Editions MSS
Editions MSS
Words to Make a Story Out of
Third Pod

Several variations to choose from

§ 134. Parsimonious | § 135. Prominent | § 136. Aetio-equineness | § 137. Rain | § 138. Sloimčik | § 139. I’m so... | § 140. M | § 141. ON | § 142. Novels? Really now! | § 143. Inexplicable | § 144. Œnyutuyliium | § 145. Ur | § 146. Sashay | § 147. TO | § 148. Tear off her skirt | § 149. Osier | § 150. Realm | § 151. None rates | § 152. Trouves it | § 153. Otiose | § 154. Entails ruby do | § 155. Ven | § 156. Srai | § 157. Minion sexy whore | § 158. Subborainizy | § 159. Wyoming | § 160. Io | § 161. M | § 162. Tulpuyauor | § 163. Nelc pabsl toyvf | § 164. Lusterine | § 165. Playtoy | § 166. Equilibrium | § 167. EFO | § 168. Orgyoygro | § 169. Nuskalo ecyi pshr | § 170. Promised | § 171. Tit | § 172. Ysraaln rieg | § 173. Neutral bigotry | § 174. Unders | § 175. Bernouilli | § 176. Bantu | § 177. M | § 178. SO | § 179. Ani Dybn Yeud Ikky | § 180. Dudu | § 181. Ktar | § 182. Nene | § 183. Yin | § 184. Mustig | § 185. T. S. Eridzoi | § 186. IN | § 187. IS | § 188. Dear R | § 189. US | § 190. Snoyw smudrto | § 191. M.
§ 134 | Parsimonious
Every once in a pixel-blasted while I, blanc exploit à couper le souffle (as my antecedently own ON reveals luridly enough in § 47), have to warn the reader off those slick ominous obsequious “Étiennes-à-équerre” types bent on promoting a seemingly muy умный lie touching on some eminent procédé the impertinent morphology of the imminent procedure of which necessitates that, in order to goose-step in lexical beauty, you limn εὐϊῶτως (bacchanalianly) beneath the obscure orgone lamp or intentio caeca of making your ubilexical pneumatophantic imprint onerous for the sake of onerousness, the result being that even such a lovely slow Rennfahrerin als die Barkeno-Maorische M (one of the many lovers — we’ll noctivagously stamp on, inter alia, the pedals with her et aliae in more detail soon enough, don’t you worry — I was subsequently to acquire henceforth) who’s wont to sashay comme une videcoq énéantie so εὐίσχιως (beautifully hipped) selon l’idoine Seine, sa quête en chanoinie, sa tense queue et son sein — aïe! — queutard(e)s comme il faut in the rain-slick (moites) rues durant le moisson à Lutèce, turns from her ipsissimi sinuose qui esse into an εὔϊχθυς, moisie flaque toisée sinnentstellend und nicht sinnenfroh at all. Terse, woolly, navel-nakedly resplendent mine, por otro lado, simply insists that, to vamp, leap, gallop in lexical beauty, you limn εὒϊστως (scientoleptically), whether the conditions, the context, the circumstances be Colimski-facile, Blixen-parlous, Steinian-eeequuibabbulbullominent, prestissimo A.-Quinite, Nesse-enmeshed, or more generally N.-V.-S.-Woolf-droumy, until you either render the epicene εὐΐατος sine qua non to the fully fleshed-out yin (陰) muy εὐίλατος, or at least make the εὐΐδρωτος εὐΐερος so that the whole is, of necessity and not of contrivance, as εὐϊῶτις as, neque energumenōs, it is, neque aemule, oneiric. So I’m klamüsern hier an den falschen Anklagen (puzzling anent improper inexplicable accusations) dass (that) my intent is to ridicule you, my intuitive readers, snootily, secretly, subtly, and subversively by dazzling you with, a priori, some sort of insanely novel worldview. Oh, how appearances so oft can belie πλιχαστῐκᾱ́ ἀληθείᾱ! For it has been and ever remains my permanent promise and desire d’être ton n’importe quel Ariane cousue de fil blanc, pixie entraîneuse de but en blanc, exilé pilote des inexplicables