Genevieve: A Sketch of Five Trees by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Rufus said; “Insults will get you everywhere. Look at these. They’re random, spacey, lacking in clarity, and must

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expect that the reader is going to be wowed by pictures of one eye.”

“Ah, experimental like Burroughs, hopefully without the cut up experiment.”

Rufus interrupted to deadpan; “It’s there. Either that or some high level of incompetence; perhaps what is main stream reviewer orgasmic as artisanal bullshit.”

Pablo said; “At least it’s not one of those who equate piles of dead bodies with art.”

Rufus said; “Well, ........ “

Pablo said; “My sincere condolences.”

Two comics; property of the author.

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Rufus said; “It’s all right. Didn’t spend much time there.

Came back to this ‘Leary’ series. This later edition blends entirely with that French book. In fact, now that I’m staring at it, it’s as if the Leary aspect has remained right and decipherable, while the French part has disappeared into the confluence of psychedelic forms; almost kind of a reversal, like telling seriousness in humor and humor in seriousness.”

Pablo said; “Not exactly. It’s more like ‘Be on my side.

I’ll be on your side.’”

One damaged comic about two; property of the author.

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Rufus held up the damaged copy of “Thumper and the Chicken,” and said; ”’Gentleness her only need, so far beyond her reach, led her on an endless path of gentleness to teach.’

That was in this one and I liked it.”

Pablo said; “I have a surprise for you. I’ve been writing something myself. It’s actually the first time for me. I thought about it before, but was somehow inhibited. Try this and don’t get too snarky.”

Rufus took it and read.

“Prince”; property of the author.

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He couldn’t remember how he got there, but here he was alone, locked inside a tiny frigid metal cage in the dark. He was not aware of having committed any crime, being arrested, read his rights, having proper representation, standing a trial of his peers, being convicted, or sentenced. Rather than thinking of what he wasn’t, had he known the word, he could have described his situation in an affirmative manner using the term

“railroaded.” Scared and bewildered he let out a soft, crying yelp and heard the entreaty come back to him in seven echoes.

He could barely make out the other cages or their occupants as the early April, 2012 dawns’ first feeble light tried to filter through closed green blinds. But his vision was adequate to be reasonably certain that his fellow inmates were dogs, just like him. More intense scrutiny made it apparent that the others were not exactly just like him. Some were furry. Some had short hair. Some were larger. Some were smaller.

He had a unique coat that was deceptive to some. It appeared skimpy to the untrained eye, but it was thick enough to withstand extended sub-zero temperatures and a less than competent attempt at a bite. Its background was as white as fresh snow and seemed to almost “glow” in the night, making it impossible for him to hide anywhere other than in the bright sunshine. His randomly distributed black spots bore no deference to any other shade or color. They appeared throughout

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his strong, lean body and graceful, handsome head. He was a proud, one year old Dalmatian.

He was also a proud, one year old Dalmatian in severe trouble. He was a prisoner in a place where he and his fellow inmates were kept devoid of sanitary facilities and his keen sense of smell made him uncomfortably aware of this fact.

“Ooooooh boy,” he thought. “That tan boxer near me must be having stomach problems.” He looked at the culprit, who was lying flat on the base of his cage, head on his front paws and eyes impassively open, but seemingly far away, perhaps in a happier time. The placement of the cages got his attention.

All the others he could see were right next to and touching each other, but his was separated from the rest by a few feet. He concluded that whoever placed the cages, either considered him special or an outcast. Deciding that the latter was a more likely possibility, he thought; “So, they want to keep me away from everyone else. Do they? We’ll see about that!” He analyzed his cage door. He saw that what kept it closed was a silver metal catch, operated by a spring, accessed from the outside. He thought; “If I could just lift that thing a little.” He partially put his right paw through the cage wire and his long, hard claws were able to hook into the locking mechanism. “Just one strong pull and I’m out of here.”

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Not yet named Prince imprisoned; property of the author.

A noise at the front door got his attention and he curtailed his locksmith imitation. He heard metal rubbing on metal, a screech and with a whoomph the door flew open. In walked two busily chatting, female hominids. One of them pointed at him and said to the other, trailing woman; “That’s the one we got in last night. He’s been trained to fight, so we keep him away from the others.”

The middle-aged, minimally overweight, talking woman proceeded to a plastic laminated, faux wood-grained desk and dropped her bag and dirty pale orange quilted jacket. The other, a thin, smiling, older woman walked directly toward his cage and stopped a foot shy. She put her hands on her knees, leaned a bit forward, pushed her dangling, long gray, hair back, looked right at him and said in a childish voice; “Is this the new little terror?” He knew she was speaking to him, but he

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heard; “Izzutilror,” a word not yet in his vocabulary. He looked up at her kind face, opened his eyes widely and excitedly put his front paws up on the front of the cage and wagged his tail wildly.

Her companion, who was now opening wall cabinets behind the desk in order to retrieve dog food, answered; “Be careful, Marian. He’s strong, full of Dalmatian energy and he knows how to kill. He’s going to be a hard one to place.”

Marian walked away from him, pulled a cord downward and the blinds attached to the huge, east facing, picture window magically rose, allowing a full blast of pure sunshine to stream through the single room occupancy dungeon. It was as if spring had suddenly come to a desolate, cruel island. She walked back to his lonely prison and kept her eyes on the spotted dog, while she said; “Debby, are you sure he’s pure Dalmatian? It looks to me like he’s got some Lab in him. Look at the shape of his head. Dalmatians are more severely tapered.”

He thought; “Cut the chatter and get me out of here!”

While she poured dry food into plastic dishes, Debby said;

“That’s what the people who brought him in last night said. I don’t really know.”

Marian took a double-length chain leash from her light blue, quilted jacket pocket and chirped; “I’m going to take him for a walk.”

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He understood “walk” well enough and anxiously pawed at the closed door, while standing on his hind legs.

Debby liltingly replied; “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Marian said; “That’s ridiculous. He can’t sit in there forever.” She reached for the latch and asked; “What’s his name?”

Debby shrugged and sarcastically said; “Killer.”

Marian looked down at the anxious, tail wagging puppy and said; “I think I see the outline of a crown in the pattern of some of his spots. I’m going to call him Prince.”

Prince still didn’t know what all the conversation was about and his stomach was gurgling. “Please, please open the door before we’re both sorry.”

Debby said; “Okay, take him at your own peril. Just let me give him some food before you leave. At least this way he won’t be desperate to take off after any edible prey.”

Marian opened the latch and attached the double length chain to his deep blue, leather collar. Debby put a dish full of fresh vegetables on the floor near him. He was torn between his conflicting needs to escape, eat and relieve himself. He chose eating and wolfed down the contents of the bowl, then instinctively ran to the closest door. Marian had to take five

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long, quick steps to keep up, her right leash hand stretched to the maximum. She hoped it remained in its socket.

She stood with him at the door and reached down to pat his head, getting his attention. He looked up with big brown eyes, as if to say; “What’s wrong now?”

Marian touched his nose and said; “Prince.” He kept looking and she repeated the procedure. He liked the sound.

She opened the door and he bolted out of it, stopping near a close-by cottonwood tree, squatted and thought; “Whew, just made it.”

Now that he had eaten, answered nature’s call and was substantially free, Prince stood still and gazed at his new world. Marian began a steadily paced walk after he was through with his “business,” and as a result, Prince had to curtail his visual, wide ranging inspection of the great outdoors. To avoid being unpleasantly yanked by the collar, he bounded to get at Marian’s side, happy to be here with her. He raised his head and saw her hazel eyes concentrating not on him, but focused diligently on the road ahead. His feelings were momentarily hurt, but he acknowledged that pragmatism had its place on a road with no shortage of obstacles. He didn’t realize that he was ahead of most hominids in this regard.

They were on a thin dirt path in well-mowed grass, just beginning to display its first signs of seasonal greening. At

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times he was on the tiny trail created by other canine escapees from the “Rapidtown Humane Shelter,” and at times she was. In a very short time they reached a wider dirt path bordering a ditch, which contained slow moving, muddy water and they made a right turn. Prince desperately needed a drink and started to descend the bank. Marian remained on the higher ground, but stopped to allow him his requirement. He drank heartily, with his front paws in the edge mire and entertained the notion of getting totally soaked, but decided not to, at least not yet, only a few minutes since walk commencement. He glanced at the sun’s position, still so close to the eastern horizon and thought; “There’s still a long day ahead of me.”

Marian walking Prince; property of the author.

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He knew that he would have to shake off any water that was retained by his thick coat and might get some on her. The sunny April morning was warm enough for him to get wet, but Marian still needed a jacket and probably would not appreciate moisture on her unprotected face or blue denim pants. Warmer weather would steadily be coming and Prince didn’t want to risk offending his companion before the heat’s arrival.

He tried to elevate, but quickly discovered that the bank was steeper than his thirsty, non-inspection first indicated.

It was easy to go down, but impossible to get back up. He tried a few times, each one resulting in a quick slide back down.

With wide, worried eyes he looked up at Marian. She was watching his antics and also keeping an eye out for other dog-walkers. She was concerned that the little trained fighter might attack an unsuspecting human or canine approach. She tried to lead him away from his successful point of descent to a successful point of ascent, but he stubbornly stayed there and kept trying, despite messy failure after messy failure. After he was exhausted and hopeless, he followed her lead and soon came to a spot where the bank was more graduated. He easily climbed up and felt enormously relieved. He looked up at her face as she kindly laughed at him. As smart a dog as he thought

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he was, in a matter of minutes Marian, without speaking had gently taught him two big lessons. The first was; “Trust your companion.” And the second bit of previously unknown wisdom was that; “You don’t have to come up the same way you go down.”

They continued walking and Prince stayed on the path for the most part, but made frequent short excursions into the brush when his nostrils detected something of interest. Marian was glad to accommodate his willfulness.

Finished, Rufus stopped reading from Pablo’s manuscript and looked up. Pablo sheepishly said; “Well, that’s as far as I’ve gotten. Have any reaction?”

Rufus said; “It’s interesting so far. I’d like to read more to see where you’re going with this. At this point, all options seem open. This could never have been placed here in Poochville.

I like how you seem to be viewing Rapidtown as having some good aspects. Most only see the bad.”

Pablo said; “Thanks. It’s nice that you construe it that way and you ought to know best.”

Rufus said; “Sure thing. I’ve trying some poetry myself. It needs some fixing. But, do you wanna hear what I have so far?”

Pablo said; “Sure thing.”

Rufus said; “Here goes. ....... Just remember it still needs some work.”

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Pablo nodded.

Rufus read.

“Adavanada”

Pose the arrows

Two out of twelve

Every Tom, Dick, and Harry knows

That you’ve been reflecting

Verdecchio possessed yet conceded

And Mario governed like a rake

The stir in your windbreak

A dusting

On your egg cream

Flyer fallen from the mailbox

Numb bird in the snow

Horizon clear

Verizon veneer

A style no one wishes

To be with any more

They say

Do over the shot

Agit-prop

Blurred in contempt

Fade away and vegetate

Flower in sidewalk crack

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Quebecois home rule

Sign on the fence

She wants to be convinced

As words have five significants

Center unhinged

Vortex of pooches

Unleashed by the courts

First perform a hesitation

The dazzled insurgent

Chases the gash

And we just need

That provocation

It’s not what you think

Synesthete

Two aureolin

One black

Swallowtail

What else could it be

Persuasion?

Impetus

Adopted

Adapted

Adaptation

Retained/rejected

Adaptation

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Impetus

Adopted

Adapted

Adaptation

Retained/rejected

Adaptation

Start over

Swallowtail; property of the author.

”How was that? Keep in mind that it needs more work,”

mumbled Rufus in speedy staccato, suddenly seeming more shy than ever with his head down and then more bold than ever with it up.

Pablo stumbled over something which wasn’t there. Before he could find the decorous clandestine words for his unknown and

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tentative complement, both he and Rufus were distracted from their ubiquitously hidden chorus. It was a cat!

They had not previously seen the kitten, but there it was, back against the wall. It was warily, but staunchly reaching out for something.

Sneaky cat; property of the author.

Apparently forgetting whatever fear it might have had, the defenseless kitten reached out, not knowing to what.

Pablo said; “How did you sneak in here Sunshine?”

The kitten said; “Puff-Puff. Don’t you know?”

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Aureolin Quinta Sole- 9

Genevieve and Dillon departed or escaped from the legal limits of Hominidville without a physical scar, a meta version of one, or even a minor case of nasal congestion. There was no exit or you-have-just-left sort of sign on the outskirts to establish the precise boundary; but they knew they had survived their potentially treacherous, visual and pooch-enhanced-olfactory ordeal when the belching cars faded into the distance.

They had no more need to continue with their “safety trespassing” and without an exchanged word, both instinctively and in an Athenian chorus hopped the lowest rail of the easy fence, and were again back onto the main road.

