Elfin Antics

While Sleeping on Monday morning, the Eighteenth of January, 2005,

I Dream: I attend a No Underwear Party in a thickly forested neighbourhood bordering Lake Mendota. The streets have been 'walled off' to form a maze in which each street is a walled corridor leading to a walled park. Representatives from all Madison Community Co-ops are preening in their finest buff. I can't understand why I'm present at all, even less why I seem appropriately dressed for the affair: I arrive half-dressed, en route from a romantic picnic on a big sunny boulder. It's embarrrassing enough to be half nude, but my nude half was everything below a shirt which was just long enough to cover my doodle if I walked upright. But this is the perfect attire for the Game of the Evening: LIMBO. I look over to see people walking horizontally with their thighs thrust forward. Their upper bodies are thrown back so they don't bump their breasts on the pole. Some of the thicker fertile female thighs I look at in contemplation...until I'm wakened from my reverie by name-calling -- my own name, that is. The others all seem to have found ways of strapping their shirts or skirts or cut-out pants so as to hide their crotches. Now I'm in a jim-jam. I stoop down, yank off my socks, and tie each sock to one of my upper thighs wrapped in a scrunched up bit of my shirt.

I've not tested this in waking life, but even Mr Bean would struggle with this winkle cover. I'm obliged to any Readers who have tried this, waking or dreaming

I'm done with the party and have retired to my room. I hear little knocks at my door. Looking through the looksy-hole, I see an army of little people removing their tiddley shoes in front of my door. They know they are not allowed to enter my Lair-Den shod. Off all shoes must come and they know it. One or two of the Big People pop up as group guides, but then pitter-patter away downstairs. I stand hidden behind the door as I tilt it open in half welcome. Then I bounce back to my bed and wait, now stark naked, poised like a wolf. When the whole crowd get all the way into my room, I spring up and out of my covers with a "BOO!"
All twelve of them leap back in terror, bouncing as one body in panic out the door where they stand still as stones with crooned necks and gawping eyes. Like fertive squirrels, they measure and tip-toe their way down the stairs until every man jack of them is standing one landing below, staring up at me in astonishment. Everyone but their shoes! Many many wee wee shoes. . . . I gather them all up into my room and close the door part-way. Then, shoe by shoe and pair by pair, I spring back out the door. Each time, I place a shoe assiduously next to another shoe in a long straight line. I politely close the door, get another shoe. Softly open the door, then BOING! Gently open the door, then SPRING! I leap out with shoes. I place each shoe and shoe pair down fastidiously. Fast as a mongoose out the door, then slow as a buddhist I set a shoe down, while the tommyknockers gaze up at me maniacly. Fast out I go, slow down shoe goes. Fast out, slow down. Soon all the shoes stand in a row in the hall. Softly I foot it back to bed and sleep.

An Autumn-Hike with Bri-Tyke

20 October 2007

I raised myself perforce at Eleven, having nabbed three hours sleep. Felt...fair. Needed nod-naps a couple in the day. A bit wobbly in the legs, but otherwise could swagger up and down some stony wooded hills. Bri-Tyke and Paleo-Nate, we Two, left as a twosome in the woodsum, comrades cantering on El Campo. Venison, celeryleaf, broccleaf and coffy in hand, I joined Bri in the car-ride to Dewelsmere, the Lake of the Devil, near Bara-BOO! He'd a wish to walk trail-less parkland south of the south entry. We footed off and up, clambering over stick and stone, leaf and loam. Our poach-eyes darted, perked for edibles, and squirrel and deer. Right off I found worms and grubs and fed me gob. Just swallowed -- no need to chaw. Except for lichen and barberries (which barred and pricked our way till we went mad), the main 'food' I found was mushrooms, and dared not eat any. On a hollow beheaded oak, I found steepling heaps of oyster-shrooms. So I deduced, but feared the produce. In cloying clumps, they grew with high-arched gills in the armpits of oak-limbs, in the cradles of forks and furrows. Ate no bite nor wit of any 'Fun Guys'. I did munch a morsel of hard shelf fungus, believing fungal bookshelves of kinder kindred. I'd much have preferred a soft Fun Gal morsel, but found no morels, only poison belles. Moulds without morals.

