Genevieve; More Than Eight to the Fair by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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book will be too difficult for
grown-ups, then you write it for children."
-Madeleine L’ Engle-
The Dream...................................................... 1
The Awakening................................................. 25
The Journeys.................................................. 38
Backtrack..................................................... 62
Greetings..................................................... 70
They’re All In................................................ 85
Pacific Meets Dove Meets the Rest............................ 102
And So They Go............................................... 143
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The Dream
Genevieve’s Maltese, furry, white snout released a murmur so low, the sound could not have been heard by anyone. Her golden aged, white shaded
Genevieve of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
body must have been hovering rather than flying, as she was high, but her elevated view was nearly stationary; like the focus of an immobile camera on a long, long, long fixed tripod.
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Fixed camera; property of the author.
When she looked down she saw an overhead view of the garden maze below. When she looked sideways she saw that she was aloft in the wicker basket of a helium triggered balloon with an unseen skipper; likely a hiding hominid. She thought that because, as far as she knew, pooches had not yet made any incursions into the realm of hot air balloons; that being a hominid monopoly, with or without the balloon aspect.
Genevieve was a passenger with no control over her precise atmospheric whereabouts or movement vis-à-vis the firmament. A gentle southerly breeze seemed to determine her direction. Her altitude was fashioned by whatever invisible being was pushing on the helium pedal, producing a periodic fiery growl and
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increased elevation at the sagging moment of each push.
Genevieve was wonderfully exhilarated, while also to a lesser extent, a victim of the fear of being totally out of control.
She found the dualities to be eminently manageable when she folded her ears, muffling the proot-toot-toot-brabba-put-put sound of hot air and its perpetrator.
Balloon; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0
license.
Be that as one might momentarily deem it may, the wingless winging personal experience was generally pleasant for Genevieve, and she had no complaints she wished to convey. She just thought it wise to overstate the “fear” part, as it seemed to be required and popular in the “Psychology Today” disturbed year of 2019.
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The maze below was the kind of studied-to-death thing which originated in 17th century Italy, and was now most nurtured in the United Kingdom. On the one hand it was roughly five sided, and on the other it was obviously a creation which resulted from many meticulous gardeners’ long term, recurring, precise, but caring, cultivation.
View of garden maze from above; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“It is one thing to view it from afar, and quite another to see it up close. It’s not a matter of better or worse; just
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different most of the time,” she thought in a restating which refrained from re-touching upon the obvious physical aspects.
View from the Dunes with Beach and Piers by Piet Mondrian; public domain.
The Still Life with Gingerpot II by Piet Mondrian; public domain.
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Composition by Piet Mondrian; public domain.
Incorrectly or not, Genevieve’s unspoken perception of her tiny Maltese supply of curiosity must have overtaken her distant view; as the next thing she knew she was on the ground and somewhere surrounded by the cultivated maze; no exit in sight.
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Genevieve of Pacific Lane within the garden maze; property of the author.
She found the ground level privacy to be quite pleasant, much like she had found her wingless winging; not better or worse, just different. Her crusher fine path produced no paw discomfort as she walked. The precisely trimmed, thick bushes reminded Genevieve of her last viewing of televised Saturday morning hominid cartoons; that having come at age two. The association must have been the result of the precision by which the little ones sought to practice thrashing each other with super squirters and garden hoses. At first Genevieve thought it was funny in the way it predicted what they’d be doing with more serious weaponry in adulthood. But, the frivolity quickly wore
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off. It wasn’t as if a pooch could have any effect upon what the techie hominids chose to do to each other, but a fear that before the hominids succeeded in wiping all hominids out, they’d start kidnapping innocent dogs for use in their “scientific” lab kill-rate “studies.”
TV cartoon; property of the author.
At some point after having enjoyed the seclusion and the beauty of the well-cultivated, fragrant bushes, Genevieve focussed on the fact that she could not see over or through the tall green hedges. This made it extremely difficult for her to navigate her way from the supposed entrance to the supposed exit, not necessarily that she wanted to at the moment. But, because, no matter how recurrently pleasing the surroundings, she didn’t want to be trapped alone within the confines of it
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for an eternity. Had a way out been clear, she’d likely have appreciated spending more time there.
She tried using the shifting light of the sun and its shadows to find her way to the exit. It was not that she necessarily wanted to use it in the present, but she was somehow induced to be assured that its existence was a valid option for her. Besides, as the shadows grew longer, Genevieve increasingly resented the box bush’s reserve in not granting her easy access to her well-loved and needed, Irish Setter mate, Dillon. Her eyes still on the bushes, her memory overtook that view, and her mind presented a picture of missing Dillon.
Dillon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
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The ground seemed hard and Genevieve’s beautiful garden was gradually taking on more and more of a cement blocked appearance.
Genevieve of Pacific Lane within the garden maze; property of the author.
Standing on her tippy toes on one edge of the widest path she knew, Genevieve could see over the hedges on the other that sunset was getting near. Pretty as it was, panic set in. She envisioned being stuck in the maze for the evening; no home, no blanket, no bed but the cold, hard ground, and no protection from whatever vicious predators would come her way.
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Approaching sunset; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.
She felt something on her tail and leaped two feet. She turned and saw nothing other than a bush which must have temporarily gotten out of line and fell right into it, her coat picking up some of the bush’s moisture. Coupled with the coming night air, it made her feel colder. Her deep breath produced a vapor cloud, which quickly dissipated.
Genevieve of Pacific Lane wearing garden hedge moisture; property of the author.
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Genevieve got up and frantically ran, hoping she had previously missed the exit; stumbling on every contour in the gravel path. She halted abruptly when she heard a voice. Her increased focus made it clear that the voice was singing in a very proper British accent, the pitch and tone indicating neither male, female, nor hybrid. Presented with another unfamiliar item, this increased her level of unease, and she stood perfectly still, as if being soundlessly motionless would dispel the singer’s further advance.
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Witches and “Season of the Witch” by Donovan Leitch; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
Under these unusual particular circumstances the song seemed more than faintly ominous, with references to “witches” and
“strange,” like an insect’s touch rendered in a dark cemetery.
She froze and the voice kept getting louder. Without the benefit of her own shadow, she managed to be beside herself in fear.
The singer turned a corner and she then saw that it was Winnie-the-Pooh carrying a sleeping Rabbit. Genevieve blurted out; “You scared me half to death. What on earth are you doing here?”
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Winnie-the-Pooh carrying Rabbit; property of the author.
“Shhh. Don’t wake Rabbit. Why, I was just taking a walk with my friend. Well, he’s not walking now, as he got tired, and I wanted to continue on. So I carried him. What are you doing here?”
“Trying to find my way out.”
Winnie looked confused and said; “Umm. Were you born here?”
“No! Of course not.”
“So, you purposely came here in order to try to get out?”
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“It’s not easy to explain. First, introductions are in order. You’re Winnie-the-Pooh ...... “
“And you’re Genevieve.”
“How did you know?”
“I can read.”
“I feel much better now with you here. I was up in a balloon ..... “
“Like this?”
“No. A big balloon, way up in the sky, in a basket. I was looking down at this maze, and the next thing I knew I was in it. Where is the exit? ........ Entrance?”
“I don’t know. Rabbit and I just fly in and out using my little balloon. See it in my hand?”
“Sure I do. But it isn’t making you fly now.”
“Well, no. When I want to fly away I have to wish hard enough and then the balloon carries me wherever I want to go.
Doesn’t your balloon do that too?”
“As you can see, my balloon left.”
“Maybe it’s just playing ‘hide and seek’ with you. It might pop out at any time. ....... Would you like to see a picture of me with some of my friends?”
“Sure.”
“Eeyore isn’t in it because he took the picture. He’s always the best with technical gadgets and he captured the
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rainbow.” Winnie reached under his shirt and retrieved the picture.