Another sign appeared which said; “Welcome to Adavanada.”

Street sign; property of the author.

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The wind was still howling, but had at least one positive aspect. Fortunately for them it carried the auto fumes in the other direction. The whole thing was merely snow and sleet short of entirely outrageous in both senses of the term. Genevieve and Dillon staunchly braced, as if any attempt to stand upright would result in a fall back. They then saw that the gale was emanating from what looked like an oversized cannon and they were heading straight for it. The area it’s discharge covered widened with distance from the source, thereby being smaller and smaller, though increasingly intense, the closer they came.

Being rather intelligent pooches, they instinctively and simultaneously stepped to the left, thereby getting out of the line of wind fire. Now undisturbed, they continued to approach this boorish, continuous squall burping machine. They came in on a roundabout path of their own design, essentially circling the rude windbag, and purposely getting behind it.

Suddenly, it was 1961 and Audrey Hepburn must have been breakfasting at Capote’s Tiffany.

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Moon river and “Moon River” by Henry Mancini; property of the author, the latter under both the

“fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

They eventually got near the cold, unattended, flatulence machine and saw that the thing which resembled a triggerless immense gun really wasn’t doing anything other than just sitting there, doing a good job of attempting to appear ominous.

Genevieve and Dillon were still in the blustering storm. In fact they were increasingly so, as the wind, which they were now experiencing on an intensified level, was coming from somewhere

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behind the undamaging “weapon.” The cannon looked a bit silly, as the trajectory indicated by its barrel seemed to be one which would go beyond not only the earth, but also the cradle of the full moon’s dancing reflection, though it might have been making a mathematically based adjustment for the wind and the curvature of the earth. The full moon was merrily playing its “Amazing Grace” upon the night shade.

Cannon; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, extremely modified.

Just in case it had some surreptitious way of making wind, they looked for the off button. This was difficult with only the blocked light of the full moon as a guide. In that Genevieve and Dillon were standing and poking around at the seemingly useless and dysfunctional cannon’s rear, where any sort of controls

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would most likely be, they were temporarily on the dark side of the moon.

Dillon said; “You see anything?”

Genevieve said; “No.”

Dillon said; “Maybe if we rub our paws all over it, we’ll hit something.”

Genevieve said; “Go ahead. I’ll watch you while I look for the frostbite kit.”

Dillon said; “On second thought ....... “

They both stood there for a few seconds and stared at the oddball, yet seemingly docile machine. It didn’t look like anything more ominous than a decaying antique piece of black metal the hominids dragged all over Europe during their World War I. In its ancient time, that was indeed not entirely innocuous, but its damage potential, in conventional battlefields, was a far cry from the subsequent hominid explosive “advancements” used in their modern, technologically solid state brand of warfare.

Dillon said; “Well, we’re here. Got any ideas about what we’re supposed to do now?”

Genevieve said; “Yes. Obviously shut this cold wind off.”

Dillon said; “Umm hmm. Yes, indeed. Excellent idea.

........ Er, maybe just temper it somewhat.”

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Genevieve said; “Yes, I know. Often the particulars become somewhat difficult.”

Dillon’s face showed an uncontainable, obvious degree of mirth. What Genevieve said was funny in one sense, though it was also not funny in another, making it even funnier from a tertiary vantage point; especially when one considers the strong possibility that these circumstances and words attendant thereto may have merely been the result of a fleeting dream dreamed by either, both, or neither, or a nightmare nightmared by either, both or neither; the latter seeming more likely in their immediate estimation of present in the protrusion presented personal case as their conversation seemed to indicate both being on the same page, but which also seemed somewhat deceptive and also instantaneous to the duo, both being on that same page; and of the probable sort wherein most likely, when one wakes up there is about a 99.99% or better chance that there will be no memory of this event or illusion; which makes it even funnier in the sense that scholars are just beginning to deal with fourth dimensional theory, mathematics, and the whole string of derivative postulations seemingly similar in other disciplines, resulting in another hybrid or learned equivocation; which is further funny because they take themselves and their theories so, so seriously, despite the fact that their conclusions collectively change whenever one of them “discovers” an

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instrument which provides a bit more clarity than its predecessor, which is funny in the “Much Ado Over Nothing”

sense. This could go on, but if we laugh any more, we will forget to eat, and likely die; which is funny in that ......

“Just stop it right now,” Dillon thought “or else this elongated and inconsequential charade goes on your permanent record. The funniest thing is that neither of us is even grinning any more.

This nonsense has run its full course,” which struck both of them as funny as Dillon apparently did not realize until it was over that he was speaking out loud rather than having an internal monologue, at which point Genevieve now had surmised Dillon’s exact degree of embarrassment from the Basil-Fawlty-look-to-the-extreme-left state of the pupils in his eyes.

Well, perhaps not exact; but reasonably close.

Undeterred and actually encouraged for one of those guy-girl reasons one can only understand through the process of osmosis, Dillon said; “Come on. Let’s keep going. We didn’t come this far to have some bogus relic stop us.”

Genevieve’s osmosis functioned well. She smiled and nodded, perhaps just a tad too politely. She and Dillon walked side by side right into the strongest wind they had yet encountered. The funny thing was that taken head on, it really didn’t amount to all that much. Perhaps the worst part was that it was as if they had been inconvenienced by the necessity of being careful not to

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step on each other’s paws as a result of having to stay close to each other on mutual bad hair days.

As they kept on going north, the terrain took on colors ranging from an understandable pastel peach, to the more nuanced shades of purple; that ranging from electric to pale; to the irrational spurts of fern to moss green; to name just a few, though that being the preponderance of territory unmeasured by scientific standards through the current of lasers still hobbled by curved surfaces. At the same time the sky seemed to have lost any of its moon “radiance” and for the most part settled into an un-illuminating grayish, multi-hued series of seemingly accidentally, incomplete streaks, which matched the drabbest sections of the earth. In a sense, everything other than Genevieve and Dillon, had become a drearily colored incompletion strongly insinuating imperfection when evaluated solely through imperfection of ocular capabilities.

The wind got stronger and more concentrated in its narrowed passageway. At that challenging moment, Genevieve and Dylan simultaneously saw the machine. By most standards, it was pretty ugly, even less attractive than the rotting corpse of a color coordinated refrigerator, improperly dumped in 1959.

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Wind machine; property of the author.

A close up view did not improve matters. It was basically a double headed fan with a screen at its rear, and a grating below, ostensibly there for waste disposal or self-burial; the difference, if any, the potential subject of graduate hominid dissertations, allegedly lethal to those not blessed with the magic bullet, sometimes vulgarly referred to as bullshit immunity.

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Close up of wind machine; property of the author.

Genevieve and Dillon circled it, using the same procedure they had utilized with the cannon. They were now out of the wind, but they were also behind the thing’s screen, and were therefore blocked from easily accessing it.

Genevieve said; “It would seem as such, as we’re now out of the wind. But, this little thing just doesn’t look like it can be causing all the commotion.”

Dillon shrugged and replied; “One wouldn’t think so. But, things are all right behind it and problematic in front of its blustering. I don’t know. If we can get to it through this screen, maybe we can shut it off, and see what happens then.”

Genevieve said; “Wait, wait. This might be more dangerous than it appears. No one is around, but this thing didn’t get

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here all by itself. Someone brought it and that someone may be watching us right now.”

Dillon said; “So let them watch. This is what we came here to do. It’s stupid to stop now.”

Genevieve had no argument, be it counter or equivocal; pedantic issue, or further nuance. She widened her eyes, turning slightly to her left. Through some minor pupil maneuver, she looked into Dillon’s eyes. She defied linguistics of the bookish form and amorously pounced on Dillon.

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Maya Blue Dyad Layer-9

“Hi, again. Genevieve. I’ve bees ‘saving it up’ for a while now; at least it felt that way. So this is going to go on a bit.

Not on the book per se this time. It’s just that the adventure is now going at breakneck speed and I thought it a good idea to say this to slow it down a bit. Savor it, so to speak. ......

Well, maybe this is about the book, but probably not. Bottom line, no matter what I say if you are entertained by books about talking and dreaming pooches, you’ll knock yourself out with this one. If not, you’ll find something else. Whatever. Nobody cares except the writer’s bank account. Personally, I thought that the first one, ‘Genevieve and Her First Fuss’ was the best of the bunch. In this one, that hominid writing poseur is getting kind of mock-po-mo-cutesy, but that’s still po-mo.

.............. Or maybe that was me. Whatever.

At this particular juncture I’d like the readers to also know that my inclusion of this personal essay here has nothing at all to do with the merits or faults of the hominid writer guy, as opposed to the book. I merely felt that since this book is primarily about me, that I have that right and sometimes fine distinctions are useful.

Up until the advent of this book I had not written one word. Not one, either creatively fictional or as an account of

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any alleged set of facts. Nada. None. Zero. Nothing. Not any.

Not a bit. Not an iota. Not even a hint. Comprende? Of course, as it is now virtually mandated, I have written a few necessaries on the web. That internet may well be more insidious than anyone else imagines, as my previous totally unconscious rejection of words is now broken, and I may be currently getting to like that. As some say; ‘The first shot is always free.’

Pre-1860 B.S., that Hegellian/Heideggerian, ‘fun guys’ duo, complicit in a rhapsodic ‘experience’ of the alphabet, anecdotal

‘evidence’ of adventure consequently aside, lesser beings like we pooches, can still not comprehend the lexicologically induced pretense of rapture ‘experienced’ through a static, flatulent dosage of Gass. It is sad to contemplate hominid, post-modern literature as one which defines itself as definition immune; the apparent immunity to the recognition of obvious, simple, canon contradiction on the most basic of levels. Jeez, nuff said. If they asked me, I think I could write a book.

In an idle moment I made the mistake of doing some reading about writing. Yeah, should have known right after that boring thought came by way of Job. The lexicologically learned book lovers, if that’s not a multiple oxymoron, utilize code words to warn each other about the scores of bullshit to soon follow when they start using those meaningless phrases like ‘theory of the

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novel’ or ‘identity crisis.’ Right? Anyway, get a load of some of what I read.

‘It is not just the content of writing which evokes an integrative, personally illuminating, growing, or expansive effect. It is the process itself. Writing involves an interplay between the personal consciousness and its attendant subconconciousness; what some have simplified or complicated to the ‘I’ and the ‘me.’ When one writes something, the active part of the self is engaged, and when one re-reads it the object part of the self is employed. This usually results in a revision, which involves the acting part of the self. The conversation between the ‘I’ and the ‘me’ is what consciousness is about.’

Please ignore the seemingly obvious discrepancy in the aforementioned. Or don’t. It’s up to you.

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Genevieve property of the author

‘It is at the core of how the self develops and grows.

Therefore writing promotes the development of the self because seeing what one has written and responding to it makes one aware of what one is thinking and feeling and engages one in their own internal process.’

Sheesh. Please remove fingers from throats. You might swallow them. Despite evidence to the contrary which would convince a jury sworn to the ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’

standard, the mouse still has hopes of roaring. Isn’t that nice and cute? F. Scott Fitzgerald might take exception. And Zelda?

Forget about it. Anyway, I think that’s a reasonable joint paraphrase of what ‘Psychology Today,’ Dr. Phil, Oprah, new age

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literature and various other antiquated sources would have one believe. Some inconsequential Goodreads ‘writer,’ if that’s not a tediously redundant phrase, said that too.

Sounds like a lot of uninteresting hooey to me, if you get my drift. Obviously, some hominids have too much time on their hands, accompanied by too little personal contact.

If I might pretend to take this seriously for one moment, on one level the I-me-self is just another secularly based, deficiently un-manifested form of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. You may as well go to church and consequently read a better book. Is this ‘meta’ abstractive ‘experience a ‘real’

experience? Of course not. Otherwise they would not call it by two different names, silly.

The weakest po-mo, meta arguments proffered, ultimately insist on a lack of dualities, though those same dualities quite obviously abound, occasionally even noted by the most astute of po-mo charlatans or idiots, and are ceaselessly inundated upon those blessed with the gift of eyesight, if that vision is not made vulnerable through the constraining possession of any other forms of senses. If I wanted to be nasty I could accurately point out that in the world of literature, post-modern equals post-menopausal. But, I am a polite pooch and will not risk defaming my reputation to demonstrate a fantastic grasp of the obvious.

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The proponents would also indirectly, yet also obviously, insofar as they have ever entertained that degree of confidence, say that po-mo or po-po-mo, or no matter how many po’s one chooses to precede the mo, is also suggestive of an ecstatically envisioned eternal life. However, this ‘bliss’ is of the variety which no one with a functional body or right mind would freely choose. Po-po’s, ad infinitum, come closest to defining their rapture as something greatly akin to, the joy of sitting on a sofa alone, and reading a supposedly exquisitely worded, fat and pointless book, full of the writer’s opinions about whatever pops into his mind.

