Scenes From a Rictual.

 

The Rishual of the Fibrous Chapel is not one to be thought about, or even approached, lightly, in pairs. Vanished sectual eras are known to be plain and black and of no use if there even was one to be held in the first place. To be confined in a mid-tempo field could help a foreigner's proxy gain access before the time is ripe. We now chuck our nasal devices into a circular clamp under a tottering tower. What is on offer is oval in its bearing. A herd of growing ones is kept to the side for the protection of those of a prayerful bent. Not to say he was applying himself nightly would be a shameless act of legal incontinence. We communicate under our desks using improvised bag signals. My own turn comes out as one of the last. This will help when confusion is at a premium. I know what to do and you must agree to help me. Otherwise we are—all of us!—in great danger. The kit which I've sewn myself is missing and feared lost with all the others. No one is likely to entrain a bathing partner tonight, even though company is not only expected, but violently induced. They will know when a trusted friend is feeding them a line which it would be wise for them to repeat silently on pain of being cast out in less than five seconds.

When we make it to the pretty building, some of us hold our breaths at a minor inflection point. Because after all is sent skyward, we can have them assessed a modest fee and sold for a preliminary minker's trial. No, this won't be 'one for the books', but, if someone wants to start crying about missed start-dates, this can create its very own pattern of septihicular bonostomy. And no one appears ready to squish it down that far. That's how people get hurt. It'll just be one more tragisty for the books, I'm afraid. Just don't go telling that to the people who live in one of our Senior Partners' driving compounds. We're talking serious money here.

The shed where I've hidden my last artificial kitten only appears pale if we've taken on too much liquid. An effective quip goes only so far if internal dryness rears its non-directed head. We've had it that way as well. The only problem was, we couldn't get our betters to apply a brusque laminate in time to forestall the inevitable. For that, our bensonites just aren't guaranteed to do the trick. Without molnars to grip the hand-cured wick, our training philosophy could have us earning a solid 'Z' before the fight lets out. And who can forget the time we strained to remove one truck after another from this or that extension? It wouldn't surprise anyone if the answer is a solid 'Yes!'. Because, you know what? This is not a test. And no, you didn't pass. Get over it or get back inside. Chance?

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People Are Starting to Get the Wrong Idea.

 

During several of the weeks just past, more than one person has tracked me down at one or another of my three jobs and made it known that people in town were starting to get the impression that I was being 'flippant'—the exact word they used, as I say, more than once. I was asked to make a call and offer an overdue comment. If it wasn't for the way a lot of folks botch things of their own accord, no one would know when to start the process in earnest. I'm the one who set the rules in our original family situation. As anyone who looks for more than a few seconds can see, when we were all on the ground together, I'd sometimes bring her hand within range of a special instrument. If she threatened to go public, then I'd politely extend myself into her living area to make a routine evaluation. Once the stew was in the pot, I could go home with a clear conscience. All the later follies at the place could no more amount to an area of concern than if my youngest son would be arrested for groping flight attendants on a commuter flight in upstate New York. In short: it just didn't happen!

 What elementary guideline could we traverse without attracting the attentions of a wily clod named Philip Margulies? It's not simply a matter of 'do the math'. It's more like, (a) bring some people through the system, and then (b) hold close personal acquaintances at a nearby Center while offering relief in the form of chilled non-alcoholic beverages accompanied by savory chewables.  There's always a gradation when levels are breached. If someone claims difficulty breathing, they should be closely monitored at baseline. The thrill which is rarely denied by former standard-bearers is only now being actively investigated by approximate sororities. Each debutant is to be featured on her own memorial plankard which will be further embossed at terrible expense to the brick and mortar industry writ large. There always comes a time when legacy properties go begging and no one will think twice about ranging far afield in the effort to scare up a little action. Only a few will feel that height alone should be a barrier to asking your typical person to leaf through a booklet while a disgraced colleague snaps a shot. From the steambed of a F-150 pickup no less!

There is, in fact, a luxury table which sits smack dab in the middle of a little known wildlife refuge. Should you or my companion refuse to comply with the reigning consent decree, it is within my power to bring unlikely gameplay to bear. Unprintable epitaphs will go far to honor the men and women of our enforcement brigade. There is a utility badge waiting for the first inductee to avoid injury during an exchange of infested comestibles. You can hear it in their own words as they stumble through our gangway, arms akimbo, no skin in the frame. I've sworn off any and all upgrades in the hope that I can someday see my family all in one piece again. By June 1st, if necessary. Not for nothing is everyone hurling abuse at my displaced adjutant, even though his involvement was nil at best. Some of our most productive assignment editors have gone without pay for up to thirteen weeks straight. Have you ever had one try involve your spouse in a questionable drilling operation? It doesn't take much to accurately guess that the correct answer is a resounding 'NO!' Point taken.