Picture of Winnie and friends; property of the author.
“That’s a lovely picture. You have so many friends.”
“Yes. But, you do too. Don’t you?”
“Yes. I suppose. I wish they were here now.”
“Maybe if you wish hard enough. ......... Uh oh, there we go. I must have wished hard enough for my balloon to carry Rabbit and me away. Bye Genevieve.”
“Oh, Winnie. Take me with you.”
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“I wish I could. We’re kind of out of control here. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
“Bye Winnie. Bye Rabbit.”
Genevieve wasn’t so sure about being fine; but didn’t want to say anything which might have upset Winnie; especially since that would serve no purpose in the situation. Head to the ground she dejectedly took a few more steps over ground she thought she had already covered. But this time there was a crazy opened door in the hedges with a view of even crazier scenes on the other side; so insistent that they reflected off the gray cobblestone path, giving it a the appearance of a collage of colors.
Genevieve had found the exit she said she was seeking, but now had second thoughts about the dangers that might lurk beyond the strange door. She squatted and looked, hoping to see something which would add reassuring to strange.
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Door; property of the author.
Genevieve got her wish. She saw Dillon, and he said; “Come on over here silly. We’re going home.”
His suggestion seemed so obvious and easy, Genevieve entirely placated her prior maze worry, with a sheepish step through the door that she had not previously seen. She said;
“Take me home, babe.”
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Dillon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
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Ice cream parlor and “Saturday Night” by Frey, Henley, Collins, Leadon, and Meisner; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
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The Awakening
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Two spring robins and stylized Al Jolsen poster and “When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin’ Along” by Harry Woods;
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property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
Genevieve woke up in the dark, and stretched out the regimented, surly impediment imposed by her left, rear, back, paw which had once stepped into a relatively shallow, rabbit hole, which it was not inclined to and/or capable of departing without first requiring a tiny recognition of its existence; thereby appearing more or less reasonable. She didn’t follow her usual routine of coffee making, coffee drinking, and window gazing. Instead, she was drawn to her alternate, twelve step, supposedly sobrietized view provided by the dull, semi-hominid-created, semi-reproductive gleam provided by her laptop. .......
As far as she could ascertain, she was only up to ten, maybe eight; so bad things still had the potential of happening. With her eyes incompletely restricted to the front; back paw visions a difficult maneuver at her advanced age, she rested her head and paws on the thing, with eyes still drowsy and monochromatically dull. Had it been more lively, the reflection of Genevieve’s face on the screen would have provided her with an image she preferred to her dismal expectations of what the hominid net could provide. Boot-boot. Whirr-beep. In-out. Whirr-beep some more. Light-shade. Whirr-beep some more. Nice coastal picture ruined with Hi, Genevieve at the center. The thing knows my name. What am I doing here without a stimulating cup of black
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diversion? There it goes. Not quite. Icons coloring. Click one.
Not quite. Dee dum de dee dum. Here we go. Not quite. The manufacturer has important notifications for you. Time to check backup settings or back upset ings. Clear notifications. Whew, I’m so glad to see you Cortana.
Genevieve of Pacific Lane at her computer; property of the author.
Genevieve’s movements and the laptop’s beeps roused Dillon.
When he saw that she had gone right to her laptop rather than making coffee, he made it, after only a few “technical-type”
questions concerning how much to put in the filter and what buttons needed pushing. He filled her cup directly from the source, and brought it to her, substituting the pot.
“Thanks, babe. You know what is wrong with these things?”
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“The lack of commonly sized filters and an instruction booklet?”
“You’re cute. Hehe. No, silly; I mean these one eyed monsters I’m now staring at.”
“Oh! Well, usually if you lose the internet, you can most easily get it back by re-booting. If that doesn’t work, checking the physical connections is step two. If that fails, you’re in deep doo-doo as you’ll wind up on the smart phone speaking to some incompetent, low-wage hominid in India.”
“It sounds like your coffee is ready, sweets. I’m thinking more conceptually, here. It’s that these things now have so many avenues of pursuit and how they seduce ‘social’ commentary from those who really had no prior stated interest in or thoughts on the matter. ....... Like right there. The golden inlay within the stained mahogany on that Heppelwhite reproduction table sometimes seems just too precise. Too calculated. Too un-natural. The imprecision attained only through a patina acquired through time is preferable. ...... Know what I mean?”
“Ummm, yeah. Most often best left unsaid. ...... Damn, this is still hot.”
“Surprise, surprise. I have a theory.”
“About patinas. Heat, or coffee?”
“All three and neither. For a moment, think back to the early days of television. There were 5-8 channels and often
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those were unavailable due to problems with reception. Then it went to 25 with cable, eventually going over 200. There became an expanding need to fill the allotted time. So, it is undeniable that approximately more than 98% of what became available with cable would not have made the free cut pre-cable.
Ipso facto, standards went immediately to hell.”
“Is that why this mug is so hot. It’s burning my paws.”
“Set it on a coaster. It gets worse. Then the net came along expanding the availability of already 98% sub-par programming exponentially. So, the chair-bound hominids stare and push buttons which lead to other places inducing that same, uninterested blank stare. ....... Every hominid nitwit has a blog; their standard approach to give you free information, 80%
of the time incorrect, in order to lead you to click on some dumb book or subscribe to the ‘helpful’ wrong one’s newsletter.”
“If you’re saying that the net is a useless bore, say it first to yourself; as you may have noticed that I’m not the one using it. Ouch.”
“Good for you. The point is that David Foster Wallace was only half right. Hominids will not ‘entertain’ themselves to death. They will un-entertain themselves to it. As an aside, no loss if you asked me.”
“’Entertainment’ and ‘un-entertainment’ can almost be equated in the same sense in which he spoke of TV and anti-TV.”
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“Granted.”
“Pedantic details and moving methodologies aside, we are of one mind, my lady.”
“Of perhaps more relevance, we should be of two. Depends.
Sorry. The dynamic is simple. Despite the suggestion that if you throw enough dung at the wall some is sure to stick, a hominid finds nothing satisfactory on the web. Their reaction is at least twofold. First and most simply, they suspect that they are doing something wrong, and secondly, in order not to be clearly confronted with having wasted time, they continue to surf hoping to find something of worth. Of course they don’t, and up until now it is only sleep which has saved them from ‘Death by Cyclops.’”
“Yes, you see the default addict approach is to navigate the web looking for something interesting, or at least not obviously biased to the point of being humorous.”
“Actually, that’s the part I sometimes find amusing.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Well, what nice thing can be said of biased news so badly written that the writer, editor, and owner must not be paying any attention? What nice thing can be said of the bogus rating systems? What nice thing can be said of the boring blogs? Every hominid has at least one. What nice things can be said of the old retarded re-runs? What nice thing can be said of the social
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media ‘experts’ who always get something basic absolutely wrong by their second paragraph? What nice thing ........ “
“Can we skip this?”
“No, not yet. Let me just bring up this one. You’ll have to laugh. This is a purported book review, insofar as what that means on the literarily ‘astute’ site called Gudreeds. Many reviews are actually charming personal stories, of little use to a potential reader of the book. The book website is packed with hominids who would never have previously come close to making the cut.”
