forum de inferis

炅syn^ah*:::mazd˝ Germetitha Bindus
旦syn^ah*:::kalamindar KaNıN bardi
炅syn^ah*:::tetʰǽskʼɛn dió eRiNÇ drenis
時syn^ah*:::Tux-domæg eZeRÖTSZÁZeGY
旦syn^ah*:::disza ÜÇÜN GeRGeLYMeSTeR
炅syn^ah*:::CSINÁLTÁK zel'je KUL A
旦syn^ah*:::voh¨ zelas aπ≥™m bríloun
炅syn^ah*:::rhinos Euxeinos BİLMeDÜKÜGiN
旦syn^ah*:::bolinthos iszapos vahiπt™m
炅syn^ah*:::pouruuīm KIRKıZ: brytos
旦syn^ah*:::nænɛntʰǽsʊç felhúzott zhibut
炅syn^ah*:::pontos csettintett axsaena
旦syn^ah*:::iszákos KOVÁCS KILDIG bār
炅syn^ah*:::pouruuīm kinoboila Dug-dam-mei
旦syn^ah*:::khútra OGLuŊuN pera gyenge
炅syn^ah*:::para aTI BOLMaZUN thitha ÚRNaK
旦syn^ah*:::yā BaRDıG skárke natʰákʼə̃s csikk
炅syn^ah*:::ÜÇÜN tʰɛtɬʊç vaj xratūm ktistai
炅syn^ah*:::eDGÜG MÁTYáS bríza szivárgó
旦syn^ah*:::yāsā alopekis hervatag vīspə̄ṇg embades
炅syn^ah*:::ködös kamn˝n˝ TİKDiM ah delme
旦syn^ah*:::dinupula OGLuŊuN eÇİM yā dard
炅syn^ah*:::rafəδrahiiā zeira ahm nyög
旦syn^ah*:::BODuN vaŋhə̄uš TİYiN jətʰeɬtsˤʰosˤ
炅syn^ah*:::büdös OL: UÇA: visító aṣ̌ā
旦syn^ah*:::eSZTeNDŐBE reka ütődöttaspios
炅syn^ah*:::négy szemű minotaurusz fivérek megölték
旦syn^ah*:::ÍRNaK manaŋhō uruuānəm hiiā.
炅syn^ah*:::maniiə̄uš MÁTYáSMeSTeR bradh
旦syn^ah*:::qırım gə̄ušcā LT bryton BaRDI:
炅syn^ah*:::uruuānəm YOK: aS ciπ bolyhos
旦syn^ah*:::ustānazastō LY YaBLaKIŊıN: LY
炅syn^ah*:::naˇnaˇst˝r őrült Εὔξεινος
旦syn^ah*:::Crna ÖGüZÇE: zalmós mazd˝ KILDIG:
炅syn^ah*:::brutos brynchos nəmaŋhā Gomer BaRIGMA:
旦syn^ah*:::SZÜLeTéSéTÜL mazdā drakoina
炅syn^ah*:::Balaur lázas lusta ustānazastō
旦syn^ah*:::ast^ esvas nyirkos mal vend
炅syn^ah*:::szar manteia kuncogott IJ
旦syn^ah*:::KaGaN: skuia kormos dizos
炅syn^ah*:::őrült OL: š́iiaoϑanā YİRDE:
旦syn^ah*:::URI: titha KIZ: BeGLiK: BaŞLayU:
炅syn^ah*:::peron vödör bryttion bizonytalan
旦syn^ah*:::manaŋhō I TÜRÜK: skálmē nəmaŋhā.
炅syn^ah*:::limace jelentéktelen buljar kedvetlen bria
旦syn^ah*:::vīspə̄ṇg vaŋhə̄uš spəṇtahiiā A mazdā YaTDI:
炅syn^ah*:::ast véres KÜŊ: š́iiaoϑanā
旦syn^ah*:::germe unalmas JÁNOS csont
炅syn^ah*:::CSINÁLTáK rhomphaia KÜSİ:
旦syn^ah*:::fektetik a felesége Árpád a bika nyersbőr
炅syn^ah*:::génton G zetraía iŞiLiK:
旦syn^ah*:::kemos zira ahm^ strugure
炅syn^ah*:::kurva gə̄ušcā asbe robbanó yāsā
旦syn^ah*:::diza zelmis fás xṣ̌nəuuīṣ̌ā rafəδrahiiā
炅syn^ah*:::sica KaGaNıG: boltozatosak
旦syn^ah*:::maniiə̄uš KaŊıM: eSTYTáN
炅syn^ah*:::YÜGüRTİ: spinos FOGVÁN brânză
旦syn^ah*:::álcázott BaRDUK: xṣ̌nəuuīṣ̌ā
炅syn^ah*:::πόντος város-nak szaros
旦syn^ah*:::öröm-nek Te-ush-pa-a SÜŊÜKÜŊ:
炅syn^ah*:::ʔapələsˤ Duγda-maya asa BaLBaL:
旦syn^ah*:::moπuc˝ sinupyla deiza aṣ̌ā KaGaNıG:
炅syn^ah*:::anaˇπ kilóg torelle xratūm
旦syn^ah*:::zibythides beteges sīca
炅syn^ah*:::spəṇtahiiā mezēnai brisa
旦syn^ah*:::TaGÇA: ahiiā mendruta ragusha

