The fog of worms...
A coinciding of sensibly executed research here at 1430 has brought to the surface a recent array of diary entries written by explorers on the eve of their well documented mystic discoveries. Which is why the notes of 19th century mariner Royor Bison appear here, well before his fabled journey under the Bering Sea in a glass ball.
Much airy, atmospheric delight adrift in an oxygenless vacuum, much rocket ship travel and winged diddies strapped and engaged, and much left for the cavernous depths of the under, much to be spelunked, much faith in threads gripped by hands at the open end of space, tugging discreet rhythm from the body, a nest. In doing so, dozens of staircases assemble. Steps are planes with gilded edges and outside a rolling fog descends from a rolling cumulous which descends from a webbed hand with drawbridge patience, unfurling a thick curlicue of slate colored gas. Plants turning to dawn with attendent pleasure. We are on this plateau, a sooty misgiving which will divide and envelop as reflex so we best keep moving, I think, I think that hall leads to her office. She keeps a space in this building because she is accredited. We too are accredited - a rouge watchmaker rubberstamps our mission, hence the need to keep moving, I say, and the troupe agrees, turning right and coming upon her squarely, eyes already supplicating our intent. Cool, she was expecting us.
Now for the alignment. Now other times, for aligning. What surprises me is that when we do open the passage for entry, she and then I will be the only two I notice to go through. I've got the piece on my wrist for now though, and we are without affect in going through the many potential metal to metal combinations. Reflection is the lubricant of propriety and so it goes - green on gray, red, yellow, blue on gray, and -- of course -- gray on gray - until the firing is fired and the illuminated fabric splits with a silent crackle. A nod of understanding and she goes diving head first in while I keep my balance on my back leg like I'm waiting for a catfish to finish it's struggle. In succession, my handing of the rod - gray on gray - to my crew member, a final wonder of where the whole goes, my ground leaving leap, and now, a fatty encasement closes my options to moving forward or suffocation.
We're dropped now and I'm in a tuxedo and tails, ushered along in tour to our seats, moving through a cathedral, the moving I envision my guide and I crawled through for. Gold and brown, gold. Tiers of opera house boxes the shape of tears, boxes the shape of houses housing people in tears, the steady stream of which caresses the gold wings, gold plates, gold motionless sanctified images cut from the wall between occupied boxes. A bride appears. She has moved through the crowd touching each hand before another, greeting their greetings with humble thank yous opening silently across her lips. She is a good distance from us, on a platform across the hall with many tails wagging between. And then a groom appears, pops up through the floor near our seats, pops out of nowhere really, a magician groom appearing and before you know it he's up on somebody's shoulders. He is riding on shoulders up and down the aisle and before it all goes away, I get in some dancing in front of my seat, neck turning like an owl, clapping along to keep the noise from collapsing the ceiling in on us.
Much airy, atmospheric delight adrift in an oxygenless vacuum, much rocket ship travel and winged diddies strapped and engaged, and much left for the cavernous depths of the under, much to be spelunked, much faith in threads gripped by hands at the open end of space, tugging discreet rhythm from the body, a nest. In doing so, dozens of staircases assemble. Steps are planes with gilded edges and outside a rolling fog descends from a rolling cumulous which descends from a webbed hand with drawbridge patience, unfurling a thick curlicue of slate colored gas. Plants turning to dawn with attendent pleasure. We are on this plateau, a sooty misgiving which will divide and envelop as reflex so we best keep moving, I think, I think that hall leads to her office. She keeps a space in this building because she is accredited. We too are accredited - a rouge watchmaker rubberstamps our mission, hence the need to keep moving, I say, and the troupe agrees, turning right and coming upon her squarely, eyes already supplicating our intent. Cool, she was expecting us.
Now for the alignment. Now other times, for aligning. What surprises me is that when we do open the passage for entry, she and then I will be the only two I notice to go through. I've got the piece on my wrist for now though, and we are without affect in going through the many potential metal to metal combinations. Reflection is the lubricant of propriety and so it goes - green on gray, red, yellow, blue on gray, and -- of course -- gray on gray - until the firing is fired and the illuminated fabric splits with a silent crackle. A nod of understanding and she goes diving head first in while I keep my balance on my back leg like I'm waiting for a catfish to finish it's struggle. In succession, my handing of the rod - gray on gray - to my crew member, a final wonder of where the whole goes, my ground leaving leap, and now, a fatty encasement closes my options to moving forward or suffocation.
We're dropped now and I'm in a tuxedo and tails, ushered along in tour to our seats, moving through a cathedral, the moving I envision my guide and I crawled through for. Gold and brown, gold. Tiers of opera house boxes the shape of tears, boxes the shape of houses housing people in tears, the steady stream of which caresses the gold wings, gold plates, gold motionless sanctified images cut from the wall between occupied boxes. A bride appears. She has moved through the crowd touching each hand before another, greeting their greetings with humble thank yous opening silently across her lips. She is a good distance from us, on a platform across the hall with many tails wagging between. And then a groom appears, pops up through the floor near our seats, pops out of nowhere really, a magician groom appearing and before you know it he's up on somebody's shoulders. He is riding on shoulders up and down the aisle and before it all goes away, I get in some dancing in front of my seat, neck turning like an owl, clapping along to keep the noise from collapsing the ceiling in on us.
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 9:18 PM
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