I urged Brian southwest and downslope, admonishing that a lowland stream or bog would give lusher eats. Down and down doddered we, dodging Goblin Town. No snip snap Black Crack nicked us. Instead, a golden halo fell from fall heaven over the tops of big-boled oaks and maples. Incandescent Lórien light lit the leaves in the gap of the sky. We stood between sunlight and shade, engirdled by pale-lit tree girths, soughing boughs, falling crowns. Fall of woodland kings. Death and day rustled down the dryad rexes.

As far down as the land fell before skirting Beaver Pond, we crossed a windling creek, and Brian shore and whittled himself a [maple?] staff. Meanwhile, I'd crossed the crick again where it elbowed west and sat on a large log to chew on venison roasted in pumpkin and maple sap. Behind me rose quiet grey cliffs, walls wrought of boulders. I sat between sunbeams and cliff-shadow. Hornbeams grew at the water's edge.

Squirrel-Bri nibbled on his nuts and frittered away fruit from his bag, sultanas from his sack. He shared the munch - for me a nunch where I'd broken my fast with feral buckmeat, flesh from the stag.

Waywise Brian now led us south and up, where we swivelled around pointy patches of barb-bearing barberries, which battened me as I ate them. Their 'thirst-quenching' foliage I tested, mandibling the juicy leaves.

At hilltop, we found a road and camp, then fled the toys of civilization, turning tail downward again. We bore back full upon the boredrill berries. My hazehead made my legs sway some, and my words trailed off their trails. Gravity gave grace to my footfalls.

Nearing the entry drive below, Fox-Bri marked (as in noticed san urination) where a former road had long ago run downhill past the Beaver Pond and beside the remnants of a dwelling.

Peckish Brian now wanted food, and he looked for it like a falcon from the driver's seat. Prolonging our hunger, we popped in Delaneys flea-shop which had more odds than ends. We found much of this and none of that.

A commensal meal was had by all in Or-e-Gond, which some name Gond-or. One settler, faltering and faint, had not eaten for many days. A morsel of maple-sweet venison healed his hunger and mended his weakness. The folly of fasting!

The world's only made of wonders. -Nathan Paul Hillman

Memory of Memorial Day

29 October 2006

Came home to routh of grilled rother and plenty pork. Good feral feed. A tub of tater salad. Browsed for abandoned beer. Insipid stuff - ach! - to be had: Mickle Lob and Dud Wiser. Jerked my nose from the brackish wrack. Yuck dud ale. Bail it out! Save yourself! American tailgate runagate fun, synthetic patriots. Pfui! Better to be buzzed by barley wine. I let out for over a litre of the lush liquid - ten percent per volume of sweet swat. It purled down fine with meat and tatties.

Hans Ander-Sud Ander-Dud-sen, son!

Evoking October 9, 2006

Burden of work, gradelabour. Paper pile. Student stack. Slothspeed. Slugspeed. Snailswift. Grubslow. My quickneed impeded. My walking unipeded.

Wynless I work at UW Comm-B. Andersen Gander-Son. Andersen Pander-Son. Andersen MEANDER-Son. He hinders me, son! He hampers me, son!

Run Run Run Run Run Run Run

}}}OR{{{

Hans Ander-Sud Ander-Dud-sen, son!

Burden of work,
gradelabour.
Paper pile,
Student stack.
Slothspeed, Slugspeed.
Snailswift, Grubslow.
My quickneed impeded.
My walking unipeded.

Wynless I work at teaching Hans
Andersen Gander-Son.
Andersen Pander-Son.
Andersen MEANDER-Son.
He hinders me, son. He hampers me, son!
Run Run Run Run Run Run Run

I, Rook, Cook

I put my chef hand to the Cookery this Sunday past. I cooked for the Rookery, also known as the Inter Amicable Commune whose tenants are my inmates. I took German sourdough sunflower-seed rye-bread and fried it in butter till crisp. Next i thinly spread mango ginger apricot chutney upon each slice, on top of which went thin slivers of fried porkchop, flesh cooked in salt and ginger and butter. Atop the swine-cuts fell the snow of grated mozarella or parmesan cheese. The whole was heated in oven. Its gasey fire melted shavings of cheese till they cloyed. That was main course. One side dish I squeezed from the rinds of squashes, yellow, fiery, green and tan - about five different kinds, all scooped out of hot middles and blent with cheese and butter and pepper. It stirred into cheesey babyfood. A second side I knived into thin strips of stag's skin-muscle (used by deer to shiver or twitch), fried in butter and maple syrup. For dessert, i smelted butter with pure cacao meal, adding cream and honey and mango powder, to make a darksome darkling chocolate fudge, later laid into broad pan. The cacao-cake got all spiced with coriander and glossed with honey spill. I pressed banana circlets, fried in butter, besprinkled in mango dust, into the chocolate quadrant.