To each their own, but to me boring, boring, and boring, boring. If that’s what heaven or eternity is, I’ll pass on it for now, and take my chances in the other place. Thank you very much.

Yet, if their or my thoughts have no relevance whatsoever, why am I taking the trouble to comment on it at all? ......

After all, this is a book about pooch dreams. Personal need to fill time at the kindest and personal mental imbalance at the other end of the spectrum, I guess, if I don’t soon find a thought or dream capable of expanding those parameters. This considered possibility is most asinine as I’ve already coped with a near lifetime of ....... of ......... of .........

tranquility?

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Errr, maybe this book is not really about pooch dreams.

Maybe it may not even be about dreams at all. I was fascinated with that Australian Aborigine movie with Richard Chamberlain;

“The Last Wave.” ........ That kind of doesn’t matter. That’s difficult to explain. It’s like you’re standing there with a loaded Derrida gun in your hands, if you can find one, tee hee, sorry, pardon me, and you just know what it is or you’ll never know, even ‘aided’ with all the explaining in a Derrida book.

The signifier signifies a circle, and you’re right back where you started. Tee hee. Sorry.

Off me or you, and back to the po-mowers; for one thing, the more the meta ‘realists’ speak or convey in blurb format, the more they make their position more ridiculous. Not alone in this one, they say that no one had any intelligence until words were invented. Conceptualizations and pictures don’t count for them. At the very least, that is a confession of blindness and a personally contradictory confession to not understanding their own cherished, and insisted upon abstraction. And if writing is required to induce thinking, we better get pencil and paper in everyone’s hands at all times. And if that’s true, how did it start? If no one was thinking about writing, or anything else according to these writing enthusiasts, how did anyone ever think of starting to write? I ask you. There were no pencils and no paper at one time; yet to believe the pundits one would have

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to conclude that those non-writing and therefore non-thinking beings thought up pencil and paper and then started to use the pencil, which by the way may not have been very sharp as there were certainly no sharpeners, to scribble on the paper.

Fat chance that happened. More likely some guy had a to-do with his girlfriend, resulting in her not speaking to him anymore. So, he, not being one of those clubbing Neanderthals, figured that he’d write her a letter, using something which leaves a mark on slivers of wood he had just accidentally created through use of the plane intended to make nice walls for her house.

He was really pretty slick, as he knew that women read all the fiction they can get their hands on; whereas guys stick mostly with the supposedly non-fiction stuff; and do that to a lesser extent, if that makes any sense.

Rather than any great exercise in spiritual self-discovery, the guy probably noticed that the woman he sent this letter to wasn’t exactly discreet about it; as pretty soon he started getting these knowing, flirtatious responses from her female friends. He couldn’t have been 100% certain; but what the hey?

It seemed as if his writing got him his girlfriend back as well as a slew of other back-up opportunities. So, being the bright person he is, he started writing loads of stuff. I’m not sure of

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this, but it makes a lot more sense this way than that self-discovery/growth crapola.

Though I definitely favor the physically real side of the argument, if it were my job I could make a case for the other too; as for meaningful compensation I can pretend. But frankly and perhaps more importantly this dream seems real enough to me.

One cannot know for sure until it ends, if it does.

So, where was I? Or where am I? Tell you one thing; it’s not in any book. ‘Sure’ you sarcastically say; ‘These books are about you.’ To that, I say; ‘Au contraire. These books have me as a character as depicted by someone who does not fully know me. Indeed, in this case I endeavored to supply appropriate clarifications. But, who can put the story of a lifetime in 200

pages?’

It’s just a book intended for user entertainment and writer profit. I expect to soon be engaging an attorney, just after the nice feeling provided by the flattering way this thieving hominid writer depicted me wears off.

In the meantime, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do next.

I’m going to continue to write right in this hominid’s book that I amorously pounced right on Dillon, no matter how many times the hominid writes it before I get to it. That Dillon can be so coyly aloof sometimes.

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And while I’m on the subject, sex without love is like a heroin addiction. The required shot levels keep escalating and quickly move the addict to a goal of maintenance rather than pleasure. Sex is much better in the context of a loving relationship. How I know that is none of your business. And now let me get off on the subject, as when raised it just disproportionately distracts everyone from the many other nice things around. ...... Was that subliminal? I don’t know and I don’t care.

Sorry. Rudeness was not intended. Or maybe it was. More importantly, I was going to sign off. But, I must be weak willed as I just can’t resist this. Ostensibly on the subject of writing, after going through the consciousness- unconsciousness communication leading to Revelation, this po-mo, Goodreads writer hominid added some questions and I’d like to offer him my assistance.

‘1) Is there a point in me or anyone still doing it?

2) Why don’t I know how it works yet?

3) Is there anything I’m doing that is holding me back from improving, hampering my opportunities to get published and/or making what I write a complete waste of a reader’s time? Reading this book, I’m not sure that the authors themselves would be any firmer in their convictions regarding these issues. They were called to write and they answered. Years ago, I was called too.’

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1) Whatever turns you or them on, bubby.

2) Perhaps, because you keep it in your head?

3) I don’t intend or have the time to fill 1,666 pages.

The best ones are chosen.

Ciao.

Pounce.”

Wicked witch property of the author.

I think I’m in Oz, though not sure how I got there or if I have the right part. Still, it’s more than okay right now.

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Rose Tinted Triptych Glass- 4

Current Pacific Lane Mementos

A button had been pushed.

Sky 1; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Sky 2; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

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Sky 3; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Sky 4; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

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Sky 5; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Roxy spaced, landed, and apparently decided to return to space.

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Sky 6 and “Strictly Confidential” written by Bryan Ferry; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Maureen’s customized booting show ended. The brief jingle, reminiscent of severely abbreviated ancient ice cream trucks marked it well, and welcomed her to her home page, which appeared to present more options than were actually available; thusly:

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Screen shot; property of the author.

In the most unrealest of times known to Google, IBM, Facebook, Apple, Microsoft or even AlphaGo, him or herself, back home on Poochville’s Pacific Lane, Maureen sat in front of her laptop screen. Much practice had made her exemplary in the subject of screens. It was imperfectly reminiscent of a re-incarnation of Madame Psychosis, also known as Joelle Van Dyne, also known as whatever private conversations rendered and private thoughts hid. One thing seemed certain; P.G.O.A.T. was about a goat despite the faux surreptitious use of caps and occasional periods.

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Maureen; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Blondie was on the tube again; the whole group; not just Ms. Deborah Harry; perhaps ostensibly or “rumored to be” as the compelling visuals were the art of blank television sets, if one were not a participant in the rendition of a James Woods depiction of a petit bourgeois Max Renn by way of a repellant Cronenberg fantasy some nondescript, wallet heavy, “art patron”

paid to be filmed for your pizza chunks as well as your

“edification.”

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Televisions and “Fade Away and Radiate” written by Chris Stein; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Though at one time it was a favorite, Maureen was no longer entertained by her hundredth time and not counting journey through the glorification of predominately abstract and infinitesimal levels of radiation. She departed the net and went

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to her own files of pictures. Her FRACTALS! It wasn’t a matter of them having recently conceptually attained some established place in the commercial art market; for Maureen it was merely a matter of her being interested in essences, cores, and pretty pictures. There seemed to be a contradiction somewhere in there and Maureen was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery.

She proceeded to flip through some of her recent reductions.

Fractal 1; property of the author.

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Fractal 2; property of the author.

Fractal 3; property of the author.

Fractal 4; property of the author.

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Fractal 5; property of the author.

Fractal 6; property of the author.

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Fractal 7; property of the author.

Fractal 7, further reduced; property of the author.

Maureen took somewhat of a break from her fractals, as #7

was reminiscent of Cronenberg. The smaller it got, the uglier it looked.

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Suddenly it was the summer of 1969, and the Jefferson Airplane did “White Rabbit,” at Woodstock, hookah and all.

White rabbit and “White Rabbit” by Grace Slick property of the author, the latter under both the

“fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

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An encore ensued.

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Bear and “Bear Melt” by Casady, Dryden, Kantner, and Slick; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Maureen opened “Deadly Compromises” to the book’s middle.

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Cover of “Deadly Compromises”; property of the author.

“I trust you. Let’s not split yet. I know a movie theatre five miles away that plays old films. Let’s go sit in the dark for a while.”

“Anywhere with you is great with me. I like old movies anyway. I might fall asleep, though.”

They took her Mercedes and she drove silently to the appointed spot. They parked in the small dirt lot, which looked as if it had not been maintained or repaired for some time. It contained no other cars. They saw the plastic lettered marquee indicating that “All That Heaven and Earth Allow” was playing.

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Neither of them knew the film. As they walked to the ticket booth they noticed that the stills were in black and white.

Bobby said; “The title suggests that this is going to be a long one.”

Kelly looked at him, with a bit of an incredulous posture and deadpanned; “Not if it had a good editor.”

The ticket booth was empty when they got there, so they walked right inside. They shuffled around the lobby looking at the stills on the wall, keeping an eye out for help. When none came in a few minutes, they decided to walk right in. As he was opening the door a woman of about sixty entered the lobby from another door, trailed by a man of similar age. She had long gray hair and dressed younger than her years. His countenance was more of a disheveled acquiescence to his time, wearing proper attire that was maintained as well as the parking lot.

He also had long gray hair, though much of the middle was now missing. He seemed somber. The old woman smiled at the venturesome couple and said; “It’s already started, so go right in and enjoy it.”

Kelly said; “We really should pay you something, shouldn’t we?”

The older woman replied; “No. It’s already playing and it’s too much trouble for me to start handling money right now.

We’ve got other things to do.” She looked at her companion and

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smiled. He silently followed her out through the same door previously used as the entry.

Bobby and Kelly simultaneously said “Thanks” and continued through the door which led to the screening room. No one else seemed to be there, though they couldn’t be sure in the dark.

He followed her down the center aisle to furry seats about 10

rows from the screen, right in the middle of it.

The movie was at a point where the actions and dialogue made no sense to them. If there were any way to succinctly describe what they saw and heard, it would probably be worry, combat and randomness, with no obvious logic. They leaned heads and shoulders against each other and quickly fell asleep.

They woke up to a crescendo of classical music, apparently the end. Still half asleep they watched the two lovers on the screen hold each other. As it was early in their awakening, they could have been wrong, but visually, it seemed that the two screen characters merged. He became her and she him. Kelly and Bobby both had the same thought. The merger could be an illusion caused by their dreary state, but they would have bet their lives, that at the very least, her eyes became his and vice-versa.

The movie did end right there and the two stood up to leave. Each knew the thoughts of the other, so they exchanged questioning and knowing looks as they walked. Neither knew the

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right thing to say and didn’t want to ruin the mood. They slowly walked back to her car, the bright sun shocking them back to the reality of the moment.

Bobby said; “You’ve got the plan nailed down, right?”

She nodded yes in a subdued, but confident manner, her mind still partially in the theatre. She silently drove him back to the motel, slowly regaining 100% focus on the anticipated event of the evening. When she pulled into a parking space in front of his room, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. For some reason he was concerned about her and gently said, “Are you all right?”

She said; “I’m good. This hasn’t been a bad day, even after the rocky start you caused.”

He touched her hand gently.

Silence persisted for a few minutes while she continued to drive.

He said; “Where are you taking me?”

“Some hotel on the outskirts probably.”

“Great. We’ll turn the heat all the way up and get all our clothes off for a change.”

“I’m not sure I’ll feel all that comfortable in some strange hotel.”

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“Someone once told me that the problem with life is that you have to do everything before you’re prepared. If you wait until you are fully prepared, the time has passed.”

“I’ll have to ponder that one someday.”

“With your clothes off.”

She drove another quiet quarter hour.

She said; “You know I’m not 21 anymore.”

“Neither am I. So what?”

“It’s tougher on women. All the near naked bodies you see on television are under thirty.”

“I’ve watched a lot of European films. Over there it’s not unusual to have a leading lady aged fifty to seventy.”

“Seventy?”

“Yeah, Giulieta Massina, in a Fellini film called “Ginger and Fred. ” Besides, it’s not your body I love, I love you.”

“You don’t love my body?”

“Are you trying to be difficult at the last minute?”

“No.”

“I do love what I’ve seen of your body. What I’m trying to say is that it wouldn’t matter to me if you weighed 250 pounds and had surgical scars all over. Don’t you get it? I love you, your spirit, the totality of you.”

“You’re so weird. I love you, too.”

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They noticed a store named “Theatrical Accoutrements”

seemingly alone in the middle of nowhere, as suddenly clouds rolled in and a downpour began to soak the treeless, flat, sandy terrain. Kelly lost clear sight of the road and pulled into the paved, well maintained lot, parking far from the store.