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What's My Name?

 

The fourth caller seemed reluctant to get to the point. My timing was off. I decided to go out to the car to cool off. The girl inside realized that I'd left with a different suitcase than the one I came in with. I knew she had a problem with water under her skin. There was an embarrassing surfeit of diagrammatic creases on the underside of her anterior ulna. I bided my time, went in, had a Coke, mentioned her Dad's condition to the floorperson and emerged all-in-one to arrange a pontoon affair for the late afternoon in a prior week.

The problem with people who master the art of scalding is keeping them within bounds of propriety and good taste. This doesn't mean, however, that we ever want you to come down into a dressing area and play bold with facts and opinions. We are forever leaving call-box doors slung off their hinges. Now the little lubricator brings in the heavy artillery and delivers a fascinating exegesis on training opportunities in a risk-averse environment. No one is buying what he's selling, so, we settle down with our coffee and cakes and try to take the temperature of the whole situation. I find it difficult to attend classes while trying to lose weight. No one will stop giving me the lowdown on slinking through one of the camps nearby.

When I catch her Dad acting as though his affliction had gone unnoticed, I pretend to defer to a distant authority, all the while coming up with bits for next week's show. They can't help me, though, because I've been left for dead at the State Highway Interchange. The webbing is all caught up in her lower uvula. I know it might sound kind of corny, but I think she really understands my need for privacy. I watch her through the window of a nursing supply wholesaler. She's giving a guy behind the counter the business and I can't tell if she's had too much to drink. She plops herself down on a green sofa in the ready-room and I lick my lips because the altitude is starting to affect my ability to make reasoned choices in life. You'd think that someone would've come and gotten me by now. My name is Priscilla Henwick and this is my story. So there!

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Supply Cabinet Baubles.

 

Every object in our supply cabinet is fretfully labeled against the day which is due to arrive, ..well... any day now. I am cautioned about dragging her down to my own steadfast level, and, if anyone finds that hard to believe, where can I meet you in the coming weeks? You see, sometimes a name is purposely put forward or a hand may be exposed to an esoteric light source. Now and then, even some of your closest acquaintances privately admit to having once crossed a line. You could be forced to have them relocated to a little used staging area to go over each detail until it is precisely fixed in their limited scope of attention. Even those who merit a display case of their own, are very often not above seeking to draw away the fruits of indigenous wisdom from those whose insolent phantasms power the somnific grumblings of broadshouldered wusses. They have my symphony, they truly do.

The pain of open storage isn't something to be whispered about with newly arrived appointees. From their headbands it is apparent who is intent on staying the full weekend. The others view this as a trifling affair whose only point is to settle in and wait for blood. There won't be any in the water this time, though. We've made sure to include some rather barbarically intuited flood measures to even out the levels between areas of no reception and living with one's parents until it's time to hit the showers. Anyone who's been tasked with rigging a conveyance for maximal truth-instantiating palaver, is now asked to respond with a unique ten-digit compliance code or face certain retaliation at the behest of the Wife of the newly disgraced Director-General. There is no scorn like that of an individual who feels that he or she might have been treated less than tolerably at some time in the distant past. Far be it for me to apply my waning cynical acumen to those trained in the arts of gracious living.

Even those who feel recursively entitled to have a signifying bell rung on their behalf at hourly intervals are sometimes spied hosting annual festivals for credulous moffits. And, when they do, it always strains what's left of our right-brained spirit of two-handed clerbity. Because, when you get right down to it, no one who has ever accompanied us to a viewing opportunity should be surprised by the lengths to which our brethren will sink to gain entrance to an abandoned medieval fortress. We observe from afar, pick our favorites and don't think twice about encouraging the management of false accounts. It only takes one, you know? And, not only that. In the final analysis, who could be better situated to conceal one of our Nation's noblest disgraces from the prying eyes of inoculated pompettes the world over? It wouldn't be a surprise to anyone if this was something which never garnered much consideration from those whose primary feeding ground is the 'Lower Order'. Without whom it could never see the inside of Gate 2 at best. I'll be waiting with my three daughters after midnight in the rain. Is this what you want?

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Hope is in the Air!