“A DAY IN THE LIFE WITH DFW *****
Note; Admittedly, it could have been a while back, but I might have been given a free hard copy of this book; “The Ocean Over the Septic Tank,” in return for an honest review. I might have no financial interest in its sales, unless you click right here, in which case I’ll get an inconsequential gratuity. Since I’ve been writing reviews on this site for a year, which all tend to be five starred ones, I’ve been inundated with free books from authors and publishers. I’ve got about forty piled up on the dining room floor and another 800 on my computer. Jeez, I’ll never catch up. I didn’t know how they got my home or personal e-mail address until last week when one of them called me. He started yelling at me. I found out that he paid $15 to my
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Goodreads friend who promised him he’d have a five star review in a week and gave him my personal information, telling him to just send it directly. Well, I’ll tell you that I straightened him right out, the guy on the phone that is, and told him I’d do it next, not wanting to offend my friend, who will remain un-named. Anyway, I was a bit fatigued this morning after driving my two kids to school. They got into their old argument about who is getting the front seat and all of that. Yes, we still have that alternating-days system which I mentioned in other reviews, but Jimmy was sick on Friday, his front seat day, so Michelle sat there. Michelle insisted that Monday was her day and that it wasn’t her fault when Jimmy gets sick. So, they both got in the front seat and wouldn’t budge. I didn’t know what to do, so I just drove them and hoped that some cop wouldn’t make a big deal about the seat belt thing. That turned out to be cool, but halfway there they started jostling for position and Jimmy must have not been completely better as he hurled all over, including on Michelle’s dress. I was going to bring them both back home, but Michelle insisted on going to school saying that she didn’t want to be stuck in the house with sick barf boy as it might be catchy, and that “with all the gross shit on the internet, nobody’s going to give a flying fuck over a little vomit.” It’s okay. I told her that she could use those kinds of words when she turned ten, like her boyfriend next door. So, I
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dropped her off and drove Jimmy back home. I got him changed, put him to bed and cleaned up the car, trying not to puke myself. So, I’m sitting here tired, disgusted, pissed and rebellious. Just to show everybody who’s boss I picked up this other, very fat book. It’ll put those nasty fifteen buck writers back a while. I also figured that since he’s dead Wallace won’t be calling me. It doesn’t look new. Damn, the phone’s ringing.
Be right back.
That was the goddam school. I’ve got to go bring Michelle back home. No, they didn’t object to the vomit; at least not the vomit itself, as least as far as I understand it. It was that my little angel has been bombarding the nerdy boy who sits beside her with the big chunks. You know, that kid is such a wimp. Any real boy would just throw them back at her, but the sissy is crying. Christ.
I’m outta here. Oh yeah, IJ is a great, great book. I’d like to give it six stars. Great plot, moves right along. Recommended to anyone over ten years of age with strong arms. Maybe will update. It’s heavy. Ha ha ha.”
“Ha ha ha.”
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“Inadvertantly ha ha ha. But that’s about as good as it gets.”
“Want a refill?”
“No, I’m fine. .......... Hey, look at this! There’s a fair on Dove Lane today; just like we did on Pacific Lane last spring.”
Invitation; property of the author.
“Wanna go?”
“Most definitely! Right after I finish my drink.”
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Genevieve of Pacific Lane at her dish; property of the author.
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The Journeys
The five Pacific Lane kitten siblings had for the most part been secretly looking forward to this event for weeks. Most curious Puff-Puff learned of it through sporadic laptop usage, in which he confined his searches to items which concerned Poochville. The kittens had grown a bit since their difficult, infancy arrival on Pacific Lane almost two years prior, when Clement risked his good pooch standing, if not expulsion or incarceration, to save them and their mother, Sheba; though they were too young to know exactly what was going on at the time.
They were now semi-cats, and Sheba was still their mom, and being a dog, Clement was something like an odd looking cat step-father to them.
Somewhat like socially conforming hominid teenagers convinced that they were not socially conforming, at least in appearance and articulated pronouncements, they all said what they thought would be “cool” to the group; that they were all looking forward to taking their first trip away from Pacific Lane without their parents; and with even more boldness, with no adult supervision whatsoever. So, they told no one of their plans, and the big day had arrived.
Wailer, the only female in the group, had some reservations about the whole thing, which she kept to herself. Tippy did the
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same verbal non-interaction; perhaps more spiritually difficult for him, being seemingly alone in the midst of three gung ho boys.
With differences and similarities, Wailer and Tippy, one hundred percent shared the wish that it would rain, sleet, or snow like hell when this day came, necessitating the postponement of this event. Despite voluminous and corpulent prayers directed to the big cat in the sky to this effect, it didn’t.
Sunshine, Tippy, Puff-Puff, Wailer, and Teddy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
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Wailer and Tippy preferred to have had one more year to settle into the certain eventuality that they would face the free rigors of life devoid of semi-parental protection. Neither considered this to be a cancellation, just a rescheduling, like a re-played, same season, rain-out, and not as deceptively severe as that deftly performed by the sophisticated politico Brit hominids had been able to accomplish with regard to Brexit delays, measured in multiples of years and a barrage of “expert”
trepidations. But, three of the five were champing at the bit for un-managed carnival/fair attendance, and there is something to be said for the relevance of stated group wishes, no matter the “lowest common denominator” results of time worn, predictable, group “think.”
Sunshine of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
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No impediments in sight pre-dawn, and not knowing the length of the trip, the five started out, packing lunch and water bottles. Poochville Road was otherwise unoccupied and easy to traverse by cats blessed with a light adjusting vision endemic to all species other than hominid. The feathery fog generated by the impending, merging confluence of night and day did not impede paw steps as much as it would have the windshield of an auto. The lack of meows, chatter, and noise was especially odd if one did not take into account the distinct possibility that the three protagonists were as unsure of themselves as the two sporting hidden reservations.
They trod on for thirty un-event-full minutes, which seemed like two hours, when Sunshine, now on the verge of prominence, suggested that they stop for a food and water breakfast.
Upon completion, they got up and walked again. In less than ten feet Wailer loudly said; “Boooyahroooooowaaapwaaapwaap,”
drawing some attention, before utilizing three expectorative procedures to bless a group of surprised, pink, yellow, and light green hellebores with vomit. This proved to be catchy as Tippy and Teddy heaved, heaved, heaved, and let it fly on the seemingly absorbing lower bark of two pines.
A pause in the quintet’s journey was strongly suggested and heeded.
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Genevieve and Dillon got their start in a leisurely manner, though not as leisurely as most of the canine residents of Pacific Lane. Having done it many times previously, they knew that they’d get to Dove Lane with plenty of time remaining to revel in the day’s festivities. Not only did their trek begin until they had the full benefit of the unobstructed spring sun, but they also walked slowly in Dillon’s deference to Genevieve’s tiny steps.
Genevieve and Dillon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
Taking larger ones, natural for both of them, Daisy and Waylon caught up with Genevieve and Waylon, slowed down, and the four walked more or less together, chatting about how Dove may have taken a cue from Pacific’s spring carnival of the prior year,
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the conversation saturated with “It’s all good”s and heads bobbing with appreciative nods.
Daisy and Waylon of Pacific Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.
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Crossroads; property of the author.
The group of cats was befuddled when they reached the unexpected crossroads. Confusing them further, a grinning, six foot rabbit appeared out of somewhere, and began singing.
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Enormous, the Rabbit of Foxhole Prairie; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
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Leather riders selling news and “The Soft Parade” by Morrison, Densmore, Krieger, and Manzarek; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
The rabbit disappeared as Genevieve, Dillon, Daisy, and Waylon caught up with the three kitten/cats who were doing their best to hide their “up to here with hints of regurgitative capabilities,” as well as two other accommodating, bewildered and careworn kitten/cats at the crossroads, where the words on the direction signs had been either painted away, or allowed to fade to a kind, generic oblivion; in either case more likely a manifestation of a tricky or neglectful display which was just one small part of a series of neglectful hominid inattentions.
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Genevieve said; “What are you doing so far from home by yourselves?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued; “Don’t go right. This is suspicious. Let us check it first.”
Deep woods; property of the author.
She and the three other dogs in her entourage went through a dark path lined with more or less, encroaching, un-clipped, path-intrusive, and restrictive Chinese Sumacs. The tiny bosque had grown to mostly be somewhere between a sapling and a fledgling tree, with full-fledged Chinese Sumac trees at the entrance, if one devoid of a picture can see that through the opposite point of view. The intertwined branches, and in one case a crooked trunk, created an obstruction at the 4-5 foot
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level, which was no impediment to a grounded, four-legged dog, other than its substantially inadequate and consequently laughable attempt to block out all light.
