Something you need to know about a very important woman in my life.

 

The woman who would one day go on to become my third wife is, just now, sitting with her ample legs crossed on a stool in a corner near a town where folks of my religious persuasion are forbidden from owning multiple devices for fear that we may try something untoward and all-encompassing, yet ephemeral and sophisticated. As she sits and plays little games with herself, her next-of-kin and their reliably overweight caretaker, I resolve to take my good, sweet time to introduce a revolutionary product-line into what passes for a blatant case of expansionary exhaustion. In years to come, I will needle her ceaselessly and she will respond by endeavouring to espouse a vile lifestyle of vagrancy and deceit. No one will--or would!--imagine to what lengths I went to have her incarcerated while there was still time.

Now that our three insipid children are fully grown and endowed with scarcely believable origin stories of their own, we both feel it would only be right to see their wizened visages inscribed on several pieces of old burlap taking up space in our frightfully cluttered garage. I've told her more than once that this won't be the end of it. Her reaction? She just stands there like it was something she ate. I, in turn, go my own way and and vow to never return to a nondescript street in a moderately sized neighborhood a few miles from where our beloved poodle, Sherry, caught rheumatic fever and tragically passed away.

The activity coming in through the window on this torrid Summer evening reminds a few of those who withhold their ascent at all cost of a time in the earlier years of this Century when the demands of holding one's own took a toll rarely seen when 'relapse' was the byword of the day. I took to spelling it out in graphic detail over the fetid recusal of quite a few of their unkempt number. They slapped me with an injunction so fast, it'd make your head spin. But that's not why you decided to give me the 'what-for' in the first place, right?  No! You had this not-so-funny idea that stuff like this would make you look, somehow, 'big', right? And then I would go with you into 'that good night' and all would be forgiven, right? Well. Could you please arrange to have some of her things sold off before anyone gets back? It won't more than a moment or two and then you can pursue an alternate field of study. If I had my way, no one within a hundred miles would ever know a damned thing about some of the complaints I've gotten. Don't bother to say 'thank you'; it'd just remind me how disingenuous you are, especially when I'm sitting on the john.

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Erroneously published memorandum.

 

The separate parts will each be locked inside their own containers. For my part, I will abide by the formal agreement. If anything is to be jettisoned, we will see to it that not subtle inclinations will be subordinated to the welfare of a precious few. If remains our intention to participate without reservation even while we hold ourselves aloof from any further questioning by regional authorities. As walking on pre-ordained lines becomes ever trickier, the depiction of forbidden items in confiscated materials is a topic of renewed speculation but shipping studs still occupy our vandalized hotel study groups. The ignited flashpoint turned out to be the last moment when any spread of eviscerated conquests could reasonably be expected to put an end to slapdash entertainment options offered to youthful offenders by the communal decoy.

If I hold the final load of wanderers in my tropical compound, my expectation is that I will be told to 'ratchet down' the feelings which typify our langorous elite. Normally they would send a short note my way and I would make do with the kind of work-around which has sped us past checkpoints in bygone days. I approach my solemn duties with a grace and a cussed flatulence once unheard of during my former years of 'palace intrigue'. If I could ask you for one small favor, what would it be? It is all of our interests to give a day or two to come up with an answer that you would be proud of. However, since my terminal diagnosis, it's in the interests of all 'bad actors' that you submit what you can, in writing if needs be, and we can all place our hopes in the transparent sovietization of our people on the inside. What gives?

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The book.

 

So, you may be wondering, gee, can I order this? Sorry amigo; no can do. Printed a certain number, gave some of 'em to friends, who ironically enough, would NEVER, of their own accord, look at this blog.

What's in the book?  Fifty-five of your favorite pieces along with interspersing Gallery pages with new images not in my other two art books (can't order those either, sorry) on 203 lush artbook paper pages.

If anyone indicates such in the comments, I'll post some pics of inside pages, not that I'm expecting that, of course,... but still...

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Trend Allocation Cynex.

 

It is not to be treated like a trend approved by persons who fail to get either 'in' or 'out' of the way. Their sediments will settle as they always have, like tried and true particles to be flicked away at some distance from any old over-producing bog. Instead you will see a third one, then a fourth. I will be near you to hold one of your hands while the other one is shifted away from the visibility of those who prevail in our section. This gives us a voluntary movement pro-cast, because in this version you will play one of our tuckered out Sales Associates. I will pretend to watch you urinate underneath an out-of-date wallhanging and challenge you into facing a grove full of partially occluded Futility Slamps. It may not go easy from there, because any of the clods who link to my activities page are already up in arms about our party on the 14th. You should say you'll be there or there could be some 'unexplained' anterior moisture to vex an already stressed claque. Yes, they've never had it up to here like this during a day in the not-so-recent past. Could you blame them?

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This is what passes for a 'title'.

 

The least stillpointed person in our bargainroom rises to the floor, scopes the lots and walks nonchalantly by a trio of bugpearsos whose only role is to scare up a buck or two for ongoing muscle expenses. He sometimes expresses himself with a gimcrack sense of an absconding paramour of the same old school which he is given to whine about in a peculiar register, known to many who traverse our byways into your average salten lot. I note the stiffness of his gait and decide to trigger a remote procedure to set off a lion's share of active measures. The Bell in my web is best for mantling all prior sudden desks, but even with one too many ordered moments, we like to think of ourselves as up to a task formerly under the purview of the most narrow range of cotton-throated bed-sprayers. I need to keep them close to me in a crisis. They never disappoint. Likely story!

