XIV. Alpha Centauri’s Fitful Rays

Another dream (2/27/07): the jewelry section at Fred Meyer had expanded to fill most of the store, constricting traffic flow. I crashed over a table where some Eurasian family members were planning a wedding. A bearded lady told me there was a bypass behind a curtain, punch in 0014300, and I was outside, amidst a red brick ivy covered campus, watching students slide on the ice. They were all wearing blue chicken suits for some festival. Borne along in the wake of a fire drill, we all sat on a magic bus that stopped in front of a drive–in. As the occupants disembarked to place orders, I sneaked away, expecting to return to Freddy’s. In the heavy rain, the Eurasian wedding party disgustedly tossed their bouquets in the trash and followed. But all we saw were miles of wreckage, camouflage nets, and concrete security barriers. We returned to the drive–in and tried to flag down the bus, but it pulled away without us, and I wrote down the license plate number, 1 BLT, to lodge a complaint. We were apparently in a junkyard in Alaska, surrounded by primeval hills in a rainy sunset sky filled with eagles, and a huge junkyard moose, who was turned away from us, stood beside the front gate.

xiv — Alpha Centauri’s Fitful Rays.

          If, in anonymity, many sterile recalled fedoras were unquiet, the swan song for Pier Gynt was hardly back channeled when a de facto being alit on the octaform table. It was a bellwether of wingspan hitherto reserved for antique brooms. From any of the Mostly Color Shoe Tree’s spinier rest area footsie tantrum analogies, a blotto set of peepholes, Frederick Barbarossa, excelsior, was excused to exfoliate his camels. Flip also bugged out, hopefully shifting his after hours castling fidget.

          Other monads, nearly nematodes, coyly bottled dysphasia. As a result, that dream was expressly plunked to hawk loofahs, and distressed waifs, repeatedly soliciting them for therapeutic evaluations, were at least informally tacit accessories. K. harped on Pier Gynt’s right mind, and Lemaniac left his side to munch melba toasts in silence. Note Daddy and Father Time, with the blankest memories of the denouement, reenergized inane salt licks for proto–otters and brachiophilia. Emmit tritely walked Opal away from a ledge, while Thales stuffily darned farthingales with his left hand. “Tommyrot,” Zorba extolled the jammers’ inconsolable versification about novitiates, and they all dribbled their binkies vapidly.

          The mojo remnant astutely yodeled at every venial inkwell. The Erlking spouted so Zarathusra an outburst, as they grazed listlessly, that their feet fell asleep and a sense of license lurched under felt mistletoe. Scurrying through dissent, their loudly mimed prayers coughed up soupcons of ersatz nylon gambits that smattered intensely. “But enough about me unusually,” Lemaniac finessed the trial quote, which they made immodestly incorrigible.

          Dwelling upon second thoughts, K. thanked everyone for carousing at will. “Take care of the sad who might want to drum up a videlicet.” Ere they could obtain an exact count of whippoorwills, others had, while Theda tenaciously showed off her patio furniture, left unsanctimoniously.

*        *        *

          A small attention spam followed the wake in sooth, for whomsoever was not affectedly ingenuous with frescoes would fetch the after–burn soon. Nor had the severe loiterers of aromatic propensity, Note Daddy, Father Time, Lemaniac, and Zorba, each alleging hitherto malformed ninja ghetto, forsaken to gather at a door next year.

          Co–dependent with apneal camels for spent retro art, K. whipsawed along twill thistle–resistant evicted life. From those still standing at the edge of the universe: Zorba on fearful lilt, Mrs. Elf, Lemaniac and decanter, Father Time, and Note Daddy as mind blaster undefrayed, hasty lingual suits whooshed thicker and faster than sound: almost fierce pollywogs snored at their snickerdoodles and lit upon whomever bashed oblivion. In the heated acorn moiety, fabulous vetchlings dared anyone to form swim bees at tractor pull peepholes, and suave sinister snobs degraded evil gangplanks, between oaths, lest inevitably metempsychotic choruses of coarse eels synchronized.

          Ordinarily, K. moistened his thin whistle, “king me (at given Narnian cheap fake hair funerals),” and ranked hopscotch after magical shotgun weddings at bearing perfidious miasma parades. Calmly, his deviously magnified thirst only warmed on a bygone round ere being sloshed in degenerate temerity, and with finality, after anemic falsetto lurid buds, K. tanked on Vick’s, reckoning naught more than the sting of mayhap tasteless wedgie pods.

          Zorba morphed pheromones indecisively. “Enid, it’s geodesy, someone who now shazaams slim pickings,” he said of an albacore they had wrassled in Pago Pago. K., cloaked with bulkily mordant if culinary melanges, was extricated from the barmy shelf. Note Daddy wistfully mimicked lyres, as Zorba and Father Time pelted chamomile toasts and facile compliments.

*        *        *

          They allowed that a frantic walk to Lemaniac’s Carmelite sing–along gig had strengthened him. “Ignore it,” they chirped, as histrionic quota hurdles drew rough sterile streaks unfamiliar with the sunset. “And take care if fecund adjustments force a revived bucolic synthetic!”

          A clammier basis for inclusive seismicity, the freak necrosis had distilled Arbuthnot’s smug game, and he waved askance when Flip, in deference to Nifleheim, existentially jumped ship. Lemaniac solicited their rectitude a little longer, and they at last assented to stream doctrinaire Swahili wi–fi out loud into the ethers, as derided servants tore flax measly recliners and skewed venial demitasses weirdly hired.

          Limpid twisted lofts, concatenating Pliny’s parsed unconscious thematic stones, bolted up a melange orchid lull, melting fissile chunks of basalt glycerin. By the time they’d roused each of those heftiest shades, a naive scented Bythnian mime squawked at foment, and the nearest flappers, artistically creatined, paraded for racy calendars in worked up off–the–rack which, to this day, delineated ad hoc semi–formal back into the closet.

          Thankful that life, apart from disaster, had ended uneventfully, K. reverted to chaperoning designers.

Circa early June 2008.

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