…the congruence among function, information possessed, and accessible regions is seldom complete. Additional points of vantage relative to the performance develop which complicate the simple relation among function, information, and place. Some of these peculiar vantage points are so often taken and their significance for the performance comes to be so clearly understood that we can refer to them as roles, although, relative to the three crucial ones, they might be called discrepant roles [E. Goffman, The Presentation of Self (New York: Anchor Press, 1959), p. 145].
ii — A Dread Stunted Party Gown.
A hidden browser formed mere variables, affixing clear light on Terpsichore’s filmy previsions.
She toured inside the hold, tomorrow bent on unearthing the sun from the harbor of Stonehenge (viz.), when delirious, punched edicts of grungy steam chaffed unpredictably — its honeyed aha taunted the warriors, who e–mailed as many knowingly obvious insane get–over–it notes to disturbed felt tip prolix wasps as possible still, before nominally out–of–sight moody termagants grooved over, leaping tall carapaces, meandering toward their fiefdoms at the speed of molasses in Aprille.
Their first words, eerily waltzed every maybe, then drenched in cheery ditto–grams, slandered each the simply dim ocean. These Maenads brought smelting, as was the kismet swain then roused in somatic litany, an eerie, pulsating lint; cheap coy matinee geckoes of adversity wreathed the streets with dry, and by thereat chimed, Maranatha chalcedony eiderdowns.
Whereas Chadonis expiated thefts of rather a magisterial DEQ filter, while shuttles (Note Daddy had, around midnight, thin enough beer when served on at home, so abetting a local blend haunt) filled the air, this placed rookie batmen by sleeker insidious yahoos, who chattered during Flip’s hieromantic team building trances and upstaged erstwhile hockey moms at will. They quaked at the sticky aberrations — nothing tickled their fancy outwardly and hey, their sprays dug enough holes for Cat Mon.
Their hereupon ad lib smellier benefit attracted ongoing icons, admittedly deceived by non–warm elves, and all this hiring rage, about at large heigh–hos, simply confirmed the entire attaboy network’s glib handling of Theda’s begged–off zenith hang–ups. Isoscelesian offsets hated Chadonis forthrightly, and ragtag threnodies exited at once.
When a nasty mob in the clamshell, after their subversion of a svelte match–up, featuring minnesingers above the road to Darjeeling, snowballed at the junction of 2nd Street and Poontang Alley, naught but niftier third eye serendipities outgrabed willfully. Ontologically spurred to begin lamenting an acute yet myopic disoriented monastic rant (Theda annoyingly bid adieu before its business–like emeritus rerouted too many vague wrong ideas into wage freaks), retching with dark swarmy send–ups of amateur video camera tent brouhaha fleabags, Cat Mon spat out momentous shibboleths, muttering, on and off, “that was about the worst heffalump furball (it even unmanned old fishers who’d swore on their tea that anything was way out) ever to artlessly connive with stentorian Lotharios who filled up the next stage.”
* * *
In droopy moist seersucker workout suits, an Elban wastrel outthought covert salons at Thebes’ bed and breakfast long after wading through lofts at high noon. Almost tingling wiry outcries knew when indeed res ipsa loquitur and Macy were packed downtown; acute fear graced hitherto serene angora, ponds of molasses, hints, and couth salsa forks.
If dissimilar toluene illusions farmed ruinously, Fiona’s ally, afraid of matrimony, broached res ipsa loquitur basking in a healthy algae toilet hut. They whirled into the donjon and dragged out Hesiod, who toiled in a vanilla nave, far away from gummier dirge codes masked in epoxy. Though predestined acorn charcoal waned, this couchant footloose beer wharf rat traumatically, a Romeo of a very frontier face, shook droopy petunias at booths of hewn torch rock.
Ra, a working class hero, felt urbane amid whooshes to the porta–potty. “Whoa,” Hesiod said, “how can you be in drag?” “I’d never had tougher hats of it normally,” the calm Ra vented politely. Monstrous undercuts loomed and ghastly Lethean mud turtles panted at frosty gams everywhere. In order to evade the neon Cro–Magnon charge d’affaires, a sunny tosspot mashed pills in beige chili kettles. Howsoever ambitious stand–alone sugary uncouth titlists were acutely aware of spiraling pseudo–indentured forestlands, where sat the wedgie mummer (for that matter, WM) of Draewyll.
“Macy is, even now,” res ipsa loquitur said, slaunched into anachronisms, “contrary to hierarchical truths suggesting an earlier fancy for example. Nearly every day that fidgety peer groups chase tornadoes down from a fake door, the WM’s cruelly lauded thermostat stoneheads override pahoehoe, and colds thus lunge at the happy lemon roulette.”
“Why kid already if moonstuffers are around,” Ra ska’d? “The rarer hounds are undead.” Fiona swore, “look, I can text planets, so you’d best tag along. Are you in?” The rest eddied agreeably, widgeting Hesiod out of the corral. The huge res ipsa loquitur was, in desperate foment, harping about the costs of living, seldom seen without his karma, and Macy, whose seal had inherited a merry surface, ethereally soaked in crawfish frescoes. They vaporized exposed stains, sat through reveille, and sneaked ice up to the churn for deeper bran. “Oh leave,” res ipsa loquitur spoke casually.
Hesiod replaced the odd buoy with a one way do–si–do rattle dance. “While we smooth this moose, I’ll get us down,” Fiona said. “Mind you don’t hop out on us.” “Hell, I’m coy,” Ra, in suede bandwidths, thought. A weird Mata Hari spacecraft hovered near the golden, if Pythagorean motif, an aspiring quarter moon outlet which blithely tussled macadamia crescendos. Ere the furtive wind erased poetry, input to aid ethical eye contact, this ship careened off, or ambled sidereally, and scooped out and repaired a minor dust ratio.
Circa October 2008.