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Friday, November 9, 2012


grotesque medium: fugue-a-lichtious, the harmonic, and the orders of diffraction as applied to language, imagery, emotion, history, geography, biology, labor, and being:

E=mc2 as Lacquered Masque

refuse the task of its queer math
no homogenizing principle can overcome
its exploding nature

Dark matter / energy is to physics
Contingency is to history


sense the harmonic and replicatory vibrations (armor)
attuned to the pelvic girdle

Sea Poseidon
not with a trident
but with a luminous pelvic tuning fork

that cyclopian basal vertegral fang
a tale

to exceed all notion

its lack-erred mask
its desiring symbol

is unknown
what is the desire at the root of the structure itself(?_)


what is the name
of that particular desire(?_)

Qualms Qua Recede
Qualms Qua Decree
Qualm Qua Recedes
Qualm Qua Decrees

The final X


a Minne of tar
to goo the russet rabbit

La Brea as Manichean

as social apotheosis

lava in continentment
its surface lavished
with wild code
and domesticated

Addict teasing Ohm

Fum bienstock))(&)*^

the wooden caterpillar clock is raring up
frozen, about to kookoo

blurrmgang blurrmgang blurrmgang

and then a little luminous green brain pops out
on a tongue
with a real caterpillar sitting on top of it
smoking a tiny hooka
which is the monitor
of a computer
with little people inside
pretending to be letters
lettrists, water molecules,

In the green wood, the green moose
In the red desert, the red nomad

crimson cotton
pouring from the mouth
like a rope ladder

instead of a drug savior riding a giant worm
in the desert

a little huntsman
riding a caterpillar
his hat somehow odd
like a moose snout

or maybe you see a moose snout caterpillar
or a caterpillar with moose antlers
ripples going through the fine spiky purple fur

maybe there's a transatlantic caterpillar
and these words are the sleeping car
Sherlock Holmes smoking a caterpillar pipe
is reading a novel
by Moriarty, It's called
_In the Deep Green Wood_

Green leafy zeppelins rise from the forest
Robin Hood yodels
swinging from a liana
where the zeppelin has its nipple

luminous green

like a sponge full of caterpillars
with lettrist hookamoose snouts

maybe the drug savior
has spiky purple fur
and moose horns

maybe Robin Hood
has a haircut like a friar
but hot pink

Maybe Robin Hood is Moriarty
Maybe Sherlock Holmes
is a Sphinx Moth

with caterpillar pipe antennae


Tar can Viking Crab of Tibet

2001 my throatbox crabvagina guitar axe shooting lava
add feathers to throat box
falcon attack throat box TAR CAN

this crab omellette is nice to you!
Vikings in the Old West of Turkey
did you know
that the Gemaldegalerie has taken down old masters
to show

a headless torso is sucking in
its own blond braided nipple hair

Andrew Wyeth in Turkey, A Tibetan Viking
carrying his TAR CAN
let us whip torso
Dorothea Tanning in OZ, man
carrying TAR CAN

what if Prometheus had had his own
inner pancreas falcon
to fight back!

TAR CAN Don't let Andrew Wyeth be eaten
by Zeus in the west of Turkey

O Wild hairy Crab singing Morricone' in Outerspace..
Your lefthanded nipple hair braid
is sucked into the void!

What a noise! lava laser into outer space!