At the first clearing, the four explorers found an advertising sign indicating severe hominid territory. If there were ever any trees there, they had been replaced with a
”rebellious” invitation into the barbecue pit, overtly directed at “trucks” and by way of the simplest of inferences, whatever else was attendant to the minimally-controllable eighteen wheeler’s barreling. The sign was topped by a dead animal of indeterminable species, apparently a deference to a proven hominid attraction. One might view this as another innocuous, petty joke, politely or impolitely amusing to some for a short time, if not for the democratically consistent, demonstrated fascination with a dead animal in lights.
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Advertising sign; property of the author.
A few feet away was another sign; even worse for hominids in a joking, thereby subtle way. It might have contained a warning of sorts, camouflaged by cheery faces; any intended sarcasm lost in the unknown intent of its designer.
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Second advertising sign; property of the author.
Genevieve sadly intoned, though with the slightest hint of merriment; “That’s such a shame. It was the best thing the hominids had going for them.”
Dillon shrugged as if to say; “You inevitably reap what you sow.”
In consideration of not wanting to give the appearance of being paw-jerk judgmental, the intrepid quad proceeded, despite mutually understood, yet unspoken, gut level expectations of an expectation only seen in the worst of pooch nightmares. They fully understood that if a pooch was not 100% thorough in investigating an earth-jarring, barreling circumstance which common pooch sense would rightly reject upon attaining
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experience at the 10% level. Their conclusions would invariably be effectively dismissed by academics, through some ersatz
“joke” to which academics have been indoctrinated to conform to in “sophisticated” merriment appropriately contained. Through the utilization of subsidies provided by the social media enforced, mult-national-corporation-inevitable-fight-of-the-prior-outdated-war, a 50% or much less level of impressive book
“experience,” un-checked credentials, accompanied by the “best”
with a false seeming confidence gathered through inexperienced-university-geek-acumen, incapable of surviving the historically destined pawn attack; they ostensibly were incapable of recognizing their self-inflicted punishment accompanied by e regular paycheck. This dynamic was recognized by each as possibly being of some significance to someone else, thereby infecting personal display with a polite obsequiousness to other possible opinion, though had they the ability to glean the collective hominid truth, there wasn’t any such thing.
Perhaps in the definitive undue and perhaps much-too-deferentially-exorbitant consideration of the confabulation of
“dot-no dot-dot-no dot dot-no dot, eternally ‘interesting’”
series of algorithms partially designed to squelch the undefinable common sense of the majority, and more or less, tending toward a social media supported efficacy at that, the more successful at that miniscule yet persuasive genre, which
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preys on that which is soft and open to discussion, no matter the dot-no dot, dot-no dot, ad infinitum until deemed otherwise, suppression of the most current manifestation of retardation.
“Mere mortal; how dast thou persist in providing the pedantic specifics as seen through the scientifically proven to be inaccurate, flawed lenses of a yet irreplaceable, though still slightly off, though convincing ocular ability, the details of which (witch) ..... whatever your erroneously considered as a compelling, disguised “choice,” as that “choice” has been lucratively marketed to you by those who have studied such things, meta dictated insofar as that is currently thought of by the best minds in the employ, and generally beneficial to the
“high level,” interlocking branches.
Aware of, but as disinterested as one can be with another presentation of a clandestine form of doom, the four canine residents of Pacific Lane took the opportunity to wizz on the Chinese Sumacs, who didn’t make the mistake of openly showing any signs of distaste or discomfort; that forbearance or inaction most likely a costless, “learned” approach toward potential future benefit with no downside yet recognized.
Genevieve, Dillon, Waylon, and Daisy dashed back through the trees to the waiting kitten-cats. Waylon said; “You definitely do not want to go right. Stay left.” Noticing that
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three of them were out of sorts, they inquired and were told what had happened regurgitatively.
“Dove Lane is not much further. Get on our backs and we’ll carry you the rest of the way,” said Dillon to agreeing nods from Waylon and Daisy. Genevieve added; “I’d carry you too, were I not so small. Besides, it’s just three of you who might need some assistance.”
Wailer, Tippy, and Teddy cautiously eyed each other. Teddy said; “We appreciate your offer. But, ....... if we get bumped around, we just might develop a need to hurl whatever is left in us right on your backs.”
Daisy replied; “We can go very slowly. We’re still early.
...... Ah, it’s up to you. The offer is there.”
Waylon, Daisy, and Dillon sat on the ground offering the kitten-cats easy access to a ride.
Tippy climbed onto Daisy’s back, saying; “This is like one of the tamer carnival rides. If we can’t do this, we might as well go back home.” The other two pukers shrugged agreeably.
Wailer hopped on Dillon, leaving Teddy the only option of mounting Waylon or walking. He mounted, and the nine were back on the road.
“Slow, slow, slow” going was the order of the morning; that slow, slow, slow” procedure also providing the nine with the
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closest view of the topography which one can see while in motion, no matter the provider of same.
Before the “dawdling” crew from Pacific Lane could complete the short, remaining distance to Dove Lane, they were caught up with and joined by even later Pacific Lane starters. The newer arrivals invariably expressed some degree of semi-hidden amusement at the manner in which preliminary carnival rides were seemingly arbitrarily distributed, until a voice which though technically different, invariably sounded much, much too bored under the dictated circumstances, thereby also indicative of an unintentionally belabored sound which was immediately regretted, in sad realization that it could not be undone, and that the seemingly singular point of view, most likely incorrectly seen as displayed was just one of the many available.
All, or the absence of that, was not allowed to impede upon the progress of the carnival-seeking nine plus the deceivingly leisurely progress of the now decelerated, “catching up”
stragglers, at times their weak objection embarrassingly trite, even to them.
The company of the slowed down presence of much of Pacific Lane, served as a form of relaxation which did wonders for the tummies of the three regurgitators.
Truth be told, when Teddy and Waylon consorted and escorted, the back story dynamic was one which centered upon the
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deception provided by a seemingly necessary lack of any other choice, that a fiction, that also obliged on a fictitious level, in the moment in consideration of no other apparent alternatives other than Teddy arduously walking, a quite valid option as already demonstrated, only questionable in some perverse and admittedly and judgmentally wrong way to those who thought Teddy unable to further walk after having transgressed mucho yardage after his majority mutual puke incident, while his two other vomit-challenged-and-acquiescent-thereto siblings had more quickly opted for a ride, the bumps ostensibly trusted as they could not have been previously known or envisioned, thereby relegating, if that word does not connote too much of an unintended negative precursor, evaluated without the benefit of access to a working time machine; that necessarily adjusted for against-the-odds proficiency, as well as the complication provided by un-natural daylight savings time. All in all, despite any reservations, it was more or less, all good; that conclusion largely and clandestinely dependent upon a point of view which has assigned a high priority concern to Poochville’s contended doggy over-population at the expense of hominid-claimed-accuracy, bearing shifting intellectually and intellectually shifting, insofar as that implies a distance of some sort, that which may be popularly supported by popular
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opinion, as momentarily is inevitably and verbally displayed by the fluctuating devotees/detractors of supposedly “free will.”
Perhaps vainly anticipatory, or perhaps commonly unaware of the “learned” assessments unsure to come, Genevieve said; “Looks fine to me. Soon we’ll all be at the Dove Lane fair if we just keep moving. ............ Come on already. It gets easier with each step.”
With a slight hint of agreement, Dillon attempted to register humorous disagreement in grumbling; “That’s easy for you to say with no one on your back.”