Conjugal Caniness Comes

In December I dreamt.
White sky on frost field,
Shadowtree on slumberspot,
dusk over lakota savannah. 

Watched and waited
under oak tree
on hunger hill -
Wanted bloodtooth. 
Then a great black wolf, a she-wolf, brought me food. 
Piece by piece, she fed me.
Loping, she-lupus came and went. 
Tossle-maned, raven-fell, tangle-thick, she lay near me. 
Side by side, we tore and ate.
She sought me, warmed me, braved me, outloped me. 
In night-dark, she shifted, stood up, wolf woman.
Thick black hair on whitesky skin.
Do not know her.
Never saw her.
I hope we share more carcasses.

Wombsea

When i was a little, i had a name for the faucet and flood which filled a hot bathtub while i sat in it: Birth Dreaming Death. What did i feel? A birth, a dream, a death. I'd taken the words from a George MacDonald fairy story. Today, September Twelfth, the breath of autumn blew me under a hot showerhead where I stood in a dreaming daze, almost hypnosis. What did i feel? Hypnotised by WHAT? No hypnotist ever encircled me. But this hot water swarms and wraps me. Waves of hot collide with the chill of Death, and whispers of comfort and stings of pleasure. I stand and sway, racked by surges of sating vulnerability, the nakedness of a newborn with skin exposed to February frost. What did i feel? My mother once folded me in the warmth of her feminine flesh. I was lost in love. I knew no other wind nor heat save her breath and skin. Once more, my body bleeds the truth, and Death and Birth kiss at the Chasm Lip. My blood is taken undersea, or through ice-air, or into fire. Clothless i slip into slicksea as age grows sage over my flesh. Hot chills and cool heat ride me to the brink. Gooseskin shivers in ancient conviction, vindicated by numinous awe. All my body is bare to the breadth and bulge of Wombsea.

Cogitations from the Hibernacle

DAILY TO-DO AND BRAINDEW

24 May 2005

Greasing the Slobgob

Slobgobbery does not stem from any innate antiloquence. Doddering dopewords like “the tabled agenda item from last week which we’re not interested in re-investing bio-fuel for the QTX430 anyway was you know um the research of myself and Jane as far as my update shows which we can wrap it up this way since it’s best if we just go ahead and just go get ahead on tonight’s agenda on what’s on the table” stem NOT from oral training but from an aurally/vocally a-verbal, creak-jawed society. The above quote lacks the assertive force of orally and communally habituated language. It stems from disjointed specialists with slobgob mouths mumbling what their brains supposedly surpass their tongues in. The discursive isolationists stumble and grope with something which has became unnatural to them – SPOKEN LANGUAGE. Pseudo-educated, media-gawking, text-goggling, fadhead ninnies drown in the slime of aphasia as their synapses spark them to make smarter commericial transactions than living relationships. Our own President spins in his own elliptical fits of verbal epilepsy.

Nor do such words have the honey of the nimble tongued illiterate; one well-greased mouth from Alabama asserted: “We’re gonna be shittin in high cotton.”


Ere Christmas, 2006

Yeast Yammers

Bipolar metabolism: Metabolic lull, then diabolic surge. Sheepwalk by Day. Wolfsleep ere Evenhunt. Drake-ire at Dusk-fire. Glare-stare at Gloaming. Effect compounded by fungal imps, yammering yeasts. Cheeky chitlings in the bowels.
Intox
Ethenol Ethers
Sillyhead
Slumberskull
Yeast yammer
Jimjammer.
Skipped lecture. Must sleep. To work at 3pm. Supervisor CH on me like a fruitbat. Fruity fruit-muncher. Batty batty in dee head, bonkers in dee bitty brain. I was nogginnoddin at work inbetween. Noddin a heavy noggin. Captioning inbetween. Iffy unspiffy Voice Recognizance.