 

My very smallest trickling set appears to be missing but our weekend isn't yet ruined. All the floorboys are due to make a showing in a fine fashion. I'm not one to get overly sentimental even on days like this which remind the people I came with not to flee when enemy banners are deployed to maximum effect. The moment of arousal is filled with an abominable function, the fruits of which go a long way in dictating a distorted arrival. After all our efforts, the only pair left on our customary floor is the one you insisted I no longer mention. Everyone here has seen fit to comply with emergency restrictions and then some. In my own way, I prefer to hover in the distance to clock your progress through imaginary waters. These can present untold hazards to the unwary. If this describes a person who once shouldered much of the blame for my miscarriage, then there's someone who lives in the general area who might benefit from your expertise. Don't say you weren't warned. Otherwise I may have to knock your block off.

It's been my habit throughout the years to always pander to our weakest blind partners. That's because, once they've been briefed and have gone out of their way to befriend troubled adolescents, no one will be any the wiser if they show up in one of the suits which have so 'mysteriously' disappeared. Please forgive me if I seem skeptical of the generally accepted explanation of why your act no longer wears everyone down to a state where no one would want to take them to a show. I'd much appreciate it if one of our donors could make quick work of an all but forgotten proprietary agreement. With that out of the way, we have a clear shot to strike a blow for personal freedom and responsibility. The order doesn't matter but the vibratory frequency does. This is why our Maid of Honor is having trouble digesting all the material. And it's par for the course, if you ask me. If not, I can arrange to have someone brought in at the last minute to help fascinate some of our temporary staffers. After which they'll be headed  in a much needed direction, with all that implies. Is that any better?

Into whose capable hands do you suggest we place the remnants of an antique bowling cloth? It won't take much to see if your recording complies with international cut-offs. There should be a slot on the reverse location where a slight murmur can be detected only when the sunlight is obscured by inferior dental work. The time it takes to resume our inspection of a spoiled sanctum should be enough to live through all manner of life-like contests. Even with a feasibility study underway, who's to say whether or not it will solve our problem with minority applicants? The voices alone could bring metaphysical sand  into our stipend. It lives with us daily. Over and above any method of indoctrination, we can only hope that she can repair the broken cannister. It's something our family has cherished since before we created the original 'Living Method'. If it's true that the name which comes to your lips rhymes with a rare British treat, then I'd say you have nothing to worry about. This can't last forever, so please put your bits to good use and link arms in a final gesture of indentured solidarity, okay?

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Responsibility Begins at Home.

 

Yes, I am the responsible party. The twigs will only escape a swift embossing if someone who truly merits prime consideration can be persuaded to encourage like-minded adults to forgo any kind of treatment at all. A peaceful transition is all we ever asked for. Instead, what did we get? Just another trunkful of hamfisted rigamarole, if you ask me. All of us tried to bed down in a classic 'good-night' position out of viewing range of punctual firefights the world over. I did my bit and got my duds out of the container lickety-split. The wife was all a-flutter but I made sure to take her with me when I turned in my paper. It said right on the cover that anyone who felt that now would be a good time to savor a run-of-the-mill snack should be certain that their head is firmly secured on the telltale side of a randomized penalty box. Only the crew chief admitted to feeling utterly shattered by your misapplied subterfuge.

It was only when we arrived at a prominent lakeside fontanelle that we finally began to get our bearings and feel comfortable enough to risk making our presence known to someone at a higher station in life. In other words, who do you suppose would take it upon themselves to provide a decisive advantage in lieu of a galvanized metallic control penis? I felt it was only right to have a few choice words with the maitre d' and ask him why he appeared to be strapped for any reasonable facsimile of a 'good answer'. He chose not to play ball, so around and around we went. Finally, to get my point across, I bit his left index finger. Sure, there was some bleeding but it really wasn't all that bad, all things considered. In fact, it was really quite a relief to finally 'let my hair down', what little of it there is..HA!

Once our vital signs returned to normal, it seemed safe to turn the lights on once and for all. And, when we did that, I was not a little bemused to find that my precious darling had taken up where she left off when I first got word from the Coast. None of our religious training prepared us for the harmful breeze which now played us like a three-dollar Soviet violin. I was sitting there not a little perplexed by the finer points of trading petulant proposals with non-responsive caterers. This was because any day now I'd be asked to leave everyone who never meant anything to me in the lurch. It was like bringing a stickwad to a lunch fight, if you get my drift. The original blattering process began early the next day. I was on the hook for forty-five tunable coatings and my brother had eyes for the lunatic fringe. I took that as a veritable permission slip to appoint myself Honorary Chairperson Emeritus and skip town with all of five hundred big ones. If anyone ever asks you if it would be a good idea to effect a respectable mien while launching reprehensible mash notes over the transom, please call on your many years in the sublingual terrycloth mafia and offer your remaining parts to an over-eager maltrose magnate and just be done with it! Nobody will ever ask about your preferred sectual position. It just wouldn't be fair! (Say it.)