Genevieve was tempted to make another ridiculous and clandestinely beseeching entreaty, but was thankfully curtailed and effectively stymied by the faint sounds of the continually progressing steps, direction a matter for academic study and
“lesser,” plebian reaction thereto, of the profundity of simple dog and cat feet. Genevieve was certain of only one thing; that Dillon was an undiscriminating, dog-cat lover.
She wasn’t sure if she liked that, but was equally sure that she didn’t find any fault, that incomplete logic, nonetheless sometimes a reversion to an algorithmically based default position, probably a further default to a position she instinctively disparaged in silence and maybe disinterest.
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Backtrack
Lucky and Bella of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
Back on the Pacific Lane home front, Lucky came back in from his morning jaunt and excitedly said to Bella; “Maureen told me that there’s a fair on Dove Lane today, and only today!”
Bella did not look up from her coffee-pot-cleaning activity, and totally within her safe, long term, chosen disposition of outwardly expecting the worst, deadpanned; “Sure it’s not a scam?”
“It’s in Poochville. Poochville. Our Poochville. If it was Hominidville I’d expect that, and wouldn’t want to go myself.”
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“Where in Poochville? No matter really. These boundary lines were drawn by the Hominids, just like the Native American reservations.”
“Everywhere, I think. But, let’s not again open the entire can of worms. The fair is on the other side of town; Dove Lane.”
“See, there you go. Once they have you stuck in a strange territory ............ ”
Stylized 1898 cover of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” by Lewis Carroll; public domain.
“Ah, Bella. If this gloomy disposition of yours was not mixed with the most beautiful of hearts, you’d be the subject of
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a ‘the-world-is-ending’ movie to put all other hominid ‘the-world-is-ending’ horror movies to shame. Maybe it is a strange territory to us. But, strange doesn’t necessarily equal dangerous.”
“Thank you. Does this mean that we won’t necessarily have to get waylaid on the way to this supposed ‘fair?’”
“Sigh, heave, and watch that pizza slice. Just remember this my girl. When you look up to the sky; you can see the stars but still not see the light. That’s right.”
Bella sang; “Woo hoo hoo. ...... Okay, okay. I’m easy. You neglected to mention that no pooch has ever been waylaid in Poochville, denying me the opportunity of replying that we’re overdue and living in a statistical aberration. Don’t look at me like that. I’m going. I’m going. We’re going. We’re going. Alla God’s chillum is goin.’ Alla God’s chillum is goin.’ Happy now?”
“As soon as I sing the whole song for you.”
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Night sky and “Already Gone” by Sloan and James; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
Lucky and Bella hit the road in the company of some other Pacific Lane stragglers. Maggie and Tanner used their long legs
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to romp. At times they got well ahead of short-legged Lucky and Bella; but took breathers allowing them to catch up.
The shelties, Tardiff and Lenta saw the group ahead of them and got tuckered through their compulsion to catch up; resilience in the face of temporary inconvenience relegated it to being permanently temporary.
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Greetings
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Eagle and “On the Border” by Henley and Frey; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
The Dove Lane entrance to the fair did not impose anything more difficult than the requirement shaped by its space.
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Participants had little choice other than to go in or out in tandems of twos or tricky threes. The latter approach always resulted in one or two mild head bangs on a side post. Recovery rates varied widely. Most often, one or both of the dog’s butted heads just moved back and waited their solitary or tandemic turn. But, the kitten-cats were still young and overly excited by the promise of the fair; resulting in an entrance-full-free-for-all, head fur flying in all directions.
This “common sense” was known instinctively, or it inconsequentially wasn’t to be known. It mimicked the attributes of any and all disciplines not yet subjected to any hitherto established, tautologically limiting, and mathematically confirmed, and confined illusion of an order chosen to be imposed upon one’s self.
The most simple of overviews available, and therefore that of the early school dropouts, was that the ones who would foolishly try to teach it were on most comfortable ground with their rulers and their currently and invariably temporary, state-of-the-art measuring devices. Luckily none of that hominid ilk was around, and everyone got in either perfectly or with a soon forgotten minor clunk. The “inappropriate,” supposedly
“phobic,” in some sense of the loaded and overused word addendum, and Politically Correct Police enforcement of changing hominid whims, was of no interest, other than occasional
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amusement, to the canine television news watchers, recently joined by feline, residents of Pacific Lane, if not all the residents of Poochville in search of the presentation of unintended hominid humor. Invariably, as if through abject boredom or derision, in varying degrees, they wandered into
“issue”-laden, hominid spaces, in which Google must have extended all cyberian “expertise” and given corporate overhead dollars to exhaust every answer to “frequently” asked questions they were proud to be capable of getting somewhere, its breath ranging from from half-right to completely wrong. Any possible brilliance rested in their recent discovery that; “It’s the medium, not the message.”
Fair entrance; property of the author.
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Genevieve, Dillon, Daisy, Waylon, the rest of the dogs, and all five cats entered, not necessarily in that order. In fact, the order was more or less, but not exactly reversed, or maybe it was something or other largely dependent upon one’s point of view, if any. The older dogs were, with an exception or two, waiting patiently and grinning to each other as the excited young cats, with perhaps two poorly hidden exceptions knew of no restraint in excitedly crossing into their “discovery,” any remembrances of recent vomit interludes gone with their sighting of the ferris wheel and carousel.
Carousel; property of the author.
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Carousel horse; property of the author.
Though none of the rides were yet in motion, many Dove Lane residents were already there. They must have risen early in wary anticipation of seeing if any other Poochville residents would attend their sponsored event.
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Werner and Ilse of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“What are you thinking?”
“Am I required to be thinking of something?”
“Not in general. But, reactions to current events are customary.”
“Okay. Let me think about them a bit, with the hope of not covering the obvious.”
Mackie, from God-knows-where; property of the author.
“If you asked me, I’m thinking a lot about a liverwurst sandwich. I hope the stand sells them.”
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Daisy of Pacific Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“Please, let there be mayonnaise. I’ll be good forever if I can just get some mayonnaise. Really. Please. No lie this time.”
Fairgrounds; property of the author.
“Balloons are descending. ....... Or ascending. ..... Hard to tell.”
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Marshall and Betsy of Dove Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; very modified.
“Amazing! These Pacific Lane cats behave just like pooches.”
“Poochville is invariably Poochville.”
Li’l Hotsy of Dove Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“I’ve heard that they originated somewhere else.”
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Harley and Georgia of Dove Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“Odds are. What’s a cat?”
Garland, Jake, and Lightning of Dove Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“I think they’re those furry, lightweight pooches.”
“I think your phraseology is a bit disparaging.”
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“Description does not entail value judgment.”
“You haven’t been on line lately. Have you?”
“I’m as off line as they come.”
“Luddite.”
“Insults will get you everywhere.”
“Doesn’t ‘descriptive’ have a shot at those glories?”
Joyce of Dove Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“What? There are cats here? Where?”
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Brewster of Dove Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.
“Not me. I don’t think. ...... Not that it matters. .....
To me, anyhow. ....... I suppose that there are other points of view.”
Margo of Dove Lane; property of the author.
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“No doubt. More importantly, I can use some of that liverwurst someone mentioned.”
Genevieve of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Isn’t liverwurst a hominid food? I’ve never had any yet.
Hope it’s not harmful.”
Smiley of Dove Lane; property of the author.
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Don’t you just hate it when the conversation goes so off topic?”
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They’re All In
Victor of Placitas Road; property of the author.
Victor, a former Poochville mayoral candidate, was also already there. Apparently, he had forgotten to leave his now empty trailing cart of rear-bunking political positions somewhere back on the campaign trail, which led to Poochville’s Denial Mountain border with Rapidtown; way, way, back from Dove Lane. He had graduated to a position now more intent upon mingling with his “minions” in an entertaining and amusing frivolity, rather than as a mistaken messenger of serious bad news on the border.
To Victor’s credit, most politicians remain what they are primarily through a continued and profound ability to be either embarrassment immunized or through being the recipient of an
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unpublicized lobotomy. It’s hard to tell the difference as the somber and earnest facial expressions are identical in either case.