She said; “To be safe, I’m going to sit here until it blows over.”

“I don’t want to sit here forever.”

“Being from the East Coast you probably don't know that the weather out here can dramatically change quickly.”

“What’s quickly?”

“I’ve often seen storms like this one end in five minutes and then the sun comes back out to stay out.”

“Well, just in case this one doesn’t, let’s go inside and see what kind of accoutrements they’ve got.”

“We’re about two hundred feet from the door and I really can’t see at all.”

“I can still see some. Either let me drive up to the entrance, or let’s get soaked.”

They looked right at each other and slyly laughed. She screamed; “Let’s get soaked.”

They exited the car, slamming the doors behind them and started running. Bobby reached for her hand successfully and they blurted out indecipherable happy sounds as they ran. The

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rain was coming so hard they got totally saturated, though neither cared. They were pleasantly surprised that the water seemed warmer than the air of the day.

The shop sign was red neon hung across the largest front window of the one story older adobe structure. No doubt it was a private residence at one time, its flat roof a vantage point for many children and adults. The climbed up the two steps leading to a wooden porch, which contained a few chairs, a bench, some potted plants and a small table hosting a well-used ashtray. Still exhilarated, but dripping wet the two paused for a second. Kelly said; “We really shouldn’t go in. We’re liable to make a mess of the place.”

Bobby made a short laugh at her and said; “I agree, liable being the key word.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Liable, like in liability, stupid.” He gave her a gentle slap in the head with his free hand.

She just looked at him disgustedly for a second. “I just figured out your poor attempt at humor. Liable, liability, legal liability. Ha, ha. You deserve two smacks in the head if you think that’s funny.” With that she used her free hand to smack his head, not as gently as he had done hers.

He said; “Hey, that hurt.”

“So did that joke.”

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They both let go of the others hand and faced each other with stern looks on their faces, though in his case it was faked. He started to laugh first and she joined a few seconds later.

Bobby said; “We’re going to have to make a rule here. How about ‘No head shots’?”

“How about, no shots at all?”

“I’m close to that, but how about one of Grace Slick’s best rules, “Do not put your hands on another person, unless you intend love.”

“I don’t remember that line and I know many of the Airplane’s songs.”

“Oh, it wasn’t from a song. They were on stage, when some fights broke out in the audience. It may have been Altamont.

She just went to the mike and said that.”

“I like it.”

The front door opened and a tall, graying gentleman approximately their age came out. He had a friendly distinguished air when he said; “Don’t stay out here in the cold. Please come in. Are you theatre people?”

Bobby: emphatically; “Noooo.”

Kelly: “Only amateur.”

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Bobby: “We really shouldn’t go in. As you can see we’re soaked. I’m clumsy, especially now and I’d probably ruin something precious inside.”

Distinguished gentleman (D.G.): “There’s nothing in here that wouldn’t be improved with a little water. So don’t argue with me anymore and come in.”

The two followed the gracious man through the light purple door, into the shop. The door stuck in their minds as a contrast to the light brown stucco finish and the white of the window trims. Their attention was immediately drawn to the masks and numbers hanging on the wall.

D.G.: “Do you like the masks?”

Bobby: “Some yes, some no.”

Kelly: “Same.”

D.G.: “Want to buy some?”

Bobby just looked at Kelly who said; “Maybe.”

D.G.: “I’ll go in the back and let you look around at your leisure. Just let me point out one of my favorite items.” He led them to the middle of the store and stopped in front of a dress, which was pink, frilly and laced. “This was once worn by Judy Garland in one of her musicals.”

Kelly: “I’m not into dresses.”

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Bobby: “I’m not either.” He paused a few seconds. “Now, if you have a tight pair of blue jeans worn by Marilyn Monroe anywhere, I’d like to see that.”

D.G.: “Wouldn’t we all.” With that, he turned and went into a back room. When he was out of sight Kelly gave Bobby an open handed slap on the shoulder.

Bobby smiled, though he used one hand to protect his head;

“Hey, don’t put your hands on another person unless you intend love and all that.”

Kelly calmly responded; “I did.” Bobby closed one eye and gave her a smiling, but also questioning look. They perused the store, concentrating on the walls, for a few silent minutes, during which time they circled the entirety of the place.

Kelly asked; “Can you find at least five masks you like?”

Bobby said; “Sure, easily.”

“Good, me too. Let’s get that guy back out here.”

They walked to the open door leading to the back room and she knocked on it twice. The presumed proprietor popped up from the chair he was occupying behind a light, flimsy looking desk.

It probably was made of pecan, stained a light brown. He said;

“Have you two decided?”

Kelly: “Yes, we have.”

Kelly directed the gentleman to the five masks she had chosen, he finding the appropriate duplicates in pink boxes on

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shelves, below their aerial model. Bobby went through the same process; however his five boxes were blue.

Kelly: “Do the numbers cost much?”

D.G.: “No, $2 apiece.”

Kelly to Bobby: “Do you have any favorite numbers?”

Bobby: “Yes, one, but not in the styles, colors or materials I see here.”

Kelly: “I don’t have a favorite, but I like them.”

Kelly to D.G.: “Why don’t you pick out thirty different ones for us?”

D.G.: “Is there any color preference?”

Kelly: “No.”

Bobby: “No.”

The distinguished gentleman went about his business and tried to accomplish his task. The numbers on the wall were not as easy to line up with their lower counterparts as were the masks, simply because they were smaller, which resulted in one unintentional duplication. He rounded everything up and put the thirty boxes in a brown paper bag and carried it to the cash register, followed by the two.

Maureen thought; “Oooh, it was there that the mistake was made. Seems trivial, but ......... Well, if you put the entirely

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overt part in, it diverts everyone from what else is there.” She continued reading.

D.G.: “That will be $110, please.”

Both reached into their pockets for wallets, intending to use their credit cards.”

Kelly to Bobby: “Got cash?”

Bobby to Kelly: “Yeah, sure.”

Kelly to Bobby: “Let’s pay $55 each.”

Bobby to Kelly: “Fine.”

They each managed to find the exact right amount and handed it to the check-out man. He thanked them and they walked back outside, taking note of the other items on the shelves that they had missed the first time through, imagining the ones they had never seen at all.

When they walked back outside, they were glad to see that the torrential rain had completely stopped and a bright golden sun tinged with red was rewarming the desert. Though they didn’t expect it this quickly, at a distance it looked as if small green plants were starting to protrude from the sandy soil. They put the bag in the back seat, got to their usual positions and she drove out of the parking lot back to the road.

On the ride they didn’t see any houses and their attention, if any, was given to the orchards of green cactus, which were, at

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their largest, eight feet tall and five feet wide. “Cholla,”

she said. “They’re best to stay away from. The needles are sharp, large and painful. I heard of a guy who fell into one and it took months for him to get all the needles out.”

Bobby winced and asked; “How did he get that stupid?”

Kelly responded; “I’m really not sure. This is a third or fourth hand story. But, I’m told he was just clumsy and maybe a bit drunk and managed to fall face first into one.” She laughed.

Bobby winced more than the first time and asked; “Did he get the needles in his face, too?”

Kelly was still laughing; “Yeah.” It was quiet for thirty seconds and then she added; “When we get a warm season, drenching rain cholla does produce the prettiest pink, red, huge flowers reminiscent of roses. Plant retailers do not carry them because of the danger and possible lawsuits and poachers will poach any other cactus first. Hardly anyone has them at their house.”

Bobby noted an apparent analogy and said; “I can’t remember. Do you have any at your house?”

Kelly grinned viciously and said; “Yes, quite a few. It’s the only kind of cactus I really like.”

“Where did you get them, since the retailers don’t carry any?”

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“They were already there when I moved in the house and I’ve never removed them. In fact some new ones have grown from seeds of the old, carried by the wind.”

In a few minutes they entered some small town and were on a tranquil main street with a variety of retail stores, foundations for the apartments above them. Most buildings were two stories, made with brick of varying ages, exhibiting colors in the spectrum between almost brown and rather bright red.

They drove through the entirety of the sleepy little place.

At the edge of town Kelly sighted a member of one of the national hotel chains and instinctively pulled into its lot.

The plastic, aluminum and painted wood three story structure hid its modernistic makeup primarily through its lack of any discernable style.

Maureen was distracted away from her book as somewhere in her head Patti Smith sang “Higher Learning.”

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Two children and “Higher Learning” by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Maureen noticed that her screen was now blank. She touched

“space” and she was back to her fractals. Number five was the one which most interested her. It looked something like a pretty butterfly. Not wanting to risk losing it, she made a copy and

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attempted to further reduce that using “FreeImageOptimizer.com.”

The site did not meet her past expectations, but the others offering this “service” were worse.

The screen again went blank, after having had left a fleeting error message of; “No resolution. Please enter valid picture,” before taking three nanoseconds to disappear into the comfortable void of the infinite and expanding mis-information labyrinth. Maureen was not entirely surprised, as she had previously encountered precisely the same thing. At least this time, after having been taught by five prior wipeouts, she had learned to have first saved the original.

“What to do?” Maureen thought. “What to do? I don’t feel like reading anymore, and attempts at further reduction are futile at this state-of-the-art and yet still severely limited condition of technology. What to do?”

As she sought a place to exchange her completed fractals, insofar as they could be that in 2018, with someone willing to do the same, “FractalPresetExchange.com” got her interest when she googled “free fractals.” The other choices all contained reduction programs she had already tried and discarded.

She accessed the site and giggled when it started with two messages; “On Laugh-in Nixon actually said; ‘Sock it to me?” and

“Though otherwise tediously understandable, time has a confusing

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texture. For your edification, the coming Wednesday is oil painted indigo blue by someone light on the brush.”

She searched through the list of people who had posted on the site, which included one of their fractals as their personal icon. Liking that of someone named “Mackie,” Maureen sent him one of hers.

That began an exchange both liked.

Eventually, Mackie sent Maureen a picture, rather than a fractal. Maureen liked it and said so, at the same time being apologetic for not having one to send back, while promising to take a crash course in computer drawing.

Mackie’s ‘Synthesis’; property of the author.

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For Maureen, the picture took on a greater meaning than the sum of its parts.

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Rose Tinted Triptych Glass- 5

Current Pacific Lane Mementos

Within the confines of the established boundary, the dwellers of Pacific Lane were watching the ground, often in un-traditional, accidentally chanced pairs. The most venturesome of the lot were doing that outdoors in unprotected territory. They went to the land behind Pacific Lane; a wild area which separated the tidy yards from the land bordering the Boggy Cleave River. The land was periodically subjected to the fierce running water of a river overflowing. Not wanting to be carried away in a flash flood, no proper pooches lived there. There were occasional rumors of homeless or dangerous dogs taking up stakes on the site. But, no one had ever found the source of such rumors, nor had anyone seen anything of the sort. For most it was just kind of a place to go when one needed to feel rebellious and solitary in probable safety.

Each making their decision on their own, Willy and Daisy decided to “comb” the area. When rounding a blind bend created by a cluster of five foot tall Apache Plume bushes; Willy and Daisy, going in opposite directions, plowed into and scared the hell out of each other.

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Upon seeing that it was Willy, Daisy put a paw to her chest, exhaled deeply, and jokingly said; “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Upon seeing that it was Daisy, Willy put a paw to his chest, exhaled deeply, and said; “If only Waylon was a bit more understanding. ................ That’s a battlefield joke! What are you doing here anyway?”

Daisy said; “Looking for undesirables and I may now have found one.”

Willy said; “Me too. Let’s stick together in case we find any others.”

Daisy said; “Okay. Going my way?”

Willy said; “Yeah,” and they continued their exploration in tandem.

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Willy and Daisy investigating the back country; property of the author.

The overgrown brush was well above their heads. Each step they took flattened what was right ahead of them and chanced an encounter with something unknown and potentially harmful. Though they knew of the possible dangers from the outset of their individually chosen journeys; they were now almost completely relaxed. Somebody had their back.

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Their finely tuned ears essentially picked up the sound of the dry grass crunching under each footstep. Background music was provided by the whooshing rush of the river over the rocks and the occasional somber call of one of the solitary birds perched on a tree top.

Daisy on patrol; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license.

The screeches soon became commonplace and ambient, adding lesser mid-tree points of howl to their catalogue. What can one expect from bird brains? Songs?

They had no particular plan in mind. But, Willy and Daisy’s natural tendencies produced movements which gradually took them to the clearings and the hints of paths which bordered right on the river in most places. The billions of footsteps taken by the

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now unseen animals on their many ways to and around the Boggy Cleave had created a series of river bordering concealed paths now only suitable to the growth of the resilient and uncultivated, southwestern staple called Indian rice grass.

