Things were starting to cook
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Gathering of the Convocation
Princess Afternoon was running back and forth between fiber-optic venues and starting to feel slightly disoriented. However, Zoe had broken off meditation exercises to come outside and begin to uphold the freedom inherent in Postmodernism with her Burmese silks floating in the spring breeze. Mrs. Lytle was right behind her, of course, her bosom cutting the air like the prow of a military gunboat, ready to uphold the Queen's lexicon as taking primacy over any foolishness about freedom and prefixes involving "post-". Bagman and Butler were still behaving in a shady manner pretending they were receiving phone messages from Danish pornographers as an excuse for not answering calls. Tiny was disturbed by the cyberspotlight that had swiveled in his direction and was presently burning him in the eyeballs, so that he couldn't see and the screen door hit him in the face after Mrs. Lytle sailed out.
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Erasure Head looked up. It seemed the weather had changed while he had been working, but he hadn't noticed. When he left South Carolina he had been writing visceral essays on kinesis resulting from 25 degree W longitude shifts. This week, though he never stopped writing, he looked at the page to find an evaluative essay on volatile organic compounds and tritium found beneath a 1950's era nuclear waste dump.
How does that happen? Volatile organics and tritium never should have been there in the first place, but the dump was unlined and they did just put the stuff in there to evaporate in the high desert sun. This was at the same time as downwinders in the evenings partied on the roofs of hotels in Las Vegas to watch the sky light up from the above ground nuclear tests.
No, strike that. How did the weather change without a notice? Could that single focus on Erasure's beaky head be a little too pointed? Perhaps it's time for a broadside of chicken fluff and wormy soil back on the farm....
The sunlight on the Farm was a little too bright as Erasure Head pulled himself up out of the root cellar. The steps were nearly rotted away and it seemed that most of the Farm had forgotten he was performing underground experiments there since the winter before last. Something to do with magnetic fields and mole pole orientation.
The experiments had all gone wrong. There was no more reason to stay in isolation. No one cared about the experiments, anyway, the last mole was consumed, and all their food too. Don't ask.
Not seeing, squinting mole like, but smelling the new spring air, he noticed a hint of the scent of Princess Afternoon in the air with the,... what is that smell, ah, yes, wisteria flavored chocolate with a hint of green Burmese silk and humus. A smell not forgotten but not often remembered.
He filled his working cellar with a mixture of saltpeter, charcoal, and gypsum. Let's see if they can see this in Las Vegas as he poured a line of kerosene from the cellar to the front porch.
Mrs. Lytle do you keep matches in the stem of that ship? Help me make up my bed and find my things darlings. It's spring. I can't see yet, but I'm not going back into that dank cellar again.
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