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We've Decided to Risk Expulsion.

 

She has been advised to remain indoors since the man, for whom no excuse is too brash, was seen to be concealing a small brown tuckle beneath his tunic. Under his breath there was a stale reminder of yesterday's contretemps. This was when she lost her balance, and a lot more besides. I have sat with her more than once and was forever surprised by the naturalness of her approach. She made it a practice to manifest nightly and I would silently observe, with her express written permission, from the branches of a tree directly on the center line. This was when I first became aware that the man was not to be dissuaded. If anything, it was all we could do to provoke an enraged denial and then reinstate the pretense that our meeting had been forced upon us, as nothing of this sort could ever see the end of darkness as we know it.

I am now being told that my loyalty is in question. Certain parties have interpreted some of my vocal inflections to mean that my intention to persevere is up for renewal in a very obscure locale where blasts are registered without either warning or delay. As to the latter, it has been widely noted that even the most feeble anticipation can lead to a maladaptive fit of situation to insuperable palaver. She has been told more than once that if the man refuses to seek help, then it is her decision to opt for a quick and painless disposal. A trusted partner without a valid visitor's code could scarcely do better than to lurk with the others when randomized research studies commence in earnest. On the other hand, what gives anyone in that position the right to invade unverifiable bandshells even if all the clues have been laid out in such a way that not even an unlettered herbalist could have the slightest expectation of meeting an unhinged donor before all the specs are finalized?

No one should be under any impression that there even IS a case to be rested in the first place. Secondly, if either she, or the man who so troubles her are required under Federal guidelines to, in essence, destroy a mediation process already in progress, then I will be forced to inform my children that their dear old Dad is destined for the 'junkheap' of history. Because, in this line of work, if you fail to hold the line and ring a smallish forested area with Notifications of Intent, then you should well nigh consider where you might like to hide in the event of a major inconvenience. Just last night I was walking my niece home from work and, as we passed a major area, she turned to me and asked, 'Is there something you need to tell me?'. I thought about it for a few seconds and replied to her question with one of my own. I said, 'What are you getting at?' All at once everything became preternaturally quiet. So quiet you could hear a hat drop in a lushly carpeted room miles from nowhere. And, you know what? I've never felt so humiliated in my life.

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The Bare Facts Aren't Open to Challenge.

 

We are always amused when an industrial object prevents its own natural tapering. A prospect in the offing isn't one in which our ability to count is challenged at each engagement. She looks to present a salient cocktail to members of an under represented cohort. Our languages may sound funny to the post-colonial ear, but we offer no apologies, save for a ceremonial mint exchange with a tireless do-gooder. He strikes us as a young man invariably will: about the neck and shoulders with a tartan bathrobe sash. The problem is, no one has ever mentioned the place he holds in our activated alert system. This would be 'real news' if it was ever revealed to our compromised elders. For now, they are apt to sit meaningfully in appropriated bargain bays and wait out the third coming of something—or someone!—for which their preparation leaves something to be desired, efficaciousness-wise. So sue me.

The blame is there for the taking, and so we do! But not before checking into a rehab facility for an afternoon therapy clod. The wife thinks it's all some kind of 'mumbo-jumbo' and, as for myself, attaching the wires is an irksome, if unrewarding, passel. If I press her strongly enough into the ass-end of a serving tray, she has promised to no longer betray me to the Subsidy Police. My silence ends when the last stalker is put to duty-rest in an evacuated solidity compound. I know what you're thinking. And, if that permits you to feel more than justified in scattering my remains at the tow pound, then have at it! It won't effect in the least how I tie myself in knots to straighten out some very devilish misunderstandings. Tell them I said 'hello'. You'll be sorry.

It is my wont to wear a beige pullover, iron-can slacks and a teal stowfer's cap. At the drop of a pin, I'll run in on all fours with the hope of securing the required paper bonnet to the optional penalty helmet. As per normal, she'll be crouched underneath the vanity bench. She claims to have found one of my older pictures in a now unsupported format affixed to the ductwork in our base-level structure. I'm forever struck by the modesty she displays when an unknown interloper begins a full-on cavity search. He'll cite overworked and underpaid facilitators and, before you know it, he'll be out like a light and I'll be able to re-arrange my ivory piglet statuettes on the mantelpiece in the garage. This will help us reach the ground running. I'll give her my paid time-off even though she may re-offend before I've had a chance to stake out a gerrymandered hectare. No one is saying it doesn't make a difference, is all I'm trying to say. Get out.