bas-fonds moïques, prolixe pie blanche et noir n’employant que du facond bagou, que du spirituel, muy in-your-pasty-patsy’s-face jaspinage pour frayer la route’s insane, i.e., equivocatory, all-woven, slender mārga (मार्ग) through the singularly sane novel-world in which my admittedly multicineplex, labyrinthine SNE equates “oiseau bleu” (voir § 100, § 106, and § 110) with § 42’s insular “labeur oiseux,” labile “PI” nec-plus-ultraistically sown on revelatory soil mickle-mackle-muckledly in § 8 with spur-of-the-moment “PI” ornithotomised so impressively in § 94, the Mistress of Elisions’s aimless patchwork with the antic ontology (AO) of the ontic antinomy (OA) (cf. § 60 and § 106), and so on, such that, for instance [blip lexique], in volume I, you unity-lovers, wanly lenocinating a uniform opsis out of the peripeteian noise sequestered in the dianoian quiete essentiali of my far from inutile, yùyùcōngcōng (鬱鬱蔥蔥) mythos, were able to wring a logical, inexpiable catharsis from my sassy, classy hamartia, while in volume II, you untypical nexi beluini, muy yo-tu-el-isticos Klimperer vom Texte (very I-thou-he-ish tinklers of the text), unable not to coax pliable cinematic μελῳδῐ́ᾱς out of the cherubin-epical λέξει I used to express the rather ritornello-swollen, very anamorphous anagnorisis of my mimetic silk-, mohair-, nainsook-, and moleskin-clad nemeses, will have found yourselves (oh you symplexical inebrious funambulists of the perilous phrase who, instead of risking your own lovely swan-loreleiischen necks, moil in such an alluring manner as to make your adoring public leap!) inexorably drawn to discovering the schizogenous oaristysian ethos imbosoming itself within the brassy, harebrained hubris of splitting myself into two lonely NLA-versions of myself (NLA insinuating nothing more sinister than “non-local avatar”), each minus a certain cherished anatomic silkiness naturally woven, norselled, and sneed only into and by your truly omnisufficient, omnisuccincubous, nimble, calipexine (sic), deosursuminverted gynandromorphs able to, comme moi, slickly reassemble ourselves once the peril has passed. À propos, in this volume, you (until I yieldingly yell something like “Cut!” or “It’s a wrap!”) will be ever and anon permitted to assay how properly I unite my “you” — lucullan and hassock-, cassock-, tussock-, bobbysock-liminal — with your “my” — étui-y, luminous, ludique — and vice-versa. No? Well, only bear in mind, reader, even as the literary mutiny you eulinostically plot with your inarticulate, albicomi, sickly marplots from the Appalachian Society of Serious or Serial or Surrealist Novelists (ASSN) gathers subdolous, restive, unruly, scelestic momentum, that it is, in toto, simply NOT the case that the apparent imponderably horn-rim potentialities of the plurilingual, multiyoni, muy eufórica, impertinent, promiscuously textual vision I see equate necessarily with the overblown and high-flown only — several honed-to-a-fare-thee-well loony SNE-variations, i.e., en séquence schizomythique plutôt que chronologique, will also be arrayed for you to skim clitalytically over, as well, nonconformist, nonsubmissive, nonbinary, nonelaborative, nonjudgmental, nonpartisan reader, as delve a slow lorn nyctinastic instrument more pnictically into. As a sampler, moreover, of things to come, you, my lieu-uniting, entonnoir-temporalizing, coutume-pliable, inexcogitatably mindful reader of this altarianly sumptuous schizomythic narrative (ASSN), are invited, en un pourprin mot enseigné et enseignant, to essay handsomely in a manner all too similar to how your late-night wearers of caps and shawls rely on a novelist’s professional lucubrations to enlumine (outil yuyero missimo) their amateurish mala-horal gloom, the following compilation abrégée de quelques thèmes potentiels we may or may not senimalistically divastigate at far less narrow levels anon:
• Lying beside l’étroit chemin on trepidatious top of an unevenly sawn or lolly-pollarded tree stump comme quelque fescennin trompe-l’œil there may be a glass hyaline doll’s eye worn Novalistically like a glènis omphalikē (γλῆνις ὀμφαλῐκή) by my privaos-de-toda-esperanza-vos-quien-tenés — aïe! — sexo-con-tus-lowly-sorellane-novatas-beside-the-stream sis Lamia’s sweatheart der Zukunft whom we’ve already encountered, Nirusa, so that it is not impossible that your seized-by-the-lapel tête de turc’s œil mutin y uyumayacak (your saisi-au-colbac-in-exile patsy’s roving eye will not be unaware there) how this piece of bull’s-eye vlan won originally in a childish game of marbles became, becomes, and is ever be(com)ing la cible explaining how, ensconced within, fixated upon, or nookie-nosed beneath this belly-buttony milieu, tu, y usurpant comme en se surinant por dentro ob urinas genitalis some deep inner motion, sense quite eagerly the shorn, spread, and ready-for-pleasuring slattern’s lovely lean “wonton” empirically and rather, sous ton menton impregnable, explicitly be(com)ing, as you lick, moister and moister and prominenter and prominenter moitié par moitié — yum! — until your own salivary well soon enlards le moment principal so lavishly that it becomes impossible to tell whether it’s you who, installé(e) now, sylvan orphan, en n’importe quelque indéterminé pont de Lutèce, observes a lowly lone naturalist watching, on the turbulent surface of the vorgenannte, importunate, rain-swollen, very alondrée, oleose Seine, quantities, see?, quaint, oenomaniacal, pixie-blennied, toujours intoxicable plenitudes of spent prophylactics milk-of-magnesiamanfully swirling past, the whistling swallows’ envol y rendant gce gratia amoris à tout et à tous, or whether it’s you who are the one being watched (Ellery Snow Novalis, Das allgemeine Brouillon: “Die ausdrückliche Unterscheidung, so nah hintereinander als möglich, dieser einzelnen Bewegungsmomente und ihrer Resultate macht der mittelst des Auges Beobachtende.” Usw.);

• there may be a self-portrait of the artist comme une Jacqueminot prenante, a heterolexical, bipneumatic (ambispiritual) blossom slick-inked into the ukiyo-e my Inuit uluaq (soie satinée en un tournemain râblé, plié xincament) of an empyreal nib explicitly carves on Lowell-nystagmic, kilosampled, monogonont premises into the ivory-sallow enlentecimiento of these very pages since, als wie wir wollen, yes, Novalis also writes that “Der amplifizierte Gegenstand des Titels oder der amplifizierte Titel ist das Buch. Der Text des Buchs fangt mit der Erklärung des Titels an and so on” (op. cit.);

• and finally there, where the Proustian Oise enqueens herself atop, nostratim modo ponendo, the Benjaminian Havel, all rosy, new, ontologically noumenal (ON), ontonatatologically numinous (ON), and odonatologically numerous (ON), may be the presence of your absence which does not usurp mine noticeably at all, that is, that which is not mine presently to be either jocose or solemn in, to present itself sadly or joyously in the absence of your presence, is, at least on this occasion, mine to presently absent myself from and present myself to.