Currently, the Native American staple was virtually all tan, sparse, broken, and trampled upon through the complete passionate disregard of those seeking nearness to the river, coupled with the discretion which dictated not leaving the safety of the shore.

Daisy went right to the edge. The water was moving fast enough to produce white caps at every sizable, imbedded river rock; like an intermittent and consistently recurring display of grayish-white germanium shields. The surging abundance of short lived insolences was sufficient to look to Daisy like a flash near a flash next to another flash; much like the appearance of colorless lights on a Christmas tree, or the flashing bulbs on an old camera being rapidly snapped. In the modified writing of a somewhat observant poet, it was a relentlessly marauding army of insignificant armors; sword-less, yet trying to appear threatening in their pebble induced fraction of a second lifespan.

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Stylized cover of James Joyce’ “Ulysses”; modified public domain.

Willy said; “Wooo.” It wasn’t as if he was afraid of the water as one might wrongly and easily conclude. He just wisely knew his limitations. His thick body was supported by small, unwebbed feet and he had never been able to swim. Frankly, he wasn’t overly fond of baths either. He said; “I know that you’re going to do it. Just be careful.” He watched her.

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Daisy knew that the river could be surprisingly and extremely cold this time of year, the result of overnight lows in the forties. In it, the slightest slip and too long a stay could result in death from hypothermia, if you didn’t first drown. Yet there were unexplored islands out there. These were the little things of just a few acres created by the likes of a dead log which diverted the flow around it; and the subsequent accumulation of gritty dirt behind. Even littler things grew there; and twenty foot trees packed together on the older ones.

Those with tall, wild, and mature foliage cover were potentially places where a thief might find safety. Daisy continued to stand at the edge thinking about it. Right in front of her was that one island which was host to deciduous evergreens which made it an excellent hiding spot. Her view may have helped her forget the risks of the cold current.

She stopped thinking about it and made the leap. Despite having anticipated, she was initially shocked by the coldness.

But, it didn’t render her immobile. It was more disturbing to her that her paws didn’t reach bottom. She had to swim and she had never been properly taught how to do that. Her paws were, like Willy’s, not webbed, but her legs were ten times the length of his. The current pushed her away from the island where she wanted to go, and toward a wide expanse of landless sea. Daisy was more scared than she had ever been previously. She had the

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benefit of having had made this trip before, though it had previously always been during the peak warmth of the summer when the water’s lower temperature was a relief rather than something ominous. She used her natural instincts, enhanced through practical experience. Much of the time Daisy kept frantically doggy paddling at an upstream angle which was intended to compensate for the current’s relentless thrust toward open sea.

Sometimes she just floated. The hard work paid off for her. As she finally approached the island the water became much shallower. Her paws again touched ground. It was only then that she was sure that she was okay.

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Daisy exploring the islands in the river in summer; property of the author.

She used her front paws and a hind leg leap to pull herself onto the island. Willy stopped watching Daisy. She was all right and now about to be hidden by the island trees. He breathed a sigh of relief, and resumed his land based search.

In her climb up the side Daisy used her nails as claws to get traction in the mud. Upon reaching the surface she shook herself, throwing off some of the water and the majority of the island mud on her coat. She carefully stepped through the broken branches on the ground; one eye necessarily on that ground and the other elevated. Having been to this place on other occasions she knew that the other side of the island was periodically inhabited by things which did not want to be seen. They were successful in that no one had ever seen them. Daisy had only previously seen the food wrappings they left, paw prints, and the blackened tiny branches still piled up neatly, which at one time, together fueled a campfire.

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Willy in the bushes; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license.

Things can get a bit covered sometimes. Things can get a bit covered when in the woods. Things can get a bit covered when the lower growth is thick. Things can get a bit covered .......

too much of the time. Willy was seeing only that cover as he continued his land based search. It wasn’t his fault for not having been blessed with x-ray vision.

His eyes saw only what shows. His ears heard the sound of his own steps and a few screeches from solitary, fleeing birds, disturbed by his surprise approach to their once secluded haven.

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Willy sought the unusual; at the same time afraid to find it. His four paws moved consistently, but only with the speed of a turtle agitated by the easily detectable presence of a skunk.

“Brrr-aaack,” loudly said the rotten, soft tree branch. Out on the island, Daisy was startled by the sound. She jumped to her left and luckily landed an inch short of the steep slide back down to the middle of the cold Boggy Cleave. The sound of

“Blut-bam” disturbed the air once again, as she saw the rotten branch tangle with a live one for a while, before hitting the ground and taking one final bounce. She was annoyed at the momentary shock and muttered; “Darn dead thing. Had to make noise just when I wanted the quiet. Didn’t you? Well, that’s the last noise you’ll ever make.”

Daisy resumed her investigation, and made her way through the living trees. “Brop-bop,” came the petty, muted insistence.

It came from the direction of the unplanned tree branch cemetery, back behind Daisy at ground level. She saw a young, white rabbit with a wide streak of some other darker color mixed with island, underground mud running across its back. From Daisy’s distance he seemed tiny. He was apparently disturbed from his daytime slumber by the rude sounds made by the fall of the dead branch. With speed and a healthy, youthful curiosity he had come out to investigate the entire ruckus. He went right to the dead branch and pushed the fallen and deteriorating black

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thing with his pink nose. He sneezed; clearing out the grime which had temporarily resided there. The rabbit’s push caused the thing to flop over onto its other side. The thing’s legs were now in the air, like an unmoving dead bug. The permanence could only now be altered by a miracle. “Brop-bop.”

The rabbit went back in its hole and Daisy moved through the trees. She saw nothing unusual. No tracks. No low broken branches. But, from prior experience she knew that if she was going to find anything, it would be at the back of the island.

Willy struggled through the overgrowth. The brown, brittle residue, a path for ones not currently visible, was dead to the point of breaking apart at the slightest touch. But, the fact that the dead congregated in clusters, made them able to trip up an explorer. All in all, it was nothing more than a minor nuisance to Willy; a possibly comedic event for unseen watchers; and excepting the birds, there was no one visible this day. The tangled clumps of residue just slowed him down a little.

That minor inconvenience might not have been any consideration at all for a long legged labbie. But Willy was a pure bred Dachshund, and had legs shorter than a Chihuahua. He was slow from the get go. So, he wasn’t getting very far. But he was extremely thorough with the little land he could cover.

“Twattascreeproooovom;” rang in Willy’s enormous ears and gave him a momentary start. Or maybe it was more like a

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momentary pause. Be that as it may, what was happening was a bushtit. The tiny, solitary, bluish-rosy bird made a tweeting fuss as it flew from the bush thicket Willy was approaching to the thicket ten feet ahead of it.

Bushtit; property of the author.

Willy exhaled strenuously; and said; “Should have went further than that. I’m going to catch up again in a second.

...... Well, in a few seconds anyway.” The bushtit hung upside down from its new perch and looked at him.

Willy thought; “Is this silly bird playing with me? This isn’t the time for that. I’ve got serious business here.”

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As if it had heard and understood that, the bushtit said;

“Brapafondue” in one of the upper octaves; the key of G sharp with seven pitches.

Willy’s big dachshund ears were well attuned to the sounds which humans can only imagine. Right now, he wasn’t particularly happy about that ability, as it blurred his ability to detect other sounds. He stuck out his tongue and went “thrrrpfft” back at the bird in B flat.

The bushtit said a short “erru” in the questioning aspect of C major, and flew away, over the bush tops, and out of Willy’s range of vision.

Willy felt terribly as he thought that the bushtit might have felt insulted by his flat response. He didn’t want that. He just didn’t need any distractions right now; as he was on an important mission which required his full concentration.

He continued to move on the brushy path through the bushes.

Bushtit calls continued to greet him every ten feet. Willy made friendly nods to them and remained silent. The bushtits remained on their perches and watched him.

After what seemed like a year of searching, Willy looked to a bushtit and asked; “Have you seen anything unusual around here lately?”

His only response was one “mmmmng.” From the tone Willy suspected it was a question, but since he did not speak Bushtit

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he didn’t know which one. And he thought that even if he could speak the language he would still have to translate the meanings of “unusual” and “lately” in a manner which bushtits might understand.

The many steps taken by his little legs were taking their toll on him. Willy felt as if he had run the Poochville Annual Marathon. He decided that it was best to turn back and return to the Boggy Cleave edge where he had last seen Daisy.

Daisy made her way through the thick trees. She followed the easiest “path,” that of the “drainage lines.” They’re the foot wide, shallow gouges in the earth caused by excess surface water runoff, some call driftways. Since nothing grew on them, they provided a place to walk with few obstacles down low.

Their twisting trail initially took her away from the river and Daisy moved inland on the island. She was blocked from outside view from any direction including the sky above. The tree and bush branches clustered five feet above her, but there were none to hinder her movement at her ground level. Daisy noticed that the sounds made by her steps had gotten louder.

Then the path turned back toward the river on the island’s southern side and ended there. She walked the edge, continuing her journey toward the back, the water furiously crashing against the island a few feet below her, before diverting in both directions. As she got closer to the back, she felt a

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chill. It was not caused by any of the wind on her still soaked coat; it was more something which emanated from her mind. Daisy knew that if any of those objects of her search were around this was where they would be. The back was the place she had previously seen evidence of the things which don’t want to be seen. If they were there now, she was alone with them. She didn’t find that a comforting thought; but, on the other hand, that was the whole reason she was here.

Daisy was encouraged as the splashes of the rushing water drowned out the thumps of her steps. She realized that she didn’t have to confront them alone. She could locate them and quietly go back to Pacific Lane for help. That was no insult to Willy, as if he tried to swim the river he’d wind up submerged in its mouth.

She peered around the corner when she neared the clearing.

All but her snout and eyes behind the last tree, she saw the clearing and the Denials across the river. Daisy was both relieved and disappointed. There were no marauders. There weren’t even any discarded Snickers wrappers.

Daisy advanced to the place where she had previously seen the remains of former camp fires. Either nobody had been there recently or the wind had blown away any signs of them. She sat.

It had taken her some risk and effort to get here. So, she

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decided to wait a few minutes in case something popped out which was hidden upon her first arrival.

She gazed around. The “shoop, shoop” and periodic “gulp”

made by the river increased in volume. Daisy relaxed and settled into the humming music of the continuous flow. Her eyes fluttered; then closed and she lay on her side. The warmth of the sun felt good on her wet coat. She may have drifted off.

Rudely breaking the river’s mellow song, there was a shriek. Daisy alertly stood up. A broad winged gull was making its presence known as it swooped down to the river’s surface.

The gull got quiet as it returned to the sky with a fish half its size in its beak. The entire week’s food shopping operation lasted about two seconds; bettering the swift conveniences offered by the highest paid consumer programming talent lured by Seattle’s Amaway.

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Swooping gull; property of the author.

Suddenly feeling too exposed, Daisy sought protection at the edge of the woods. Upon re-engaging the trees, she looked in all directions to see if any other loud dive bombers were anywhere near. Not seeing or hearing any, she took another step and her front leg tripped on something which protruded from the ground. It was a turtle shell she had not previously noticed.

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Turtle shell; property of the author.

She jumped back when she realized that the shell might actually be housing a turtle which might be hiding from the air attack. “Some of these guys snap and can take off a paws digit or two. No fun,” she thought.

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Prints left by hobbled, no fun paws; property of the author.

But, she was curious. The shell had trees in front of it and driftwood behind; as if it had been seeking shelter for some time. She pushed some dirt toward it. When there was no movement she extended a paw and gave it a quick pat. Still nothing. She put her head to the ground trying to see if there was anything under the shell. She saw nothing.

She got a little braver. She gave the shell a push.

Nothing. “Hmmnnn,” she thought; “This shell must be exactly and only that. A shell. Poor guy must have made a wrong turn toward the woods, lost track of the water, and died here.” She bit at the shell. Yes, bit at its edge! Having once before been presented with a turtle shell to chew, as an alternative to a bone; Daisy picked up the acquired taste quickly, and

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appreciated that the thick shell lasted much longer than any bone she had previously known.

“Aaarrrgh,” came the agitated, but simultaneously matter-of-fact yelp from under the shell. Daisy jumped back and saw the angry little head emerge from somewhere down under. Her brief first glance, prior to her necessary parting reaction, was unclear as to whether it belonged to a turtle, a snake, a creepy-crawly escaped from a Cronenberg movie, or a shy and somewhat reluctant, gaseous and ringing, alien visitor from Saturn.

Seeing that her first thought was correct; that most pleasing to good old Occam’s simplicity, in that the protuberance was indeed a turtle head, she breathed a huge sigh of relief; and said; “Bad turtle. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

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Annoyed turtle; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license.

“Bad turtle? Bad turtle? How dare you say that madam? You have disturbed my slumber only to bite me. Your manners are that of an untrained mongrel dog.”