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The Suspect Seems Restless.

 

Normally, the suspect arrives in the middle of the afternoon, about three-ish, if you like. My wife, bless her heart, will try to break off both ends to, in effect, placate him. The rosarie is placed in a blind trust so that no one is tempted. Now we decide to have lunch in the car, which means the suspect removes his boots, sits behind us in the dressing room and begins to retroactively 'groom' us, in the hopes that rapport will be instantaneous and heartfelt. I find myself talking to no one at all while the three of them go about their business as if my concerns were of no moment whatever. This won't make for a kindly racketball session later in the week.

Once it's been established that at least one of us feels a bit fettered, the other complains about an increase in restlessness. I could say that I've heard it all before, but what good would that do? Is anyone aching to withdraw a complaint? Not that I know of. I go into the den and busy myself with overdue proxy statements. Meanwhile, a clearly audible voice starts to recite a series of artificial numbers. They seem to have significance only because the pattern they form alerts my ever cautious sense of bemused hindsight. I recall a photograph which was shown to me. It's hard to say exactly what was depicted, since in those days I was known to be less than reliable, to put it mildly. When my wife re-enters the den, this time carrying a saw-tooth nail along with the key to a book of hide-out stories, I worry that the suspect could be helping himself by boning up on little-used terms. This may permit him to get a leg up. And then we could all be ruined for the rest of the afternoon.

When my wife, against all prudent advice, exposes her area to a mildly scented breeze, the suspect takes that as a cue to feign a sense of deep misgiving. I hold his coat while he paces a little known hallway in the hope of attracting the kind of attention which money alone can't begin to account for. Meanwhile, I receive word that our former gardener has shattered his tooth in a display of adolescent bravado. I'd known all along not to trust his instincts. The suspect, though, can't help but find this to be not just 'amusing', but 'food for thought'. I'd always assumed that he was playing by our rules. To have this happen in the middle of the night, when the closest neighbor was away on dockets, is more than I'm prepared to rationalize as just another curveball that life throws at you. The problem is, we'd only moved here the year before due to my step brother's mental illness. And also, no one is itching to transfer one of the special panels from the dry creekbed into a safe-keeping arrangement which was keeping us glued to our sets. What could you possibly get out of this, anyway? Will you ever eat something solid and substantial? It couldn't hurt if I took you to a game. Or, is that just 'off-limits'? Your move. Goner. 

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Travel Advisory.

 

It's very wet where we'll be going in just a few days, so you're advised to keep both hands fully in check, harnessed, and at our disposal, come what may. By the way we react to 'teacherly' sharing, quite a bit can be narrowly determined about our fitness for qualification. Even adults who, in 'normal' times require space for personal shaming, will now ride smack dab in the middle where their feeding habits can become everyone's business. I am not equipped to touch them directly myself, but I've been fully vouchsafed to escort them with a well-earned dishonor, in place of an already creaky aptitude for misplaced shade. The fact that some still insist on calling this a 'workplace issue' speaks to nothing so much as the desirability of intractable scams. The investigator did the right thing to ask my teenage son to collect private materials. No one would be wrong to say that the boy was truly 'in his element'.

We are now living in an expanded arena for intramental conflict. It will become immediately apparent if the clothing under our care is all the better for having been inserted into a moderately sized hole. There are colors which purport to aid in the eternal quest for tabular invisibility. Then you have all the ways in which anyone can pretend to lean without anyone demanding proof of concept. Any of those who feel dismayed are not thought likely to involve themselves in urgent discussions. That's because if we notice that their hair is attracting undue attention from the other side, someone will bring them through the system where we will fold them into an ever shifting retinue flagrant non-abiders. I will help a person feel more at home once I am released into the general population of macerated code-hoarders. Bless you.

Barely certain that a radio will enable fights for access, the man under my wing reduces his needs in accordance with a planned detonation. He is plainly enmeshed and no longer earns the swells to which his name has been so mistakenly applied. The compartment he uses is known to emit inaudible sounds. People under the reigning color exhibit profound discomfiture. Only one thing can save them in the end. And it's not what you're rumored to have discussed with random detractors. Each has supplied his anointed stipend to an ad-hoc committee of co-ordinated charlatans. As the coach approaches, would it be too much to ask for you to enhance your demand-side profile in an approved direction? We feel that too many of our materials are finding their way into the hands of the recently impressed. It would do them good to get out and see more of this beautiful country. What's holding them back is the same thing which you've had trouble thinking about since before we started. It certainly isn't the fault of the parents who roam our grounds nightly searching for unstable tutorial retreads. That would be the person who reads our folders.

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