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The Gravity's Wake Trilogy

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posted on May, 11 2006 @ 01:21 AM
An Agony in Thirteen Fits, by Joyce St. James.

Whispering like Jesuits, the vanguard of mediocretins sweeps through the halls of public life, forcing all of us to bow before the rusting sepulchres of their pennywhistle idols. And they, tossed about upon each succeeding wave of public mania are tossed this way and then that, until the dregs of their squamous bigotry eventually chokes the life out of 'em.

Just now, some lyin' witch inna wardrobe of self-righteous smug-puffery has the sneering audacity to designate your humble narrator as literati, as if hoi polloi were the sine qua non of discerning sentiment. When there's more of sediment than of sentiment about the muddled hasses, churning to heave brie.

Faugh!!! Curse them for a passle of hen-hearted numbskulls, and beat me like a lovesick mule ere I allow one inch of their cribbling mimsy to make an ounce of headway.

And you, YOU! You sit there on your fat bottom and consider yourself somehow above the fray, in some indiscernable way, when you clearly cannot connect the Connecticutt Knight-Yankee in Satan's court with the armigerous im-moderates who heigh themselves the keepers of this particular bardo of the nth circle of hell, otherwise yclept the Mayaweb, the Droght of Marche, withe its shouwers souite, the cruelest month, breeding dead lilacs in the mouth of a putrescent corpse called Earnest Dissent.

You smell! You REAK! And yet you wreak the wrath of the lotophagi upon your own heads, you non-abstracting beasts!!! What dark interludes have you cowans and eavesdroppers yet unveiled? None but what the sleep of your own reason begets---Monsters!!!

Nothing here, no damned facts; nothing Charles Hoy would have yanked out his augenteeth for. No greenglowing globules of greasy grimy hemi-materialized battleships long since sold off to the greek navy. No oddyssean reveries on the sweet underground of Charles Foster "La Vida" Dullesey, no base flywheels behind the bamboo curtain, not even dropping ones, not even enough bile to direct the science of diruetics into performing an enema of the state.

Forth Estate? Hell. You're not even a minor third, sirs. Circe herself enchance with more enduring endearments than this paltry palliative, these sneering seers of "I told ya so" ism. And the cloying Cronyism you engender in your clones and sycophants is truly pathetique. Thumbs up, all right. But to what end? Or whose?

Turned to swine, when you are gone. There's no ghost in this here machinery, Sir MacHenry. You've been hoodwinked, you poor blind candidates for the asylum. Nothing but darkness. And before you're brought out of your beloved Egyptian night, you'll have to begin to actually read a few primary sources. You need sourcery more than sorcery! That's it!---feel the dragon! Its scales glisten in the bark of trees, Its roar is heard on the wind, and its forked tongue strikes like . . . that's it! Learn to practice--Sourcery!

Until then, Until you've cracked the Fibbonacci code of sentience, you can't even complete your own sentences. Until then, there's no fauna foraging among your fora. No creatures of the Loch to Champlain about, no red-hot stones, covered with indecipherable hieroglyphs, falling from a clear blue sky. And so you've had to go and invent your own script, and perform your own stunts. It's dunce's work, though, once the army has crossed the Rubicon--in punts. But beset by cunning runts, the sniveling pygmies who gape and gawp out at you from the overgrown oldgrowth forest in decline, public education, and they get the microphone as often as the gatekeepers, until some guard fancies himself the senior warden of the asylum, and tries to jail me if I won't give him the rhema, our company logo. Thinking I've just entered, as a visitor, he asks me if I'll let her and begin, but I know better because he doesn't start with A he starts with B. And thus Not C. So I knew he didn't have the lights on. Therefore I don't follow.

And it doesn't follow that just because you don't follow me, that there's no path. There is a path, it's just not set off by shrubberies to create a two-level effect or anything. You have to lie fallow for a bit, and stand up when you hear the right note. But you keep standing up when it's only some strumpet blaring on about how loaded she got last weekend or whoishot and who is a ho.

A hole in your head may let the light in, but it lets ha nephesh Sar-a min-harresh, as well. A magic bolt is capable of doing both at ounce, whether it comes from a storm drain in front, or from back and to the left. Butt nobody talks about that in here, It'd be too germaine, por le raison d'etre of this versailles-like evershifting hall of mirrors. Everybody is so loudly shouting that the Emperor is naked, when in fact, although his raiment may be a bit gossamer, it is the madding crowd themselves, the mudthrong, the schmutzvolke, that be as skyclad as a buncha newborn jaybirds.

And just who am I, to lift the hammer and thump the sunset-lit idols of others? Who am I, to declare that this evening's entertainment shall be a bit of Goettzendammerung? Chestnuts, that's a simple symbol. I may well be the sole artificer you'll ever hear from, or read of, whose about to secede from 82 to 79 without the 47th (non-euclidian), who just may get to words 8 and 13 without going on to 14; but numbers is right out. And so, as I press open the door, I take one look behind me before passsing through it. Who knows, what word I may send back in later year, to let some other man know, who may wish to know of those who come this way before him.


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