Iris of the babbling brook Loquacia
A checkerboard pattern of climbing vines says ‘no, this is where it’s at, like it or not’, and in a moment without thought, we follow. There are vases of flowers and strange galleries in a house of shifting construction, there are bears riding bicycles in the streets of Toledo and a fountain of colored bubbles and passing eels of smoke of the aerial variety. There is not finality or sense, but there is beauty and music, here traveling on the Cheshire Pathway, between childhood Schizophrenia and an endless field of Rolls Royces. A blathering street preacher, one of the apocalyptical variety, not the manic ones, hands out tracts telling us that all that we do is Dada, all that we do is art, even just standing there cooking waffles. When in between other-dimensional alleyways, out on the high street or Broadway or Market Street or Main or the Mall, I spy a grizzled & three-footed bald eagle in a business suit – a Bartleby of the CEO suite, taking up a collection of Tamagotchi and Beanie Babies for the hungry needful houseless. I spy a fearsome child of wisdom holding court among a gaggle of congressman’s wives.
How unlike you to say so! I was never of a mind to take up with that old scrivener – when it comes to the many applications of a man’s tongue, he always preferred not. Looney, after all, far from the Chelsea crowd, far from Lovecraftian magicks, I prefer the symbol life, cut from the cloth of Acme. I take my graces behind veil and screen, a small comfort – not the green liqueur but the plasticky smoke – they speak to me, the young ones. Aloof from our own rat race… My son composes legislation on harpsichord, he is always going on about how, precisely, ‘here’ should really be defined – natural languages being slippery elms, they are. Yet on and about the Cathedral, the emptiness of the hackers there – a shot in the dark you say? Why how singular! How fine! I never thought of it! Just a simple lass beyond the Anna Liffey, I…..
A non-entity, Charles, I tell you. Neither a ghost nor a phantom nor a Hallucinatory Djinn. No one will mind that one’s reasoning. Unless, of course you can get Someone to voice it. A pretty penny Indeed, Indeed! But as to the byways of Ad Parnassum, cut from the cloth! The very fabric of deviousness, cheeky boy. I assure you, no one will mistake it for a logical basis in Faith. When they check through the ledgers, an Apple of Kallisti yes, but it is quite simply a beaver trick, paper mills & celluloid. Not a bit of it. Not a bit of it. Not a bit of it. I am well aware. But you know how it is, Maui or the Super Volcano. When the eggshells play chess, a nuked city is just a token of appreciation.
…..finally Iris was having a bit of Fun. At Last! At Long Long Last! No one took a bit of stardust for serious. Because Because Because Because I said so, now we may get into some bigger mischiefs under their noses. While the little ones chopped and screwed, a rat scampered up the off ramp carrying a Rubik’s Cube of Gӧedelian proportions. He took a left through the Quran, spelt sideways up Tiananmen Square, angled out through Principia Mathematica, and bolloxed up at Elysian Fields. A pit stop. Some cigarettes and noxious brews. The way out was through. The key was no key. Blankets beyond space-time lay the Jabberwock, but that is a matter for another ball of thread.
Hopskotch through the thicket, trick shot to the balloon factory, Marla wallooned Once Upon a Time. Time was, my children, no one knew a word of sense in Swinglish. They all pansied about, chasing the green tickets, believing in Landlords (I know, can you believe it! My children, it is a faery tale, have no monsters in your knickers), blasting holes in their skulls, and even sometimes in others. So in these days, there was a Catfish of the Cosmic Whale mechanics battering about the clouds, sending down vexes and guessings, caterwauling at all the lithe young dryads (Twinkling eyes full of mischief all, Knowing or Knotwise), and people bandied about lines and boxes, whose was straighter, points and graphs and arithmetics, whose was truer. Halfway to Sunday, the pack of them caught up with the wise Alexis of Doublecross, the man of many conspiracies. He lost them in a bush before they could start in at him with all their silly questions and difficulties. A one such as that had seen this movie before.
And? So about that, neither twitch nor twat. Back up the spinster and back down to the lathe. It will out, it will out, have no fear nor favor. It is all in the course of Æons. Not spattered or blustered – but still a little…. Tensegritous, I’d say. Check, yes. We’ve taken to it. It’s a redox. No but in the course. In
the course of shadow and spiderweb. In the course of Ninety-Nine and rebellion. We will! We will! It’s not! Oh, well then, mind yourself! [Click] What a pickwick! Susie, send in the next patient.
In about a Time before Texas. Don’t interrupt. Yes, precisely one Time before, not a decimal more or less. So there were undiscovered types of numbers. And uninvented sets of numbers. And unimagined species of integers. Listen and find out. The narrative is not yours to set my son, so no more questions. In this far off day came an anonymous persona. He carried the outlines of a variant map of the Real. He found it helpful and at times brought the pieces together for show and tell. And in this time there was also a flooded cave and a bounded world-line. Halfway through the Diamond Sutra, our persona shook up with a depersonalization mechanic. He quaffed and spat. Mindless of the passing river. And so in three rotations time fell in alongside The Endless
Photo by Ifrah Akhter on Unsplash
The excerpt / <meta name=”description” … > tag were generated by WordPress’ AI excerpt feature.
Lost in Mist 
3 thoughts on “Iris of the babbling brook Loquacia”