Jogging With Roussel 2

In the nights that followed the discovery of the wall, several odd occurrences were to be recorded. On the night of November 11, 2012, Flora Crinis-Sane, a twenty-something fitness instructor at Ages Reticular Spa in Montmorency was jogging home backwards with her boyfriend, Mordan Konfians, an older gentleman she had met on the internet, whose small but elegant villa, she had recently been frequenting with some regularity due to the excellent swimming facilities which were far in excess of the village club in which she was employed. Upon nearing the gates of FERRINE, Mordan's villa, and still jogging back first and unknowingly looking out into the spaces above Locus Solus, both Flora and Mordan beheld a terrible vision. On the local radio, the next day, Flora described what could only be called a giant luminous grub-torque, with two heads, like an inverted Omega symbol hovering in the air over Locus Solus. Monsieur Konfians included more details: He mentioned that the grubs' heads were as golden trojan helmets, with vertical tentacular streaming elements like diaphanous undulatory ribbands composed of tiny luminous cubes, and there was a sound, like hundreds of thousands of ping pong balls falling on the exposed strings of innumerable abstracted pianos, "inside-out pianos" are the exact words M. Konfians produced. The DJ of the local news-show had brought in a local priest, a psychologist, and the Chief Prefect of Police. The priest mumbled only something like, "Dear me.." while the aged Alienist, a Doctor Angelo Marcenac, said something more curious, "Locus Solus has been the object of local mystery for over a century, and my predecessor Dr. Lucien Proin, even recorded a local variety of neurosis associated with the property in its youth, when the lively Canterel had been more of a prankster, and much more prone to latency and cryptic wit. Dr. Proin had called the local neurosis "Cantoralia".. The Prefect of Police was more pragmatic, and vowed to find out what the current status of the Villa Locus Solus was, and report back on the same program. He also said, that he knew for a fact, that the Villa had been sold in Summer of 1968, to a Parisian firm called Ispolzuette and Hernesque, Inc, ostensibly for the function of preserving the laboratory of Canterel for Museum studies. Flora then recounted a wonderful dream she had that night about ice skating on an enormous phonograph of black ice, and a sort of glorious music pouring from her entire body as she darted across the concentric frozen grooves. The priest then said sleepily, "I adore music," and the show was over.

Jogging With Roussel 1

It was thought that the large property at Montmorency had been sold sometime in the late 1940's when all external activity seems to have ceased, but recently, and overnight, it must be said, something changed at Locus Solus. Around the entire property of some 400+ acres, a mirrored black glass wall had appeared as if it had been conjured in a dream of Canterel himself. No visible gates or openings of any kind could be perceived, which left the townspeople both proud and vexed, and in a bit of a harumph. Was Canterel alive? Had the property been bought by the military? What exactly was going on?

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Dove and Sphere

Doing a little background research on some of the discrete elements, the words, of Raymond Roussel's _Locus Solus_ this morning.. At first I was forever trying to find the fictional episode of 'Den Rytter' which RR puts under the pen of the real Esaias Tegnér as being part of his rendering of Frithjof's saga, the pre-14th century Nordic saga of Iceland, but to no avail, none of the characters mentioned by Roussel are in the saga, as far as I could tell. But then I found something more interesting in the name of the supposed translator RR mentions as rendering this tale into French, the name of the fictional folklorist "Fayot-Roquensie".. 'Fayot' can mean bean, or bootlicker, in the common parlance, but if we go all the way back to the Greek "φάσηλος" (phasēlos) by way of the Larousse Dictionary, and even wiktionary, there is a bean meaning, as well as 'small boat', or skiff. Now this is sort of funny, as it ties in with the best lead I got on the meaning or way-to-read 'Roquensie' from a book on Jean-Paul Sarte's _ La Nausée_ which says that Roquentin, JPS' character's name comes from the same word, but which refers to a type "of old song made up of fragments of other old songs: a song of bizarre effect, with abrubt changes of rhythm, and full of comic surprises." This comes from a 19th century edition of the Larousse according to Carole Seymour-Jones, in her _A Dangerous Liaison: A Revelatory New Biography of Simone DeBeauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre_. The contemporary on-line edition of the Larousse only gives us Roquer, or croquet player, which isn't ruled out as a Rouselian association either! (by no means).. But looking further at these cognates, I happen to read a small analysis including an etymological reading of Sartre's use of Nausée, and the themes of travel and ships, nausea comes from an old Greek root naus, for ship.. SO, I guess my little daimon is telling me to put my syntaxis foot forward, and render a quaint finish.. CSJ's book, she says that JPS had meant _ La Nausée_ to have the texture of a comedy, this is from some letter or other to Simone DeBeauvoir, but there is also mention of JPS being influenced by a philosophy of contingency by a writer called "Kobra"..
So I guess this would be a writing of petit-contingencies..

Rousell's Folklorist's name might be rendered something like

Boot-licking bean boat sings a patchwork song (collagey)..

The wonderful thing about FR's tale is this Sphere of water that guards the sanctuary of birds with its shadow from the 11 brothers. In medieval numerology 11 is both the symbol of abstraction, and the monstrous, being the common place to jump from counting fingers into notation.. But their sister forgives them their greed and saves their life from the shadow of the water sphere, for they have debauched themselves and forgotten the magic word to dispel its power.. She drinks it from above.. 

I wonder what Peter Sloterdijk would make of that bubble?? Is it something like Cultural subjectivity from the inside is transparent, enclosing, and wholesome, 'sphere of water', but from the outside, unable to get it, it's shadow becomes death.. There are lessons in silly old songs from boot-licking beans.. I guess.. It just seems weird..

je le bien** weirdo?