“It wasn’t a bite. It was more of a friendly little gnaw,”

Daisy replied indignantly.

“I never gave you permission to ‘gnaw’ me, as you put it.

In my circles, gnawing only becomes an option after proper introductions are made and the intended gnawer and the intended gnawee spend suitable time getting to know each other.”

“You’re not from around here; are you?”

“No. I have allowed the current to carry me far from my starting point. I was given little choice in the matter.”

“See anything strange around here?”

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“Only you and the dive-bombing gulls.”

“I beg your pardon.”

The turtle calmed down. He said; “I apologize. My name is Haashir.” He offered his right front flipper for a shake.

Calmer turtle; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license.

Daisy hesitated. It was understandable, as she had never previously shaken a flipper. In fact, she couldn’t recall having had shaken much anything except the water off her coat. But, she surmised that Haashir was attempting to make a peaceful gesture.

So she touched his flipper with her right front paw, claws retracted, and said; “I’m Daisy.” Their varied limbs intended a

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clasp, but of physical necessity settled for a glide and a mutual giggle at the phenomenon of yet another strange extension.

“Daisy. Glad to meet you. That’s such a pretty name.”

“Aw, thanks. But, it’s a pretty common name around here.

Now, Haashir. That’s a name very uncommon here.”

Haashir sighed and said; “Here too? I wasn’t sure. It means

“the gatherer.” Where I come from we have about ten thousand Abduls. Abdul this, Abdul that, and Abdul the other thing.”

“We used to have a basketball player named that.”

“You’re really sweet, Daisy. You come from the mainland?”

“Yes, Poochville. Never been to Rapidtown. ........ Never been much anywhere, I guess. You’ve been all over. Right?”

“Yeah. ........... As far as the water can take me. I’m kind of slow; especially on land. These flippers are better in the water. But, mostly it’s just going with the flow. ......

Tell me. Why did you come out here?”

“Searching. You see, we have been having a lot of wind in Poochville; resulting in a summer cooling. Nobody has been able to find the culprits. So, Willy and I, ............ Willy’s back on shore because he doesn’t swim too well; are out looking for them ....... or it. Most dogs never come all the way out here by the river, but he and I have a few times. So, we met out here.

.......... I mean, we’re not married or anything; but we both

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just came here today .......... unplanned. We just happened to meet here; well not here on the island as he doesn’t swim all that easily, but on the land bordering the river, and the next thing you know I was out here and he was ...... “

“Yes, yes. I understand. I was once your age in turtle years. And instead of a wind thug, you managed to find a tired old turtle with a funny name who was trying to hide from the gulls.”

“Well, you did hide from the gulls pretty well. You just were detected by a snoopy dog.”

“Who bites.”

“Gnaws. Are you starting again? You want to see a real bite?”

“I was joking. We have a weird sense of humor where I come from. I’m getting sleepy in this sun.”

“Okay. I really should be off. My partner’s waiting for me on the mainland and I shouldn’t keep him waiting. Wish I could stay longer. Nice meeting you, Haashir. Watch out for those gulls.” Daisy rubbed her nose against Haashir’s shell.

After a quick shiver, Haashir said; “Tease,” and retreated into his shell.

Daisy made her way back the way she came. She followed the coast, then turned inland and followed the driftway. She hesitated a moment before leaping into the river. On this trip

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she found the waters of the Boggy Cleave to be warm as her coat was still wet with the water from the original swim, which had been cooled in the air. This time her biggest concern was just to buck the pushy current most of the time; of necessity again going against it. On her first trip, she had been reminded for the first time since the end of last summer that at times she could effortlessly float; and only required a small amount of contrary adjustment to reach her precisely chosen destination.

Willy was anxiously waiting on the shoreline when Daisy arrived. She hopped up easily as the shore’s bank was less steep than that of the island. When he got close to help her; belated as it was, he was perhaps fittingly greeted with her excess water shake off. Surprised by the cold spray, Willy recalled the time he accidentally stepped into a cold shower and could not easily get out with both feet slippery and two cringing paws unable to reach the shut off valve.

“Thanks a lot,” he said; with one paw backhanding his eyes.

“It’s good for you. Wakes you right up and cleans out the old snout. See anything?”

“Just a bunch of singing bushtits who don’t understand the language. How about you?”

“A reclusive wandering turtle.”

“The wind demon?”

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“Not a chance. He’s just trying to get away from the gulls.”

“ ........ “

“It’s a long story and don’t tell the others about it. They might misunderstand. Speaking of secrets, I think we should have another one. It might raise some eyebrows if we were seen walking back to Pacific Lane together. So, you hang behind me five minutes and listen to some more bushtit songs.”

“Fine with me. Catchy stuff it is.”

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Aureolin Quinta Sole- 10

Standing at the back of the machine, Genevieve and Dillon forgot about their fussing with it and stopped when they were startled by a rustle in the tall, withered grass. While her eyes had acclimated, as much as eyes do, to the darkness, Genevieve wasn’t sure, but intuitively said; “Mackie?” Her cautious greeting may have been prompted by her fear of having encountered a demon and wanting to appease it.

The silly little dog emerged, removed most notions of rational trepidation, and said; “Genevieve?”

Mackie; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license Relieved, Genevieve said; “Yes. What are you doing out here?”

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Mackie said; “I was sleeping.”

It seemed as if no one knew what to say next, so Dillon eventually broke the silence, and said; “I’m Dillon, and we’re going to try to shut off this machine.”

Mackie said; “Oh, no; you can’t. It took me so much time to get it going.”

That produced a second silence, which Dillon again broke by saying; “Genevieve; how do you two know each other?”

Genevieve didn’t see any reason to rush and her mind flashed back to the day she met Mackie; so she replied; “During all that commotion about the food missing from Barney and Clara’s communal sheds ....... Oh, you weren’t here that autumn and it’s a long story, which turned out to be a misunderstanding. Anyway, I was trying to sleep, this time in the back yard away from the front door which had become a magnet for various pooches; cops, later to be determined not to be cops, politicians, and sellers of protection devices.”

Mackie interjected; “Like me! I remember perfectly.”

Genevieve continued; “Yes. But I had difficulty. I turned off the ‘Hominid’ show, thinking that might have been the culprit.

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The Hominid Show; property of the author.

As I did that slowly I saw and heard; ‘As he hung his hat on the rack once more, Homer’s corrupted doppelganger said; ‘It is Vladimir Nabokov’s ‘Pale Fire’ as written by Mark Leyner and simultaneously commented upon by David Foster Wallace, depicted through the cartoonish caricatures somewhat reminiscent of the TV Simpsons in less than 50,000 words, and supplemented with pictures sometimes crudely drawn and sometimes containing the quality specifications associated with the photographic work of a good camera. The problem, if any, is in the choice of an unfortunately necessary stopping point, as no matter the degree of nuance already exhibited, there is always more which can be added.’

The blue haired lady said; ‘I guess you stopped at the bar after work again and the chicken is now cold.’”

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But, it wasn’t. It got unseasonably warm and I was quite comfortable. Then I heard another ‘knock, knock, knock,’ and felt much less comfortable, thinking that Werner and Osama might have come back.”

Dillon said; “Forgetting the nuances and blue hair for now, what is a Werner and Osama?”

Genevieve said; “Yes, of course. Clarity dictates a back step. Sorry. They were rather pushy sellers of expensive protection devices. Ominous too, but Billy and Jack, the supposed cops who really weren’t cops at all, showed up and scared them away. I went to the front window and from there saw a very silly looking pup at the front door.”

Mackie said; “Silly? I might have expected another description; like impractical, unconventional, avant-garde, or I’d even settle for a quirky or unkempt.”

Genevieve said; “Well, I don’t think impractical quite fits, but off the top I could easily go with that quirky. To be more precise, your long hair was disheveled and appeared as if you had some particular dislike of professional hairstylists, and there appeared to be a peace sign where one would expect an ear.”

Dillon said; “Just like now.”

Mackie shrugged and half nodded in a grudgingly accepting way.

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Genevieve continued her story; “He had a small pouch attached to his fur. I was amused and curious. I opened my front door and took the initiative. I was a bit cavalier, though it was intended to be taken with humor. I broadly smiled as I said;

‘So what do you want to sell me today? The line forms at your left.’

Mackie seemed to be initially taken aback by my playful opening line. After a brief pause, he shyly and perhaps with some semblance of introspective humor said; ‘Something which prevents home invasions and doesn’t cost much anything? I don’t see the line?’ I found his questioning way of saying it to be cute.

I thought it would be amusing to tease him, and said; ‘I just heard that one an hour ago.’

He said; ‘ ........... I don’t know. I guess I should go.

Sorry to waste your time.’ He turned as if ready to depart.

I said; ‘No, no, young man. What is your name and what have you got?’

He said; ‘My name is Mackie. ........ Well, that’s what they called me in Rapidtown anyway.’ His voice started to trail off when he added; ‘I can’t remember my real name. It’s been so often changed since I was a pup. I’ve been travelling. It was a long time ago when ......... ‘

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Mackie’s voice became firmer and he continued; ‘I have these decals which prevent break-ins. I make them myself and I’ve been selling them to the poor dogs in Rapidtown. They work pretty well. Here, have a look yourself.’ He then reached into his pouch, retrieved one and handed it to me.

Decal; property of the author.

I smiled when I said; ‘Well, I’ve heard of the Hell’s Angels and they certainly do sound like they’re not someone to cross. However, will they protect me just because I’ve purchased this decal?’

Mackie said; ‘No. They won’t even know that you’ve purchased it. ..... If you do. You see, it’s a bluff; and an affordable one. They’re a dollar twenty five each. If you stick

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four of them to four of your windows, the bad guys will go elsewhere. For only five dollars you will have purchased home security.’

I said; ‘They’re kind of ugly. ..... Of course, I don’t mean your artwork. That’s quite good. But, the subject matter is gruesome.’

Mackie said; ‘That’s the point. It’s the death’s head insignia. The bad guys wouldn’t be intimidated by an image of kittens with flowers.’

Kitten with a rose; the kind courtesy of Pexels,com under their CC0 license.

I said; ‘No. I don’t suppose so.’”

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Dillon interrupted to say; “This is going on a bit. Is there some point here?”

Genevieve said; “Hush. There’s no hurry. Sometimes the details are important. Next, Mackie said; ‘The use of these death’s head symbols goes way back before the Hell’s Angels.

Frequent military use was started by Frederick the Great of Prussia around 1740. Prussia was the predecessor to the German Reich, and included what is now seven countries; one of them Germany. I like learning about stuff like that; but I think something really bad is coming down this time.’

He looked so sad when he said that, I was compelled to say;

‘Ah, every generation says that. They’ve been predicting doom since a minute after creation and we’re still here.’ That seemed rather optimistic compared to my most recent thoughts at the time, but I considered it appropriate under the immediate circumstances, that being the as yet unresolved food shed brouhaha. I said; ‘But, you’ve convinced me. I’ll give you six dollars for four of those protection insignias if you’ll install them for me.’

Mackie was elated. I showed him in and gave him the six dollars. He put it in his pouch and quickly attached the insignias to four of our windows. All he had to do was peel off the back and stick the surface on. When finished he said;

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‘You’re set ma’am. No one is going to break in here now. Thank you.’

I led him to the front door. We exchanged goodbyes and thank you’s. Mackie headed for the next house with a confident step and one last lively wave.

I returned it. And this is the first time I’ve seen him since. Mackie, meet my impatient husband Dillon.”

Dillon said; “I think we’ve already met a while back. Thank you. I was talking about shutting off his machine, and he said that I couldn’t.”

Mackie refrained from an overt laugh when he said; “That’s not exactly how I remember it. But, it’s reasonably close and I don’t want to get all nit-picky over the immaterial details.

It’s neither here nor there.”

Genevieve said; “Right. Let’s not get contentious. That never solves anything.”

Dillon said; “Okay, Mackie has stolen the summer and I’ll remain calm.”

Genevieve looked to Mackie and said; “He’s a bit of a statesman, or I might have dreamed that.”

Mackie said; “Please allow me to explain. The world is undergoing a warming crisis. Serious scientists are predicting dire events, yet no one is doing anything to try to correct the situation. They just talk, talk, and talk about it. The icebergs

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are melting and the polar bears are becoming homeless. So I figured I’d help cool it off. Besides, it’s nice out here behind the wind. There’s plenty of food and I like my privacy.”

Perplexed polar bear and melting icebergs; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0

license, very modified.

Genevieve broke the third brief silence when she said; “I think that he’s got a point.”

Dillon said; “Why don’t you heat up the winter rather than destroy the summer? Or vice-versa. Depends on the ‘expert’

quoted.”

Mackie chuckled, avoiding what might have been Dillon’s main point and said; “Well, that’s a bit rash to say destroyed.

