Falling words

Mrs. Lytle stepped briskly onto the back porch to sweep off the pine pollen and ponder what to do about the zipped tent (did she imagine it, or does that tent glow in the dark?) that seemed to move about the side yard. She sensed a renewed energy on RUGfarm, what that flaky Zoe called "chi," in the last day or so. From the tall grasses around the pond Greenman hummed haunting melodies, and that mystical young erasure head was heating up the place with his energy. She would need help keeping the place in order. How could she get Butler to agree to help her manage the place again? What would it take to persuade him?

Brow furrowed over this problem, Mrs. Lytle failed to notice Zoe and Princess Afternoon stretching the prayer flags across the back yard. Zoe was explaining the situation in Tibet and urging Princess to delay her trip so they could chant mantras, but Princess was more intent on doing a few yoga postures before the long trip to New York. Greenman watched from the tall grass and Sophie from just below the pond's surface as Zoe's and Princess' words fell like crystal onto the new spring grass. They noticed how the words became attached to one another as they fell to earth. Greenman knew about connections. He, like Erasure Head, knew all about interconnectedness.

Critical Mass

Princess Afternoon sighed and leaned against the porch railing, it had been a productive day. She pulled a small paper bag from her pocket and rustled around in it selecting one of the  swiss chocolate mocha melt creams that she had pilfered from Zoe's international chocolate drawer. Well, not pilfered exactly, Princess Afternoon absolutely did NOT believe in stolen property, she intended fully to replace the chocolates if she ever in her life got to Switzerland. She was thoughtful as she virtuously munched the chocolate, things were looking up. Baubo was sending postcards from the forest, she could not actually come to the convocation because ... her thoughts broke off as a thundering noise breeched her consciousness and the distinct clump of mrs. lytle's brough encased stride hit the porch floor coming to stop precisely in front of her. She instantly placed the small bag behind her back, regretting her recent decision that five chocolates at one time would provide a singular taste experience as she likely appeared a somewhat desperate rodent packed with her winter stash. 

"Gel, I..." Mrs. Lytle started after planting herself in a firm no-nonsense stance, then she faltered, something was amiss. She whipped out of her tweed morning suit pocket a quizzing glass and held it up to her eyes. "Saints! You've swollen up like a toad! It looks like mumps, slightly higher up the throat than usual, but nonetheless, a definite result of superfluous pontification, i'm sure, and now your body has reacted violently. Today of all days!" She placed the glass safely back in the tweed and crossed her arms under her impressive chest, fortifying the image of a military gunboat sited for action. " We have impending chaos. Zoe has locked herself in her meditation boudoir, Tiny Bill is running around in a Testicular Protection Device.." Princess Afternoon raised her eyebrows "mmooph?" she asked. "Well, yes, he seems to have imported some several Amazonian maidens from the rainforest, something about ethereal romance, but they apparently involve nutcrackers in their joues de'amor and Tiny is in retreat, having fortified the tent. Anyway, Baubo is mashing her chickens and cannot attend the Convocation, Bagman and Butler are still refusing to come impose order, although they did send a postcard and you can't tell one from the other anymore, Zoe is, as i said, ensconced and refuses to emerge, she keeps complaining about stolen chocolates, you wouldn't know anything about that would you?" Mrs. Lytle peered suspiciously at Princess's mouth, something about the odor... "Mmurphug!' said Princess. "Hmmmph." said mrs. Lytle getting her mind back on track, " yes, well, as I said disorder is abounding and there seems to be a Miss Pie , an author of some racy repute who is creating suggestive chicken scandals about the Farm. It is simply not acceptable, I say!" Her voice raised a notch and Princess could see her feeling about for the whiffler she usually kept attached to her belt in a special holster. She  had seemingly forgotten to don it in her haste this morning, and so became slightly distracted. " Well, you must tend to your condition and return to defend the Queen's Farm! I am imposing Military Curfew until order is restored!" She did a quick about face and marched inside to find the necessary piece of defensive equipment she needed to fully arm herself from the impending Anarchy. Princess Afternoon quickly swallowed the chocolates and ran into the kitchen to e-mail Butler and Baubo: Code Red, she wrote, insanity level reaching critical mass, report immediately.

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. 

Things were starting to cook

What's All This?

Mrs. Lytle has spent the winter reorganizing the library books at RUGfarm (who is it that keeps putting them out of Dewey Decimal System order????) and categorizing the grammatical errors of all political candidates. Sniffing the first spring-like weather, she starts to plan spring cleaning chores, arranging her garter belt and making sure her tightly permed hair is in place before approaching the remaining residents of RUGfarm with their "to do" list.

Walking out the back door to ring the bell that would summon everyone, Mrs. Lytle is astonished to discover that the farm is now floating in cyberspace. "What's All This??" she demands of Princess Afternoon, who, seated on the porch swing, blithely continues reading Kirkegaard to Tiny Bill, who is squirming in his seat, desperately hoping to escape to go swimming in the pond before heading off to a new job. Bagman listens from the bushes, frowning and muttering, "I hope she gets to the part about indirect communication soon!" Zoe leans out of the upstairs window and reminds Princess Afternoon to remind Bill that Kirkegaard was the first postmodernist. "Remember his admonition that 'subjectivity is truth' and 'truth is subjectivity,' she exclaimed.

Mrs. Lytle harrumphed, and with index finger high in the air began to pontificate on the value of hard work and the silliness of Danish philosophers. At the same time, her eyes were sweeping the skies of cyberspace for Butler and the others, all of whom had mysteriously disappeared as soon as the presidential campaigns had started. Perhaps they were all now political advisors instead of poets?