}}}OR{{{

Bipolar metabolism: Metabolic lull, then diabolic surge.
Sheepwalk by Day. Wolfsleep ere Evenhunt.
Drake-ire at Dusk-fire. Glare-stare at Gloaming.
Effect compounded by intestinal tykes,
Fungal imps, yammering yeasts,
Cheeky chitlings in the bowels.
Intox.
Ethenol Ethers.
Sillyhead
Slumberskull
Yeast yammer
Jimjammer.
Slothspeed and Slugspeed,
Snailswift and Grubslow.
My quickneed impeded.
My walking unipeded.
Skipped lecture for sleep,
Headslaking slumber.
Wended to work at Three.
Supervisor on me like a fruitbat. Fruity fruit-muncher.
Batty batty in duh head all teeny,
bonkers in duh bitty brain.
I was nogginnodding at work inbetween.
Nodding a heavy noggin,
Captioning inbetween.
Decapitating call-floor coppers.
Incompetent computators –
Iffy unspiffy Voice Recognizance.


1 January 2007

Feast of Foreskin-Flaying

I’m not making that up that bit about foreskins. A Holy Circumcision [of Christ] is/was commemorated by Catholics on this day. It concludes the Feast of Fools, so far I know. I’m glad I’m already missing mine and needn’t reenact the ceremony.


3 January 2007

LS’s Brave New Brain

I praise LS’s and YG’s reductioninst feminism, their tendency to dismiss femininity and masculinity as nonbiological categories; their proclivity for dismissing works of art purely on the basis of the sexual orientation of the authors, or a single character’s standpoint within authors’ works. LS and YG are not the first to have done so, but their arguments penetrate with new sting.

So C. S. Lewis is a racist, as are Lewis’ horses, his Horse’s Boy, and all Narnians! In fact, the people Narnians most hate are Ottoman Turks!

‘Turkish’ Tashkent, for the geo-illiterate, lies southeast of Narnia in an evil Orient. Tashshshshshkent! Rolls off Attila’s tongue! Strange, then, to report that Narnians follow a ‘Turkish’ god (Turk. aslan = ‘lion’). As all educated, brainsexed readers know, all Narnians and Tashkentians relate to one another *only* on the basis of gender, race and language! Quite so. Bravo LS. A Brave New Brain you have.

We also know that Narnians abhor African monkeys (esp deified apes), and extend this loathing to any degenerate human faintly formed in apelikeness.

By way of contrast, Centaurs bleed pure Greek blood and oppose local women in leadership. However, White English Planet-Earth females, divinely favoured, may rule over Narnia as queens. Susan, Clives Staples, African Lions, Turkish Monkeys – Fagh! Those ree ree ree ree ree ree ... RACISTS! Those s s s s s s s s ... SEXISTS!

LS and YG well advise you not to read any works by C. S. Lewis, lest the central vein of his plots and messages wangle you to possess a subconsciously prejudiced mind, and tempt you toward...eugenics?

Could it be that Lewis’ fondness for Jewish women created in him a conflicting and latent anti-semitism?? Such a query could unlock Narnia’s most profound subtext.

LS and YG, having dodged all hyper-focus on nonfundamentals, and placed Power Hierarchies at the manipulative core of all human belief, society, art, and behaviour, are, in the flower of their polysexual youth, best suited to provide you the best possible guidance in the literary lands of Lewis. They vow to steer the reader clear from interpretations based on biodeterminism, malicious stereotypes, and dysfunctional victimization, mapping out (for the first time) Narnia’s transcultural, metaphysical topography.