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It’s just being moderated and managed, like the rivers. And I can’t heat up the winter; for one thing because it’s not winter, and for the second wind cools, rather than heats, silly. I also haven’t yet come across a time machine.” He seemed to be confidently smiling a bit, as he shook his head from side to side, and looked at the ground.

Warm arctic night; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Thinking that it might make more greenhouse gases than it was worth in lowering the temperatures, in the hope of making less greenhouse gases, Dillon said; “What does it run on?”

Mackie said; “Bugs. I put pheromones in there to attract them. They go in and beat their wings like crazy, and that produces the wind. A farmer I was trying to sell some decals to

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built it and gave it to me. Those guys know everything, and he looked like he was getting pretty old.”

Genevieve said; “Oh, so that’s what the grating is for.”

Mackie said; “Yeah, when the bugs die they fall out of a hole at the bottom of the machine, and into the pit beneath the grating. Then new ones replace them. All I have to do is replenish the pheromones every so often. The farmer gave me tons of them which I keep at a nearby abandoned barn. What I’ve been thinking about is whether or not it would be beneficial to further cool off the winter. On a very practical level, I’d have to find some supplement for the bugs.”

Dillon said; “I think I understand. It would definitely make the scientific calculations more favorable, but it would also necessitate more winter burning of fossil fuels, producing more greenhouse gases. Off the top, my inclinations are always to leave things alone if attempting to ‘fix’ them might make things worse.”

Mackie said; “Me too. It’s sort of a convoluted subset of

‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’ maybe ‘If it’s broke, don’t make it worse. But, everyone seems to agree that it’s broke. So

......... ”

The trio actually laughed, though maybe for different reasons.

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Dillon looked to Genevieve and said; “I suppose that we can tolerate a cooler summer. What do you think?”

Genevieve said; “Sure. We’re only here because you were complaining.”

Mackie hid his laugh with a fake nose wipe.

Engrossed in what was going on, Genevieve and Dillon had made no note of the new day, already well underway. Smiling, the trio exchanged James-Dean-waves of “Okay.”

Their quest satisfied, the couple began walking south, back toward Poochville; the wind at their rear and a shining sun in front of them.

From Chapel Hill, North Carolina, re-located James Taylor offered up a little tune.

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Maureen, Sunshine and “Sunny Skies” written by James Taylor; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Genevieve woke up. The warm body she was sharing her basket with was tranquilly drowsing Dillon’s. Though it was daylight, she again closed her eyes, as things seemed quite fine just as they were.

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Aureolin Quinta Sole- 11

Genevieve was soundlessly sitting with Dillon on a curved, cast stone bench, the type one finds in long standing gardens, junkyards, and museums; the latter or middle possibilities suggested here as there were paintings on the wall.

Curved, cast stone bench; property of the author.

The bench must have originally been white, but with time it had acquired a patina which retained some of that same white, but also included blues, some greens, a trace of purples, and the tiniest of almost undetectable rubies. The classical styling included some letters or designs made to look as if they might be letters, or symbols. Because of their seeming order, it appeared to be as if the representations were in a script or possibly a calligraphically inclined representation foreign to Genevieve and Dillon, but that fancy, possibly but not

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necessarily overwrought depiction wasn’t their impediment to reading them.

Their approach was much more simplistic; encouraging to those barely literate and those overly literate ones who have found little, if any, happiness in their non-studious and studious approaches, disrespectfully and respectfully. One factor in their favor was that Genevieve and Dillon didn’t try to read the letters or symbols as they inherently believed that benches were made to be sat upon, rather than read; and another is that the representations of something or nothing had been eroded and thereby smoothed by innumerable changing seasons.

There was a chip of sorts in the left leg; the side Genevieve had taken; which attracted more attention than its unimportance squawked. Dillon thought he had noticed where she was looking and said; “Damn thing is that if you bring those chips up they sidetrack everyone away from all the other good stuff around. As far as I’m concerned the conversation begins and ends at

“consenting adult benches and consenting adult anythings. Look at the paintings.’”

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Maya Blue Dyad Layer-10

“Hi, guys. Hate to interrupt. Really. ...... Well, you know, that’s what you’re supposed to say. But, this time it’s not acquiescence to the proper. Really. You might think it to be a needy display of personal importance for me, but it’s actually a pain in the tuchis. The distraction-diversion-sidetrack thing is well known and agreed with for ages, but I guess that some forget that when they stray from the basics for too long. I’ve been told that this was the reason for the old timers to sculpt miniscule thingies. However, Dillon was wrong on a more personal account this time as I was not looking at the bench’s chip.

Admittedly, he was coming in at a bad angle for this one. He was to my side for the whole thing. I did my best to make him think that was all right with me; which in all fairness it was.

However, I do feel obliged to tell the reader that sometimes Dillon has a difficult point of view, and yet something apparently inherent in him compels him to express that point of view as if it could not be contested. Any logic attempted to be applied to the matter concludes its necessity. You know, it’s too late now. But, the whole matter is so miniscule to me, and Dillon is so close to being right that I should have just shut up. “No harm, no foul,” as the basketballers say.

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You might well understand that we’d all rather be lying down under a tree or something, as opposed to making minutia type ‘corrections’ on a document which about 100 people will see. I’d much rather be sleeping, and have no hankering for the loneliness of the crowd. You likely don’t believe that; and in your place I would say that the skepticism thereby indicated or implied was a very reasonable response to my having again taken center stage, interrupting the story or lack thereof, with yet another reasonably expected, seeming-to-be individualistically oriented minor editorial of what the author and/or Dillon, insofar as Dillon’s depiction is the hominid author’s estimation, more or less, unworthy of discussion not over obviously sophistristic already put down. ........ Yet, here I am again. What I really question is only one word, and actually not the word itself. It is the seemingly pejorative sense in which it is used. The reader may well disagree or consider it a non-issue, and that reader may well be right. That is recognized, and quite honestly it seems as if one would have to have qualified for at least one of those couplets ending with challenged to not have found this painfully obvious to a fault.

However, I am compelled to insert the fact that I am no populist, stated in other formats as a Luddite, low IQ bohemian, or subservient, suburban housewife; and do believe that education is a worthwhile pursuit. It just seems obvious to me

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that these pursuits have been increasingly corrupted with each passing year, and therefore certain changes are necessitated, though they will not be done, regardless of whether or not those changes will be postulated, fully recognizing the biases and other expected imperfections in those same postulators, as conducive, insofar as that might be understood or misunderstood, to any real hope in providing our young with the tools required to succeed in this life. ....... That was tiring, and I’m now going to take a nap.”

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Aureolin Quinta Sole- 12

But, their main disinterest in the letters-symbols was that they were much more interested in the paintings which hung on the wall in front of them. They stared. Genevieve entertained a passing thought. The thought that the bench was suggestive of their being in a garden or junkyard location was contradicted by the very existence of the wall and its hung paintings. The thought quickly passed as Genevieve decided it had absolutely no relevance other than a possible suggestion that she had entered her fourth dream within a dream, though that was also of little interest other than theoretical speculation bordering on sophistry, perhaps entertaining in the dullest of toddy time moments. She glanced to her immediate right to see if Dillon was still there. He was. So, contented, she completely focussed on the paintings, the more imprecise one first.

In one part, near but not quite at the thin, cloud suggestive, black and white top, it reminded her of a Rothko she had previously seen. With the right and left cut off sharply by the ends of the canvas, the upper and lower borders of the brown-red concoction seemed to be mixing into its surroundings, possibly suggestive of the David Foster Wallace concept of porous borders. Excitedly, Genevieve broke the silence and told Dillon of her observations.

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Dillon said; “Yes, I was focusing on the porous borders myself. Rothko must have anticipated DFW.”

Genevieve said; “I thought that you said you didn’t know him.”

Dillon said; “I said that I didn’t know ‘Infinite Jest.’ I read ‘Brief interviews with Hideous Men’ some time ago.

Genevieve said; “Figures.”

Totem Pole 1; property of the author.

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“This is perfect,” she continued. “Totem Pole number one provides the mysterious gist, while Totem Pole number two has a slightly smaller, yet clearer vision.”

Totem Pole 2; property of the author.

Dillon smiled and replied; “Yes, now that you mention it, I can see the overall similarities and the specific differences.

For one thing, number two doesn’t have the reflection. I’ve been more focussed on the upper section in number two. ...... Um, you do see sections here?”

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Genevieve said; “That’s almost insulting. Of course I do.”

Dillon stroked her fur, and said; “Oh, no. Please don’t be insulted. It’s just that there is enough here to be conceptually interested in the painting through a number of points of view, all of which are correct. I just wondered if at this moment we might be in close proximity.”

Genevieve said; “Well, I really didn’t consider that we couldn’t be. It’s kind of obvious where we would both be on this canvas right now in the overall context of things.”

Dillon said; “Okay, okay. I was being overly certain. I was inundated with physics in school, and that stuff never completely wears off. Sorry. Geez.”

Genevieve laughed while Dillon made some sort of face, possibly consistent with some kind of doctrinaire physics based rebuff of a position not sufficiently viewed and mathed out; though in Dillon’s current case, it was the almost precisely unexplainable opposite of that. She moved closer to him on the bench, gently pawed his head, and finally said; “I guess that our viewpoints have substantial agreement, but that through the imprecision of words, the cumbersome details can easily appear to be antagonistic. It was my fault for playing into that myth.

......... No, it was yours. ....... I think. ........ Or don’t.

....... Whatever. Where were we? In the picture, I suppose. So, what are you seeing?”

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Dillon said; “A very nutty Maltese; you. No. ...... Yes.

....... Poor little joke. Very poor. I don’t know what got into me. Anyway, regarding the paintings, I’m focussed more on the center of the upper part of that section. It’s more consistently colored and it is very deeply textured, as if the brushstrokes went over each possible spot many times.”

Referring to number two, Genevieve said; “How about the gradual climb from basic necessities, to an abstract continuation of that, to the space where we are now, with the possibility of what some might see as plodding, but also characterizable as a sure and steady entry into what is above, or alternatively below if one turns the painting upside down.”

Dillon said; “Muy bien, my conceptual companion.”

Genevieve bristled and replied; “Conceptual? Conceptual?

Only conceptual? The concreteness is right in front of your face as well as it is under your derriere.”

Dillon smiled and said; “Indeed, I am pleased to be totally covered in particulars which have in the moment chosen to jokingly masquerade as abstracts.”

Genevieve was relieved, but joked back, saying; “That’s so retro.”

Dillon responded with what could be described as a slider or cut fast ball, that being a mixture of a curve with a heater, saying; “Not if I turn you upside down.”

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Genevieve was elated and proceeded to drift; while Dillon was also elated in that he did not fully understand what he had said, or Genevieve’s reaction to it. So, he too contentedly drifted.

Double twists worked well for them when they neared the end.

Synthesis; property of the author.

Genevieve was back in a prior dream. She was in the box a very few called Pandora. Most called it the Land of Fellflat, him being the earliest known ancestor. She was with all the other dogs. It didn’t look like a box. It didn’t look like Pandora either. The inmates didn’t know if it was one, both, either, or neither; and would get angry with anyone who stupidly

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brought up the difficult subject. And it wasn’t ever called box, container, or anything like that by any of the inhabitants; though a few, when they thought that they were alone sometimes hopefully whispered; “Pandora,” presumably as a prayer to a spirit they thought that only they could imagine.

Most of the box’ inhabitants were warm and saddened pooches struggling to appear as the socially acceptable normality called contented; and some were truly contented, demon mongrels who took their pleasure in making the others sad. It was the way the box’ darkness had always been; though infrequent light periodically filtered through the cracks in the old plastic.

Those brief manifestations of unpredictable, blithe illumination, in practice, best served the accepted traditions of the box, to either appease the tiresomely vocal, cheerful

“optimists;” give their organizers a “reason” to request tithes; or be an expedient provocation for those puddled and positioned within the petite, but prominent pack of physics polished, present-day practitioners of punctuality to pontificate Pythagorean theorems, compelling as such, though limited to the measurement of distances only at certain angles under certain conditions; ultimately about why the brief glimpses of light had never happened and that their sightings were an illusion caused by a defective transfer of information from the eye to the brain or other vague speculations; which the others had no interest in

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or sufficient credentials to debate; in effect making the non-happening into the law of the box. The number of pray-ers and tithe-ers continually decreased, though the population continually rose.

Genevieve was in there.

One day, perhaps just out of boredom or curiosity, Genevieve made a solitary journey back toward her eastern origin. It wasn’t long before she encountered an obstacle. It looked like a wall as the mountains she had previously seen weren’t often ninety degree vertical structures; as best as she could recall. But, being an inquisitive pooch with not much else to do anyway, she decided to climb it.