Does anyone in this specific location shift their prerogatives to hedge against the time when foreign elements are engaged in savage contests to cover an iron-domed hitler in a minimal sackcloth dashiki? You'd have a better time remembering the first occasion that I brought you into a side room and compared your appearance to that of one of our finest living sculptors. He was known in our field for his contributions to the common criminal. Before he laid down for the last time, I saw him enter a facility in search of a perishable glass part. In the years just after the War, he noticed that a dark-haired ingenue would repeatedly attempt to worm her way into the good graces of a Dissolved Bishop of an Extraparectual Cathedral.

These things tend not to wind up on some 'cutting room floor'. Far from it, in fact. They normally cause people of tedious hormonal frequencies to check the underlined passages without which the rest of us would go virtually dark. In the mind of your average scofflaw, anything I can see, someone else would have serious trouble pretending not to hide without malice. Which is why we are praying for rain in all 'the wrong places'. You catch my drift. I have seen her lab-folmented feet alter intentions one too many times for this tired blood product. We are descended from a subtle ancestry of Ivoirian budget weavers. They have bequeathed to our blighted lot the brigand's sense of lurching ovoid juices. Come equipped with a foil hankie or risk a tonal pulbation of jejune rattlement. Please keep all of us in a cool, dry Prince's foyer. We will soak up any additional charges and bank them into a punctured twit. You're only sold once. Or so some of us have been told on Nana's knee. You're kidding!

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A Portrait of Aging with Grace.

 

There is an older person, sometimes known as a winsome exemplar of false comradery, who showed up, even though we'd been cooped up for what seemed like minutes, to lead us through the second-to-last scene. If you're wondering, you can probably find it on page 35 or 36. If you are one of the few who still has access to the older, more fructified, version, it may be hard to find at all. That's because before any older version was destroyed, it was made to appear that any nearly stolen artifact would be folded in one fell swoop inside a single verb.

At length the older person was observed to cough three times in a timorous whimple, signaling for the guards to search our outer things, without so much as asking permission from the Training Associate on site. She had it coming anyway. It's why we pretended to laught while dying. Of boredom, that is. So when the older person removed a piece of revolving paper from inside its special place, guaranteed to appeal mainly to people dedicated to gradualism in all things, it seemed surprising only in a doomed retrospect. Why I say this is for the same reason that I've been lying to myself from the first sign. If some find this hard to believe, their personal cleanliness will come under serious question.

So, as we move into position for the last time, I can taste my reluctance like a bitter product in the pit of my throat. And even though no one is likely to notice, the older person, with an abundance of caution, relives a scene from a youth dedicated to the installation of ecliptic bitelines into a flagrant minority of timorous wingnuts. It's just the way things have started to roll, out of our control, beneath our contempt and always, already, settled.  We've known the older person to be loquacious, but never like this. I have to admit that we've usually been reluctant to commit to participating in a 'secret plot'. If any of us had known that an invasive insect would be released into a novel environment at the conclusion, it would have struck us as a bit odd. That's because the weather had failed to become inclement, despite all forecasts to the contrary.

When I held my pinking tool inside a purity box for the required thirty-one seconds, I got the shock of my life. It seems that unknown to either me, my sister or our grandmother, all the wires had been removed, rendering the mechanism ineffective, if not appropriately dangerous. I'm now skipping down the last half of page 41. If you find when looking at it that there's a small (about 1 cm) defect near the lower right corner, you'll need to submit a blood sample within thirty-six minutes or there's a good chance that someone may die or possibly face a major inconvenience. Action is our only priority, results be damned.

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A dish, a dream and a dearly deft drip.

 

Zobar jams his elbow right in the center of the dish. The dish is mounted securely to the fourth inner wall so it's in no danger of breaking. It's a ceremonial dish and was discovered in Italy during the inter-War period by someone who knew Zobar's estranged governess. She had a long-term agreement with the family about an apartment over the garage. After the fire, as she pawed her way through the ashes of what remained of her life, she recalled a dream in which Zobar, dressed as a scarecrow, had a vision of how people would live in the distant future. It was a miracle they could still breathe because life was lived almost entirely under the waters of Lake Michigan. The Indian immigrants who opened news stands on the shore during the Summer vacation had a reason to be worried. They could see it coming from a thousand miles aways. So they decided not to make that mistake again. It would cost them dearly if they failed to make the required adustment. It served them right.

In the end no one was fooled. Not Zobar, not his governess, not even some of the kids in town who raked leaves for pocket change. It appeared even they lacked the room to make a quick turn-around. So they just proceeded as if nothing was wrong. And you know what? Nothing was. Wrong, that is. As long as you looked at it with one eye half-closed. What you'd do is, you'd start your line from a point that was a fair piece away. As you moved closer you'd get shorter by the second, until within a day or so only your squirming would arouse suspicion among the disgraced ballplayers who liked to lounge around under trees that always seemed to be looming. This could get someone injured, or even killed God forbid. Why hasn't anyone told you this yet?

It was when the governess first pretended to be addicted to invisible pills that she and her boyfriend, a hanging 'chad' named Miles Whitcomb, decided to break into Alderwave Veterinary Studios Inc. to look for a key to a stolen ivory box. The box was said to contain the remnants of a photocopy of a newspaper article which could prove moderately embarrassing, especially where the deployment of strategic miscalculation is concerned. At the time some said this sounded like the 'perfect plan'. How wrong they were, though. Because this so-called 'boyfriend' character was soon revealed to lack any kind of innate delicacy. He made all the kids pay him a dollar to swim in the lake even though he was known to be allergic to water. And when the Holiday Season rolled around the next year everyone could clearly see that his wig was made of plastic hair. Someone should really do something. No one is sure exactly what as far as I know. Please stay well. Get plenty of rest. Make of it something to lurk for . . ....

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