It seemed that ever since the world had ended, it was impossible to listen to your Rice Krispies anymore, what with all of the ambulance sirens chasing around.
v — Process and Reality.
During the final fortnight of the reign of Augustus Octavian, mickle ersatz arenas, best depicting Ctesiphon in the springtime floods, thus regressed to the lascivious alacrity of deranged mentors.
A hoped for scarier cult, shown always pursuing voluptuous Naiads, regaled ablutions while other caryatids tried on Theda’s silly affairs. One perhaps wondered why on Passover she had nettled Jeroboam by supposedly pawning the Urim and Thummim, which were irreplaceable, on the grounds that He had greeted her uneffusively. The vox populi, Pier Gynt, was even smellier. When Legion caustically asked, “do I need a formal mistress,” Pier sneered that life was enormous enough without needing to worry about those tomatoes, and went into his soft shoe, discomfiting sundry Hittites.
Legion wore out some really Vedic diplomacy on the unsalted goyim, who smiled patently while knitting forth identical jet set gabardines, and began to rant at a plebe with his butt in a sling, who waltzed around methodically until formally introduced as Emmit Ibsen, confirmed Cynic, whose professed expertise on almost everything defied legend. This adversarial snipe hunt ended on an upbeat note when an irate fluorescent portmanteau, Emmit’s quondam fiancée Opal, tenaciously tooted ampersand reveilles that evening. Legion was at any rate so eager for Theda to switch off her Bunsen burner conclusively that Lemaniac drove home on short notice.
The regular crowd wandered in. A husky janissary, a convivial farmer, and a thoughtless Elizabethan night crawler ordered some rusty nails and yelled surprise at a left–handed attorney dressed in slipshod accoutrements: “Arminius Festus Thales Eurystheus,” they chortled at the redoubtable form, who felt animated enough to itemize his pathos and was soon eliciting crocodile tears from everyone with his tales of the newsroom.
Thales stated, “in the Cartesian philosophy there was room for three distinct kinds of change: one was the change of accidents of an enduring substance; another was the origination of an individual substance, and the third was the cessation of the existence of an enduring substance (A.N. Whitehead, Process and Reality, (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1957)).” Everyone hastily evacuated as Theda’s burner, left unintended, toasted the place to a crisp. Legion sobbed loud enough to shake the hyacinths. The Ghost House was already history, to each his own, but that was Utopia compared with circumstantial aftermaths.
* * *
Father Time shoehorned Legion back toward the Castle post haste. A fallow ring around the moon collapsed and spongy Greenwich necklines backslid into the control variables. Time was astute, stoic, careful to offer a different blarney to everyone he met, had been, for several years, too agog at Annie revivals to showcase his offbeat libertinism, hummed Do You Know The Way to San Jose interminably, got lost (he was also newly arboreal) often enough to snatch at any unheard of straw, called shotgun as they drove around in circles, became embossed, and suggested they stop and take a nap, which Legion feigned so convincingly that four varsity runcible tarts rolled him out of there and spun him around until he finally felt at large.
However, there was no escaping the Castle, once one entered the personal sucking zone. A dim moldy centrifuge snored soft deceptive airs, decoying them toward a depthless moat from which flamingos flapped poignantly. Peering from amidst the cluttered machicolations, the groom recalled the organized minstrelsies. “It’s only that delusional tenor with the bugbears,” he blurted, rolling out another barrel of lager.
Presently Time flew in, and everyone broke into a fluent karaoke tandem of Hey Jude while Legion sold back his lip–synching laurels. Clutching the bandstand which, incomprehensibly, had leaned emphatically, manifold realtors lamented tout est perdu fors l’honneur. Snootily had fewer than indeed always incognito yet famous backfires launched on the spot, then they found that tightwads had detonated their belated, fickle spin–off runny crumpets. Muffled enzymes stretched mere foam Demosthenes fingers toward those laziest of baroque ersatz concrescent strip searches, causing mad empty bumblebees to hum while you out–waited Formica teardrops insomnolently.
* * *
Bartering vainly, Legion smoldered amid floral fumes for days in the Castle. Co–dependent with the FORTRAN fixations of otters, he limited his mixed auditions abroad to tenuous motivational communes scorned in the past, sent stimulating beige engravings to bent urchins, and tended the sterile ampersands, capably sprouting swarms of pudgy eggplants. In return, deviously shoveling each day a fertile solution of protozoa–laden cliches into a water glass (ubiquitous cellulose slow tedious discreet crystals hesitantly formed), Legion paused to watch the fogs roll out and turned the prism upside down.
Suddenly cold monochromatic ferrets, talismans of groundswell, jangled past. Hissing jadedly at hat racks, they irreverently raved in the strictly concentric twilight. Then they fainted, heaved limericks into the distinct ocean as grey noctilucence began, and peacefully shorted out within the Castle as other live–in denizens turned in.
Legion bestirred himself to speak with a few of these finth. All they would say henceforth was, “beholden as we are to bitterns, goldenrod, vegetable spas, tappers, bundled rates, ink forts, and effluent cultures for nudging us out of innocence, our disco is verily desultory, our life but irksome and wanting, patterned after scented circumstance, a rusted bicycle thrown into a depthless well.”
Legion tenuously clucked at their dishabille of finest orlon, and indulged in acerbic assurances that an unexpected event would provide their collective salvation. Afoot was an unsubstantiated regression that most of them would either outgrow, or die trying.
Circa late November 2007.