Napping Genevieve of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
Overcome with old memories, new ones of liverwurst, and-or the physical fatigue induced by the trip, Genevieve took a nap or feigned one. Only she will ever know. She laid down and closed her eyes, while her Dillon waited. He suspected that she was secretly registering a preference for rides over rhetoric, and clandestinely shared her preferences, while remaining on his feet.
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Cross Eyed Charise of Dove Lane; property of the author.
Cross Eyed Charise, one of the sponsors from spring fair sponsoring Dove Lane watched the inactivity. It was early and it seemed as if the shepherd/promoter’s dual focus was on the one hand trying to come to some sort of conclusion about the strange behavior of the Pacific Lane guests. She appreciated their coming, but seeing only Genevieve and Dillon was perplexed over their drowsy and complicit lack of overt participation in the Dove Lane provided badinage. She might not have been paying full attention to them, perhaps thinking distractedly about birthday girl Abigail, as well as existent and impending finances.
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Willy and Daisy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“What are you thinking now?”
“Liverwurst, mayonnaise, and comics.”
“Your complexity soars to the level of banality plus one.”
“You’re just posturing.”
“ ............. “
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Fair food stand; property of the author.
Not only did the limited stand not sell liverwurst and mayonnaise, they sold only the proven-sufficiently-popular, corn dogs, cotton candy, pizza, French fries, funnel cakes, peanuts, popcorn, and pretzels. But the stand also had strange old paperbacks, strange old periodicals, strange old books, strange old magazines, and strange old comic books available for paw perusal. It was a close call whether the perceived “strangeness”
emanated from an unreasonable expectation, a penchant to evaluate, or a true lust after liverwurst and mayonnaise, the precise delineation perhaps a subject for those prone to an unquestionably narrow bookish engendered evaluation, to the exclusion of pooch-pup-cat-kitten experience.
Since the little ones did not find any of the cuisine items suitable for breakfast, un-mid-level-entertained and thereby distracted, they looked at the comic books.
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Comics; property of the author.
Comics; property of the author.
“Cat comics!”
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Genevieve of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“What do you think?”
Protectors Billy and Jack of the Boggy Cleave Riverbank or thereabouts; property of the author.
“Just the discernable facts, ma’am. We’re watching.”
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“Good show.”
Clara, Barney, and Gizmo of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Isn’t that approach ultimately one which denies the necessary esoteric? ...... Maybe the un-necessary esoteric.
...... Whatever. Just trying to ‘socially’ follow along with the popular flow.”
“Trapped, like a hard cheese, lusting rat.”
“Direction acknowledged. Analogy denied.”
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Bumper cars; property of the author.
“Somebody, turn on the juice!”
Birthday girl, Abigail of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“It’s so wonderful that everyone came. I’m flattered and humbled. ........ Thanks, all. Please enjoy.”
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Daisy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Gonna rip it yet? It must be almost nine.”
Waylon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Consider it ripped.”
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The Pawsborne quads of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Where is it?”
“Down here somewhere.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
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Protectors Billy and Jack of the Boggy Cleave Riverbank or thereabouts; property of the author.
“That is a job for forensics.”
“Or a good thief.”
Clement of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“I think I’ve seen this segment before. Wanna play ball?”
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Roller coaster; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0
license.
“Roller ball at your request.”
Genevieve of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“If you can hang on, it picks up a lot toward the end.”
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Tardiff and Lenta of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Oooh. That’s much bigger and higher than I thought. And it revolves too. I’m not sure that it’s all right.”
“Only one way to find out. Trust me.”
Sheba of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Think I’m lazy. Wait until you have five. ...... And who you callin’ cat. I’m a proud feline.”
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Daisy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Takes the color right out of your cheeks.”
Willy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
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“Not necessarily.”
Linda of Tranquil Way; property of the author.
“I feel very strongly both ways.”
Lucky and Bella of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“This is not going to work out at all.”
“ ...... “
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“Well, it’s not.”
“ ....... “
“Well?”
“That’s always a bad bet.”
“Ever hear of Soros?”
“No. But I suppose I’ll soon be so blessed.”
“Skip it.”
“’Hippity hop, hop, hop,’ whispered Enormous Rabbit.”
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Pacific Meets Dove Meets the Rest After taking the thirty seconds required to feel relaxed and comfortable with each other, inclusive of the observations that no one was carrying a knife or a gun unless it was in an unmentionable place, not very conducive to transport of such things, the dogs lost all of their wariness, and proceeded to romp with abandon. Oddly to some, this free feeling was partially due to them no longer sensing that they had to pay any attention to the other; perhaps more accurately phrased as “no longer feeling that they had to scrutinize the other.” A desirable sort of imprecise silliness prevailed.
Dogs from any and all places playing with abandon; property of the author.
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As most of the others chose their rides, worrying Willy, Pacific Lane’s most proficient roof repairer, carpenter, and general jack of all trades, was re-infested with thoughts. It was not invited; the not-so-little scalawag just barged in once more. It had done that so many previous times, its lack of any previous recrimination must have been by now construed as an invitation. For a few seconds Willy defied the laws of inertia, by stopping and wondering what might happen if the number nine was never invented or if subsequent to invention it was discarded.
Willy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
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To Willy, it seemed to parallel, in a relative relevance way, what was going on right now; the abandonment of a system designed with pooch safety in mind, and/or undesignedly natural to it. How would one express 9 or 19 if there was no nine? If all the numbers were 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8, then 9 would be 10, and 19 would be 21, or 18 + 3, and this would be the 22nd century. Simple; 9 is unnecessary. Willy hummed and decided to ride.
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IX and “Revolution 9” by John Lennon and Paul McCartney; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
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Clement of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Rides and facts are carefully selected anecdotal
‘evidence’ which are consistent with the signifier's viewpoint, if known to him/her/it, unless they are the result of haphazard meanderings by some ‘poetic’ fazool.”
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Maureen of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“I’ve brought some of my fractals. Want to see them? I believe that there is a sequence of sorts.”
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The swirl fractal; property of the author.
A cross eyed hominid fractal; property of the author.
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Imperfect math – multiplication fractal; property of the author.
Death fractal; property of the author.
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Rebirth fractal; property of the author.
Happy of Dove Lane and Tanner of Pacific Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
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“I like you too.”
Big Benji of Craketown Road; property of the author.
“Someone please wake me when the roller coaster ride starts.”
Murphy of Overlook Terrace; property of the author.
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“I think it did.”
Morris of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“How can you tell?”
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Suzanne of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“If you don’t know, I can’t tell ya.”
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Sophocles of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“Let’s ask the chorus. ....... Kidding! Kidding! Doesn’t anyone get the joke?”
Maggie and Tanner of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Behaving yourself?”
“Always, love.”
Dillon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
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“Quite a turnout. And it’s still early.”
Rufus and Pablo of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“I never knew that there were so many pooches.”
“It’s a pooch Woodstock.”
Protectors Billy and Jack of the Boggy Cleave Riverbank or thereabouts; property of the author.
.
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“And more are on the way.”
“Unbelievable. A wonderful birthday party.”
The Pawsborne quads of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Got it yet?”
“I’m sure that I’m close.”
“Down here somewhere?”
“You’re standing on it!”
“I’m not standing on anything.”
“ ............. “
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Virginia of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“This is beautiful.”
Dinah of Foggy Path; property of the author.
“I can feel it.”
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Wittgenstein of Cumbrous Street; property of the author.
“This exceeds our preliminary estimates. In fact the normal distribution is in excess of the values at three standard deviations.”
Winifred of Flicker Street; property of the author.
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“Wild!”
Gizmo of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“You might not be able to tell, but I’m so glad.”
Carlo and Lizzy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“I’ve got an eye on them. The kids are fine.”