There was a helium filled, red balloon tethered to the ground. Genevieve decided to take it with her. She had a myriad of reasons. She thought that it should be free. She thought that it’s inclination to rise might be of assistance. And she thought that she liked its red color. She knew that it reminded her of Winnie the Pooh. She held its string in her snout.

Without any outside aid other than that which the red balloon seemed to provide, she used the grooves on the furthest left reaches of the box to climb. It was as easy or as hard as it was to climb an artificial rock wall which is classified as being “for beginning bi-peds.” Having four paws and those paws being enhanced with retractable claws might have made things

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easier for her. But, it was distinctly possible that the ease just came because she simply felt like climbing on this day; and up Genevieve went.

Concentrating on her task, and paying no attention to what if anything was notable at higher levels, nor what was going on beneath her, she climbed to what appeared to be the top. She sniffed at the ceiling cover and found that the smell was the same as that of the wall; something like that experience of someone downwind on an Intel burn day. Miffed, she used her snout to gently push on the ceiling and saw that it gave easily.

It had moved about two inches, but when she stopped pushing it stopped moving. While it was briefly open, it exposed a bit more of the infrequent light which sometimes had creeped through the cracks in the old plastic, which the increasing majority denied.

She remained there and thought some things over. She hated the rude limitation imposed, but didn’t want to risk falling, through extending too much energy and losing her footing when already so high up. Her fear was alleviated when she absurdly decided to continue to trust the help she was getting from the red balloon she held in her snout.

She kept her feet in place and gave the balky ceiling the hardest shove she could, intending to use only her head; but her red balloon hit it too.

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The ceiling moved more. But this time rather than stopping, it had apparently been pushed sufficiently far to have engaged some sort of mechanism, which kept it opening all the way to the other side. Genevieve didn’t expect this much ease, but wasn’t the least bit surprised by it either. It was just like any other hinged plastic device amplified by a compelling spring. The ceiling ceased being one and came to rest at an odd angle, again likely the result of the mysterious, unseen, yet suggested spring; which might have been a bit rusty from lack of use and lubrication.

Suddenly Genevieve could fly. She took the balloon out of her snout and held it in her front paws; the way one cuddles a friend.

Suddenly all the other dogs were flying too. They all entered the white space above the box, which she instinctively knew was called El Dorado. She was scared at first, as the ground got more and more distant, making a fall a very serious matter. But after a minute she could tell that she was effortlessly floating very naturally, and that the movement of her paws provided direction. Most of all, she found it to be fun.

Despite unreasonable hopes to the contrary, it wasn’t only the pooches in the air. The mongrel demons soared too. They had no inclination to dally like the zig-zagging dogs, and went

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directly up, like any extremist, taking no part in what they must have considered to be a silly, joyous, incomplete diversion. They soon crossed over into the darkness, which was called Kimrabort, and stayed there. The line of demarcation between El Dorado and Kimrabort was irregular and unclearly porous in some areas. To complicate matters further white El Dorado proper contained some dark areas, and dark Kimrabort proper contained speckles of white; but frankly not all that many in the latter case. The dark was noticeably dark to any pooch not blind, and produced a perceptible end of the detectable glow for most who were.

Perhaps because of being the first pooch to reach the vague, twisting, wide, deep, and amorphous line; it not yet trampled by many paws, Genevieve thought that she had seen it plainly. While some parts were distinctly clear, the more vague configurations didn’t encompass the wide spaces; and with all the other space available it seemed an easy, in fact unthinking, decision for her to maintain complete safety by being simply rationally risk averse toward the likely inconsequentially bloated borderlines with their humorously logical audacity to overstate their insignificant perception of faux “significance,”

knowing that some didn’t know the trick.

In less precise terms, it didn’t seem necessary for Genevieve to cross over as there was plenty of room for her to

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do any sort of imaginable aerial tricks right in El Dorado, without re-encountering the mongrel demons, now congregated or impounded, depending upon one’s outlook, in the dark of Kimrabort. Besides, her red balloon ceased to provide any more upward momentum; apparently content to hold onto its already lofty place.

But, she momentarily questioned her eyesight when she saw some other pooches cross the line; vague, amorphous, or irregular as it might be. “Why are you going back to the demons?” she said, in hopes of their turnaround.

She was answered with uniform replies of; “We are finally flying to the sun. Can’t you see?”

She almost made no reply; it being so obvious to her. As a possible practical approach, she contradictorily held her meta ground, and mumbled; “Yes; but the light is right here, and I knew both Icarus and Phaethon. Can’t YOU see? The demons have leather wings and we are still just poor waxwings. And no one wants to be back with the demons, anyway.”

Thunder rang out, hollow and fierce as a lion’s extended growl after lunch on the warm rock at the zoo. It actually may not have, but Genevieve thought that it said; “The wise go through un-needed stop signs. Fools either stop at each or go through them all.”

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Genevieve was elated to see that some other balloonists were quite happy to place their chosen perch near her chosen perch.

Some misinformed person must have thought it was 1958

again, as they played the Everly Brothers singing “All I Have to do is Dream.”

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Genevieve and Dillon, awake and maybe sleeping and “All I Have to Do is Dream” by Felice and Bordleaux Bryant property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and

“transformative” doctrines.

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Maya Blue Dyad Layer-11

“Hi, again. Genevieve here. I’d imagine that this is annoying. Frankly, I’d have preferred to keep napping myself.

But, before this hominid writer idiot gets things totally out of hand, I’d like to offer a few clarifications intended to be for the benefit of the poor reader.

First and most simply Totem Pole #1 is a female figure and Totem Pole #2 is male. But, but, but, but, but, whatever. There is no escaping that fact other than through radical surgery. I’m not speaking of gender. My observations are limited to that which I clearly see. While they are very, very similar, #1 is more vague and reflective. #2 is clearer and apparently does not reflect on anything. Let’s not deal with the numbers insofar as they may be easily assumed to be an indication of which came first. If #1 is the culprit, then that also belies the testimony attributed to 90% of the anecdotal evidence recorded. No matter.

For the purposes of this editorial, I am not interested in the matter, and under no circumstances will be until someone can answer the chicken or the egg question, supplementing that with why it matters. Because I don’t care and I don’t have any

‘issues’ at this point other than this hominid’s inability to explain these two pictures, while simultaneously demonstrating that his ‘explanation’ is imperfect. The double negatives

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temporarily ignored, it is noted that despite my seeming criticism, this male hominid is better in that regard than the vast majority of his ilk; while still below the overall satisfactory bar.

Please allow me to break apart these pictures into the sections alluded to, but not herein adequately explored. Let’s start with the bases.

Base of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Base of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

You can see here that there are differences, but in my opinion not worth making an issue of. Of course, as nature would have it, #1 is less clear. However, they are reasonably close and this base depiction seems to represent home, and the need for one, as in the ‘food, clothing, shelter’ hierarchy. No matter how one may choose to stress the readily apparent

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differences, one would also have to admit that they are certainly inessential relative to what is coming in sections #2.

Second section of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Second section of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

This is the most dramatic difference we will find between the two. #1 is reflecting upon something prior to entering the place where we all most are; while there is no sign of any reflection in #2; that perhaps attempted to be compensated for through an expansion of the living space. Though necessarily depicted on canvas as something physical, I would contend that the differences are entirely what we now have called ‘meta’ in a sort of short change. In fact the physically depicted, yet

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‘meta’ differences may be the source of natural and pleasant attraction. Let’s move on to the third part.”

Third section of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Third section of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

In this section, to which the occupants of the previous section; pooches, hominids, and indeed all aspire, you’ll note rather uniform bubbles in #1, and no bubbles in #2, accompanied by what appears to be a border at the edges. At this point, I’d like to emphasize that this is the work of the author of this very imperfect book, who like the rest of us has never seen this level. So, I might well regard this as I would a fantasy, that being with as much significance to reality as a dream. Taken in another way, #1’s appearance is much like that of a flower in

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bloom, while #2’s is consistent with a barren field and a fence.

On to the top.

Top section of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Top section of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

This more or less repeats the third sections on a conceptual level. #1 is bubbly, and while light, contains more colors of the rainbow than #2. It’s impossible to tell whether

#2 is primarily white, primarily cloudy, or both. It does seem clear as it does in every section, that #2 has a wider border.

The two totem poles have four visible and distinct sections each, for a total of eight. They each also have an invisible

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one, for a total of ten. I suspect that the two invisible ones are identical and that they serve as ‘connectors,’ though I have no way to be certain of that. It is entirely my intuition, as our mechanical contrivances have no way of computing, much less detecting this widely held and yet personal belief.

The inferences or disagreements you may draw from that explanation are no doubt correct; as they are yours, until the day that you ‘have been taught’ to be deferential. Thank you for your time. My eyes are closing. My nap is long overdue. And it’s time for part five. Thank you. Good night.”

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Two Cane Noir Esotericisms Quadrupled- 1

The author came out of somewhere to say; “Wait a minute.

That entire argument is disproportionately flawed by the fact that #2 is larger on the right.”

Genevieve said; “Fine. But, don’t conveniently forget that

#1 is larger on the left, and I just equalized them in the sectional aspect to avoid issues over perhaps what are only tiny metamorphoses.”

The author said; “Look Genevieve. I’m not even going to argue. This is my book and by definition, no matter how absurd, no matter how inadequate, no matter how imperfect, I am right within its covers. If you can’t deal with that, too bad for you.

Go write your own book, and allow me the privilege and easier position of going second.”

Genevieve said; “You want to get bitten?”

The author said; “Ummmm. ......... Maybe. Maybe not.

Depends on what you mean and my mood that day. ......... It’s a long story. ....... Oh, stupid me. Did you mean right now?”

Genevieve said; “I’m taking a nap.”

The author said; “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

I said; “I just hate quibbling and I don’t agree with either of you.”

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Edward Drobinski said; “This is my book and it is me who is having the final word. ....... I think.”

A wind kicked up and dark clouds rolled in bringing with them thunder and lightning, played as the sound was intentionally set to hominid mute, which pooches privately hear.

The Stylistics came out of the seventies to intervene.

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Genevieve with Dillon in their basket and “You Make Me Feel Brand New” by Linda Diane Creed and Thomas Randolph Bell; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and

“transformative” doctrines.

This does seem to carry with it, a sense of a circle.

Patti Smith appropriately closed the Bowery Ballroom show with “Seneca.”

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Seneca and “Seneca” by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use”

and “transformative” doctrines.

NOT NECESSARILY THE END

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Two Cane Noir Esotericisms Quadrupled- 2

Concluding Unscientific Postscript

Excuse me; I’m just the writer here. Most may not have taken any notice. That’s fine with me as I prefer it that way.

The little man who wasn’t there and “Antogonish” written by William Hughes Mearns; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use,” “transformative,” and “public domain doctrines.

But, in order to be properly represented in this charade, I’d first like to point out that I have a pantheistic or possibly a

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high-numbered-polytheistic viewpoint; or generally espouse that in books, though far from all, probably because some don’t call for that ...... or maybe I write them to purposely not call for that ...... or possibly because I know little of what these terms mean in the context of letters on a page ....... or maybe otherwise too. I can assure the reader that I am both consciously and unconsciously aware of that.

In that philosophical ....... religious ....... whatever regard I have allowed the “real” Genevieve to make comments and corrections herein. I would like to use a different word than

“allowed” but don’t think it exists. Sanctioned and accepted present similar problems. Not quite. Maybe it’s the opposite of prohibited, but that doesn’t really work all that well in Roget’s.

So, if we’d just quit fussing about parlance and its inferences ...... Oh, that was me. My apologies. What I’m trying to say is that I welcomed the “real” Genevieve’s input, be it a tiny nuance or an evocative correction. At the same time it seems to me that any attempt of hers to add “truth” to my fictional depiction of her dreams, and being further mindful of the “real” Genevieve being a product of my imagination strongly suggests that the whole thing is patently absurd.

Both Genevieves would surely disagree.

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This approach is akin to an attempt to analyze a “real”

situation with meta tools, or vice versa ....... neither .......

both ....... Whatever; bottom line it doesn’t really matter as this is my book .......... more or less.

Or maybe I chanced into guessing Genevieve’s dreams almost precisely ....... or maybe she just wanted to participate ......

or maybe it happened somewhere I didn’t think I had been .......

or maybe it never happened at all ...... or maybe some of it happened and I filled in the rest in order to write a comprehensible book ....... or maybe I don’t know ...... or maybe.

I’m writing “The End” here only because it is customary to do so, in full realization that I will be thereby interpreted as being inordinately needful of being socially accepted. That is not true. I think. Anyway, here it is.

The End

Genevieve; A Sketch of Five Trees

Page 306

Panca Sky Magenta Pentad- 1

NOT!!

NOT!!

NOT!!

NOT!!

NOT!!

Genevieve; A Sketch of Five Trees Page 307