March marches away, 2007

A Devil's Day

Cloud and mist stick. A smothery smeeth hangs thick on the world. False Spring. Devil’s Dew. I went out in the brew, sickle cycling my swath to work. Sweet and short – pulled a one-hour shift. That shifty devil’s hour had the moil and mishap of an entire day. My headphone set turned up missing (I borrowed my locker mate’s), then I sat stuck to a forty-minute call (Big Apple bawling) under cataracts of blatherspitten neuro-blab. Bombastic blubbering. Within ten minutes to quit, Call Takeover duty beckoned; I’d the fortune to decline and wait on the luck of my own headwires. A call caught me within a minute to punch-out, later relieved by a fellow Call Takeover victim. After clearing up a schedule request’s cross-fired instructions, I fled the building under pelting rain inside a black garbage sack I’d pinched from a break-room can. S. drove me to the Co-op where a Matterhorn of dishes met my duty, skyhigh during a Co-op party. The culprits did their damndest to serve only cheapest hard liquors, mixed in mut-bowls beyond recognition. Not a drop of goodly ale, wine, mead, cidre, or brackitt! I balk at the sweet bile hungrily swilled by boys and girls. LMacDonald’s devilled eggs mended much – gave S. a needed snack. The devil’s a chef among lesser fiends. After scullery slavery and ovarious bites, S. and I nestled in for _Michael Collins_ and mutually gnawed a lamb shank. She’s the first woman I’ve sunk teeth into one bone with! Mouth-millers mutually munching mutton. Meet teeth tearing the meat.

2 April 2007

A Break from Debauchville

After workday waned and went, my cycle hit a silent downtown. I pedalled in glee, not knowing why my haunts had been evacuated. Ah hah! Vernal Recess, the supposed repose. Eh, if none for them, then some for me! The noisy brats had blown town – their dustcloud at long last settled. I threw a party for myself. Cooked sardines in pure coconut fat with pablanos, garlic, pepper, basil, salt and limejuice squeezed from pulp and rind. Kale and arugula lay laced in tomato, avocado, peppers, vidalias, flax, sunflower seed, kelp, sageleaf and heavy cream cayenne dressing. An entrancing Transylvanian wine, Vampire, volubly enveloped my throttle; I canted out with Irish crack _P Stands for Paddy_ and _Follow Me Up to Carlow_. Cinediscs of Gothic film had arrived post haste. A gem sat waiting my viewing – _Two Faces of Dr Jekyll_ with Paul Massie, Dawn Addams and Christopher Lee.

Outside whined the winter winds, sixty degrees fallen from the former high. A blight to the buds. Food production plummets by the year. Droughts and floods increase. Dearth and death are rife. Rich ones rifle the poor. The money piles buy less and less. Capital’s decapitated. Starving hands clutch to currency’s ashes. Dollars to squalor. Members to embers. Nickels to pickles. Quarters to Morte ore. Dimes dust of time. Bills paper pills.

Ineffectual symbols to dull the symptoms of counterfeit health.

Malefactured capital manufactures everything but sustenance.


On Sarapatra’s Birthday, 2007

Thoughts on Gender Discord

I managed to unravel (unleash) a drama of female rage (x 3 ) for several weeks after entering the House via a firedoor when my keys were lost and nobody was around to let me in. Had then to sledgehammer open me own door and fix it after. A few people later (two weeks later) mistook and misreported the incidence as that of an intruder! All is now well, but my faith in feminine ‘equanimity’ (read sanity) weakens by the year. I believe my boyhood belief that “all women are angels” has at last with test of time been mostly disproven. I’m no longer certain that primarily men drive the eccentric (hyperbolic) wars, violence and punishments of world history. A fellow female co-oper at Ambrosia explained to me that the greatest hindrance to Woman, to her tranquility, is not Man ... but Woman. The polemic polarity of the sexes exacerbated by feminists only exists when the sexes abandon the best attributes of Masculinity and Femininity (complete in the godhead). Thus, the Woman takes on the hitherto checked-and-balanced ‘negative’ attributes of the Masculine – aggression, self-containment, assertiveness, competitiveness – while the Man seeks to find his denied serenity or domestic bliss through his passive Feminine withdrawal and recluse quietude, mixed with male mysogeny and irresponsibility. Feminine tenderness, empathy, trust, domesticity, compassion are less regarded, even scorned, by the feminist, while the better of the Masculine attributes (loyalty, equanimity, magnanimity, generative ambition) are equally neglected by the new, sexually amorphic Woman. People’s diets (low in animal fats and raw nutrition) further confound the harmony, disturbing sexual development and proper hormonal balance. Modern humans are much more likely to be too masculine or too feminine, and that regardless of biological gender. Homosexuality and ambisexuality, sound when subject to relational accountability in a society of sexual balance, may disproportionately increase under myriad dys-sexual influences and imperatives, further blurring the beauty of distinctions, and weakening the gender balance obtained by single individuals. The best blends of Masculinity and Femininity, whether in a mutally beneficent relationship or within a well-balanced individual, go extinct in the present polarity! Gender discord serves to promote the fiction that Masculine-Feminine are invented categories, and that biological trends are infinite, controllable, prerogatival, and individual. In such a world, neither Sex nor Gender have any use or reality, either as Myth, or as Body. If a Man (like myself) can possess and enjoy within himself a dose of feminine attributes, that’s only because his Maleness lives without shame, without ambivalence, and without margerine.