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Accompanied by Dillon, Genevieve went to an automated gypsy fortune reading machine fronted by a mechanized “cat” encased in glass.
Fortune machine; property of the author.
She inserted a dollar and pushed the flashing button. She withdrew a card which read; “You will soon know the total mass retain.”
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Genevieve’s card; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.
For some seemingly irrational reason, Genevieve was either mildly upset or mildly giddy. She said to Dillon; “That’s a heck of a thing to say. I don’t want to know the total mass retain.”
“I don’t understand the problem. What’s a ‘total mass retain’ anyway?”
“Well. I’m sure that I don’t know and the card agrees with me. It looks like a wall containing someone’s dart boards and no darts. Something hard to miss.”
Dillon laughed and said; “Well then; you might like knowing it.”
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“I certainly will not. Aren’t these cards supposed to say things like; ‘You will be happy and successful?’ That’s traditional.”
“Well, maybe you won’t be. But, you’ll know the Total Mass Retain, whatever that is.”
“I keep saying that I don’t want to know. Understand?”
“Fine. Look. When the Total Mass Retain comes bobbing along, just ignore it.”
“I don’t know what it looks like, ace.”
“Seriously, it was pure chance that you got that card. If I or anyone else had pushed the button first we’d have gotten it.”
Dillon inserted a dollar, pushed the flashing button, and got a card which said; “You will soon know the total mass retain.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 129
Dillon’s card; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0
license; modified.
Now, Dillon was perplexed, and said; “Stupid machine just gives the same thing to everyone.”
“It’s not exactly the same. Yours is clearer and has a dart. It’s just got those same stupid words.”
Maureen sauntered over, put in a dollar, and pushed the button. She took her card, and did not want to show its contents to Genevieve or Dillon.
Maureen’s card; property of the author.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 130
She said; “This isn’t even properly balanced. I have better at home.”
Conceivably swayed to Dillon’s original position, Genevieve said; “It’s from a machine. What can you expect?”
Dillon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
Dillon shrugged and said; “Momentary amusement? I guess that one way our fates will work out is that when you find out you’ll tell me. And I really don’t want to know.”
Genevieve stuck out her tongue.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 131
Little Benji of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“I’m glad I brought my Teddy. What do you think, Teddy?”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 132
Gizmo and Genevieve of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Just be a bit patient, little one. There’s a line ahead of you.”
“You don’t understand. I gotta go.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 133
Tardiff and Lenta of Pacific Lane property of the author.
“That ferris wheel wasn’t that scary.”
“Whoooooo.”
Markie of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“Woof. ...... Woof.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 134
Intrepid of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“Don’t mind little Markie. He’s only been in Poochville for a short distance.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 135
Langley of Dove Lane; property of the author.
Smoking
and uncontrollably bobbing
in a modest rain.
Can't walk.
Can't get in
til this stops.
I made
her problem mine.
Its wrong she said
again right.
Almost.
As if
it wasn't her push.
The brevity
her math
hiding certain
disappointment.
Blank days,
memory lapsing days
are the best
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 136
and most.
Blank is blank.
No flip-flop feet.
Fine backup.
Don't touch screen.
It inhibits sleep.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 137
Woodstock of Harmony Road; property of the author.
“I guess we’re supposed to. No?”
Buddy and Guy of Dealey Drive; property of the author.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 138
“I don’t know, man. No matter how high I get, I have the same view.”
“Problem?”
“Only when compelled to make idle chit-chat.”
Machine generated maze; property of the author.
Genevieve said; “I know it’s a matter of taste. But to me, the green ones are much more aesthetically pleasing.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 139
Percival, Patrick, and Paulette of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“I think this got blurred.”
“Speak for yourself, Percy.”
“If anyone asked me, I think it an improvement.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 140
Ferris wheel; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0
license; modified.
“Yay. Movement in the moment. ....... Sounds like an old song.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 141
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 142
Windmills and “Catch the Wind” by Donovan Leitch; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 143
And So They Go
Curious George of Landmark Road; property of the author.
“You surely must be joking. I can see it quite well in the leaves.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 144
Daisy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Yes and no. Want to suffer the details? ....... Please don’t all shout at once.”
Scott and Rebecca of Dove Lane; property of the author.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 145
“Frankly, my ears are otherwise occupied right now. But, I assure you that I’ll be interested to hear of your quandary sometime later.”
“Wrong answer, pet; a career in diplomacy not on your horizon. ....... Elected office a remote possibility.”
“That is the most insulting thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“That’s true love.”
Dorothy and Toto of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“Rainbows can get heavy?”
“Depends what they’re made of.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 146
Swinging Sam and Salivating Samantha of Wild and Crazy Plateau; property of the author.
“What do you think about when you do that?”
“Same as you, probably.”
“Come on. Say.”
“I think of you wearing red ribbons in a field of multi-colored flowers.”
“Yeah, right.”
“That is so cynical, it invariably has to be wrong.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 147
Holly Hobbie of Overlook Terrace; property of the author.
“It goes without saying. ...... Never mind. The fair is more than a little bit of all right. All is good. ...... With obvious exceptions, more or less. Not in Poochville.
Hominidville is another story, the tired, old genre somewhat marketable to the ‘fun’ preferential genre, which a critic might entirely dismiss and cruelly characterize as naïve, schlock horror aficionados and retards unaware of neither Simon nor Garfunkle. Ugh. Gag me with a spoon. Aren’t I pretty and irresistible? And I don’t even have to make an effort. Eternal peace and infinite love, kids.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 148
Enormous, the Rabbit of Foxhole Prairie; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“Did someone say ‘hippity hop’?”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 149
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 150
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 151
47 miles of barbed wire and “Who Do You Love” by Elias McDaniel; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
Clement of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 152
“Maybe at one time. Right now I more relate to slippin’ an uh slidin.’ Required bogus apologies extended.”
Pablo of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“That is so old school.”
Clement of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ on the ‘new’ school.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 153
Willy of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Did someone say that something was broken? As far as I know, it’s a great day and we’re all friends here. From all over. ....... So, what else?”
Sad Sam Jones of Bloodhound Byway; property of the author.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 154
“What would make anyone think otherwise? I mean what prompts anyone to signify what has obviously been already signified?”
High flyers; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0
license.
“In the absence of verbivoracious exclusions and misunderstandings ...... it would seem that all systems are go.
Please exercise care, first time flyers. That’s not truly necessary, but is stated, rather as is currently legally required, when a rational one disdains entanglement with the
‘class action’ barristers in search of a largesse, well beyond their worth.“
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 155
David of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“Um. Yeah. More or less. Further commentary reserved until I get on this.”
Vanessa of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“The little ones are unintentionally funny. And adorable.
Aren’t they?”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 156
Creampie of Dove Lane; property of the author.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 157
Gizmo and Sunshine of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“I got dizzy up there.”
“It will soon pass, lover.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 158
Sunshine, Wailer, and Pablo of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“They say you can’t go back, but I don’t know.”
“No personal worries. The ‘they’ are only speaking for themselves. Look at me.”
“Inadequately sorry. I thought I was.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 159
Daisy and Waylon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Might they be talkin’ to us?”
“Might. Do you care?”
“Just tryin’ to keep the conversation lively, love.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 160
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 161
Away from the Madding Crowd and “For Yasgur’s Farm” by Rea, Pappalardi, Collins, Ship, Gardos, and Laing; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 162
Balloon ascension; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.
The prior seemed so vague in the possible inaccuracies of retrospect, though at the same time, simultaneously and contradictorily de rigueur in recollection. The intention, if any, indecipherable, it begged another display. As the sun approached horizontal westernization, the adorable, though obviously bushed birthday girl, Abigail, knew it was the right time and perhaps her last chance to make a speech thanking everyone for coming. Derridian copies of Picasso aside or not,
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 163
Abby looked like nothing on the invitation. For anyone who had not seen her previously, she was much prettier than was expected, though her eyes seemed to show a strong hint of a tiredness acquired after a long day of thanked tribute. The good wishes, some perfunctory, when applied in abundance, necessitate an effortless reply which is often meant as and taken to be cordial. She hoped that her efforts were not seen as merely obligatory or that produced by a misdirected projection, while simultaneously understanding that a degree of those unsubstantiated interpretations were inevitable; the only possibly calculated a result, one which does not relate in any way documented and thereby known, by any sort of “exclusively”
held calculation ........ stopping thought right there in the realization that it had most likely been produced by a situation which encouraged a series of reflections, but no, not a reflection as mirror or pond, more like Welles’ distorted fun house mirrors, inasmuch as whatever it was was inordinately conducive to an indescribably invisible feeling which seemed to compel a smiling lack of pedantic analysis; that anti-analysis as in resistant, but not impervious, to that thankful speech which had not yet been physically affected by any attempt to fully infect Abigail’s dog-tired mind.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 164
Birthday girl, Abigail of Dove Lane speaking; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
A bell of rather bombastic sorts rang out a short clanging series of those all-too-familiar, rudely intrusive, devoid of satisfactory completion sorts; to their possibly pre-stated and perhaps incorrectly interpreted as noticed-un-noticed credit, generously ersatz. The “impromptu” sounds, which a Hugo enthusiast would find attention-compelling, if not uncontrollably augural, were pooch-kitty regarded in the same manner as they would have a standardly Thursday 2PM, hominid, air raid warning drill; a call for a gathering.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 165
After stumbling on her first attempt, Abigail climbed one step onto the makeshift platform and approached her lack of podium, that “lack” a low lying receptacle of yellowed papers, to which she had added none.
Trying to hide her untrained, thereby unadorned nervousness, Abigail displayed just that, when she asked the mike if it could hear her. Receiving no negative response, she proceeded with; “Hi friends from all over. Thank you for coming.
Sincerely. This has been the most wonderful of days for me, and I can only hope that it was even better for you. It’s my birthday, which sometimes falls on that generally unpredictable and elusive target called Easter, that seeming overstatement possibly a personal wish for remembrance, though I honestly think not; the required rigors of currently mandated notoriety not anywhere near as attractive as hominid Nielsen and his collaborators would have you believe.
So, just thank you friends. You have all been more kind than any mathematician would have dared to expect. The boring details which all would currently see as much-too-old-school is probably understood, if not totally agreed with; my lonesome time filled with thoughtful fantasy my impediment, if that of anyone.
No, true as I think this to be in my heart, this idea is going wrong out here in this day intended for celebration.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 166
Apparently, there is some discrepancy between the actualization and the wish giving rise to it. .......... Sorry, I’m off track, at least insofar as multiple tracks are not yet respected or recognized. ....... Hahaha on me. ....... And by extension, you; likely more so. ....................... Ugh. The prescribed notes, which I don’t have, are at the personal least a detriment in their minimalistic deterrence to the understanding which any communication, like that of this undoubtedly likely to be a mathematically computed failed attempt to depict what is not supposedly calculable within the cloistered world which dominates the web, and dare anyone say or write may clandestinely seek to imbue upon an already-determined audience; which only requires a predictable yadda and in ‘intelligencia’
prominent cases another predictable second yadda yadda, to most, more faint than the first; though not in this case a likely reference to lost time .......
Ignore, ignore; retract, retract more a function of un-changeable priors. ........ Nafs? Imbedded traits? Got my immaterial imbedded vote, more or less. Hehe.
Damn. Damn the downer stuff. I’m tired. Me bad. My problem.
Happens to all at one time or another. Party on from four factorial sides until the fascists remove the rides. It’s my wish. It’s my birthday. Not yet theirs.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 167
I’m now convinced that this meander is the result of some sort of personal defect; simply because perfection does not yet reside on this earth. With all the smooth talk of a carny barker I could convince you that that is not so or that it is, and if I so thought it personally beneficial and worthy of the time required to do so, I could easily sway most of you into finding a glory of some dubious, yet convincing sort, regarding the intent this presentation may incorrectly infer. .......
So sorry. Damn. If this has any merit, which it doesn’t, my impromptu words suggest that my life has been ruined, and that through words are trying to inflict the same misery upon you.
........ I truly hope not. This place can be so wonderful
......... ”
Victor approached the podium dragging his cart. He had sensed a lull in which he interjected; “Here are your birthday presents! All the visitors to this glorious event took up a collection, and here is the breathless result. ...... Happy, happy birthday, dear lady Abigail, from all of us.”
Paws clapped and snouts whistled.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 168
Victor of Placitas Lane with his cart; property of the author.
Flower bouquet; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0
license.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 169
Basket of various presents; property of the author.
Basket of various presents; property of the author.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 170
Bucket of various presents; property of the author.
“Thank you all! I didn’t expect this, and they are all so wonderful. I like the flowers most. Thank you so much. This is the best birthday party anyone has ever had. I wish I could
........... thank you all enough.“ Tears streaming, like a perennial creek, Abigail lost the words and ran off stage, into the arms of her longest, true, trusted friends from Dove Lane.
It was more; much more than enough ......... for her.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 171
Tippy, Sunshine, Puff-Puff, Wailer, and Teddy (in front) of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Mmmmm.”
“Yeah.”
“Breathless.”
“So sweet. Confused, but sweet.“
“Pity those hominids unable to deal with feelings.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 172
Maureen of Pacific Lane; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.
“Abby will be my next fractal.”
Dillon of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
“Glad we came. Sniff.”
Genevieve of Pacific Lane; property of the author.
Warmed, despite the increasingly acute angle of the sun’s rays, Genevieve was compelled to say something which might make
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 173
her seem more composed than she was. Cross Eyed Charise was the pooch nearest.
Cross Eyed Charise of Dove Lane; property of the author.
Unaware that she was one of the Dove Lane event’s promoters, Genevieve sought a tangent, and referring to the rides which she indicated by paw said; “All of this fine stuff must have been expensive.”
Cross Eyed Charise stoically replied; “In a way it was. In a way it wasn’t. This may well be birthday girl Abigail’s last one. She has kidney disease. ...... Could have come from ticks.”
Genevieve said; “That’s not always fatal.”
“Right. You just never know. ...... Keep that under your bonnet. She doesn’t want anyone to know.”
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 174
Only Genevieve and her nearby companion Dillon now knew something that they didn’t want to know.
Upon regaining her breath, Genevieve again sought to ride a tangent, perhaps lesser, but a tangent nonetheless. To Dillon, she whispered something that for some immediate reason was something she didn’t want Cross Eyed Charise to hear. She said;
“Maybe we should try to fix her up with Willy. It’s a perfect match in a way. Abigail needs fixing and Willy is compelled to fix everything.”
Dillon corrected her said; “Tries to fix everything.”
“All the same. The primacy of intent.”
“Yeah. Remember that winter when he fixed Tardiff and Lenta’s collapsed roof.”
“Sure, I was the one who fished out that dachshund. Those shelties were so upset until Willy did his bit.”
“Still holds too.”
“So, maybe we could find a way to nudge him toward a
........ new job?“
“Sounds so gross, phrased that way.”
Shrug.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 175
Many balloons taking to the sky; property of the author.
Abigail returned to the podium and closed with a sincere smile, found somewhere in her grateful fatigue. She managed to get out; “Thank you, friends. You can never know how much this means to me,” and left again, this time overwhelmed by her loss for words rather than a loss for anything else. The soaring balloons took on a greater shape and number. It would seem much too coldly rational to bear any semblance of pooch reality to even accidentally infer that this might be The End?
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 176
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 177
Sky and “Gone Pie” by Phil Coulter and Bill Martin; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and
“transformative” doctrines.
Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair Page 178
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