Ravencare

March Fifth, I dreamt. A raven reeled in front of me. Wore a neck-chain, blinked blue eyes. Startled, I started to swat. "Stop. She wants to feed you", says a voice. My arms sank. I opened my mouth. Quickfood sure-aimed shot from her beak. She fluttered and fanned, her wings fell feather warm on my naked neck.

The New Hypocrite

From G. K. Chesterton, What's Wrong with the World

"The old hypocrite . . . was a [person] whose aims were really worldly and practical, while he pretended that they were religious. The new hypocrite is one whose aims are really religious, while he pretends that they are worldly and practical. .... It is a fight of creeds masquerading as policies."


"The old tyrants invoked the past; the new tyrants will invoke the future. Evolution has produced the snail and the owl; evolution can produce a workman who wants no more space than a snail, and no more light than an owl."

"The modern mind is forced towards the future by a certain sense of fatigue, not unmixed with terror, with which it regards the past. .... The goad which drives it on thus eagerly is not an affectation for futurity. Futurity does not exist, because it is still future. Rather it is a fear of the past; a fear not merely of the evil in the past, but of the good in the past also. The brain breaks down under the unbearable virtue of [human]kind. There have been so many flaming faiths that we cannot hold; so many harsh heroisms that we cannot imitate; so many great efforts of monumental building or of military glory which seem to us at once sublime and pathetic. The future is a refuge from the fierce competition of our fore[bears]. The older generation, not the younger, is knocking at our door. The future is a blank wall on which [I] can write [my] name as large as [I] like. .... I can make the future as narrow as myself; the past is obliged to be as broad and turbulent as humanity."

"These colossal ruins are to the modern only enormous eyesores. He looks back along the valley of the past and sees a perspective of splendid but unfinished cities. They are unfinished, not always through enmity or accident, but often through fickleness, mental fatigue, and the lust for alien philosophies. We have not only left undone those things we ought to have done, but we have even left undone those things that we wanted to do."

"It is very currently suggested that the modern ... is the heir of all the ages, that he has got the good out of these successive human experiments. .... Is it really true that you and I are two starry towers built up of all the most towering visions of the past? Have we really fulfilled all the great historic ideals one after the other, from our naked ancestor who was brave enough to kill a mammoth with a stone knife, through the Greek citizen and the Christian saint to our own grandfather or great-grandfather, who may have been sabred by the Manchester Yeomanry or shot in the '48? Are we strong enough to spear mammoths, but now tender enough to spare them? Does the cosmos contain any mammoth that we have either speared or spared?"

"This is, first and foremost, what I mean by the narrowness of the new ideas, the limiting effect of the future. Our modern prophetic idealism is narrow because it has undergone a persistent process of elimination. .... The need here is a need of complete freedom for restoration as well as revolution."

"We often read nowadays of the valor or audacity with which some rebel attacks a hoary tyranny or an antiquated superstition. .... The really courageous [person] is he who defies tyrannies young as the morning and superstitions fresh as the first flowers. The only true free-thinker is he whose intellect is as much free from the future as from the past. He cares as little for what will be as for what has been; he cares only for what ought to be."

"There is one metaphor of which the moderns are very fond; they are always saying, 'You can't put the clock back.' The simple and obvious answer is 'You can.' A clock, being a piece of human construction, can be restored by the human finger to any figure or hour. In the same way society, being a piece of human construction, can be reconstructed upon any plan that has ever existed."