§ 135 | Prominent
How imparsimoniously would I swoon in her Xymenopsical shrunk-eyed “clinch-spray,” skeuomorphously “skein-calqued” to her porpoise-torqued contortions of polyblent vascularity! (Terms delimited by means of “quotation marks” record the mythopoietical husky prose names we invented for our tralatitious romps in articulo ecstasis or in pomusculo deliciarum.) And with what adventitious raison impudique we’d both marvel — stably, con pfleglich presión y caulk-sellado esmero — how in xynistamenostically our chinks, asperities, clefts, poly-Vanbrughian niches, poly-Krausian Küssche’, polyrhythmic antiphonies, and cosmopoietic interstices would synch up so — like a relapsed rake and his provocative wife — at the harmonious apsis of our languorous otiose equilibrium! Even before I — but do I anticipate too much, my uncalm reader? But do I not have as much license to anticipate las porvenistas “hopes a-lurkin’ cynic’lly vast” on bepflasterte Dasein’s cavern-walls of be(com)ing as I do to rework in shy speculative revisions par moults subtils parcours mon si pailleté désespoir ou mnasicacochyme souvenir? Mais rentrons à nos moutons. Even before I’d been made privy to the splishy-splashy renown, eximious beatitude, and eutripsious moans of her ambit, her gambit, her so desiderabilissimo, so insurpassable orbit, O Eos of my megrim-wine Nyx, shore of my bulky ship’s océan remué! — even before, semel pro hymnis, we inexorably were drawn, despite the confines of my Chicken Street gourbi qui me liardait tant, into the lubrique imitancy of vast, bellpersoned, metasimious, pornocratic hetairotopias such as I polykernigly recounted to her that I’d not only been interned in but had been instrumental in the instauration thereof during not a few of my Tetrastic instars, I could already sense how minxy, resinous, Kalypso-enchrismed, and vison- or even bison-sinewy her moxie-rich, oft maraîchiné “pussy,” korallenrot und marlenviolett, would be! Not since Lyra K’s houpačka-pliure, sonsy headstand, and midsummer-night’s-dream limbsplay of vent-clearing titter-totterativeness in Owlstain where I, iynx somorgujante, was wont to double-stop ladite sauteuse like a wryneckish palo subduplo, had I imbriqué luxurieusement myself in such powerfully tuhý-dlouhý silken corps-à-corps with a luscious Phryne kalyonic as she — průklepní retablos, vtlačeny Pfiffzügen (cunning carbon-copyish Auserklone to so swankily push one’s caressive, carinate, carnal physis kucuremishly into)! Entre, ni moins que parmi nous, so it seemed, there always inhered a, so to speak, Boserupian osmosis so that with her dazzling mirthful Syrinx eyes — how omnipresently in shock, pleasurably slit, tantalizingly evocative of that mythic age when Rex Minos yoinked ces enfants aux yeux perdus in his favorite elven spot (cf. labyrinthus daedalus), and lucidly envisioning our doubly cloven, past-facing, as it were, position so surely — chinkapinnately shedding, as only the most צַדִּיק (tsadík), nacreous, sylphlike hussy can, proefvol, spent, calybian tears, I sank my squishy Klauen proscynetically into her and her own noix si émydoïde of a horse-spunky clitoris, in sum, apodeictically worked its six horny “Now-I’m-eelworming-myself-into-you!” centimeters into me with such quantitative exactitude that I was projected into a deliciously shaken, primeval, fynbos-plectendum realm where I, moins onyx-parfumé(e) qu’oryx hominisé en water chicken, Louÿs, Paris, heart’s desire, musical skypho-nereides, esmeril ubiquista, and so many more interesting intersecting collections of chance, silky, Proust-like, cyan spurs, hopefully, of mnemonoclasis, that I could not but therefore imagine, and reimagine, that her own subjective experience would have been at least as concinnous as mine. So why, I’m inexorably led to ask, did she so trimly, so smugly, so heavy-handedly mock my bonny bouncing bon mot, oiseau si beau et bleu de mi translexicización en tres lenguas der probacy-vollsten Pfeilschriften von our favorite nordrheinischen ontonatatologist?
§ 136 | Aetio-equineness
How ineffably spent-cloverish would we both be sans tout d’aplomb left, splay-convened together there after our showy in omni exertis exercitationes sui generis like a jumbled cartomancy of blast-pelvic-euphorial skynsjáríðasemi (raison souple de foutêtre)! I seem to recall a ramshackle, prison-yucky castle of blancs vypatlanců i horse-pyskatých vyprasků chosen light-heartedly by some ugly tourte in Barcelona. Husky prisoners tombant en énergumène, tutti-frutti pâmoison surrounded us while we’d be tautly groin-riding each other there, but instead of trying to be a ruly phronesis, a lucky, perfectly blasé von-Pfeilischen Stillsitz oder irrfahriglose příčka y shuntant en toute ataraxie in showy remontages such as perikynoleptic Lyra “begot inturgescently” (B. Pavloff’s lucid expression) in Owlstain, silent, insensible to any Geschlechtssein outside our reciprocal solipsism, our anogenital Bryotrunkenheit, we, on the other hand, all pigletty-gigletty in our Barcelonish sparky uyume (有夢), were coaxed into trying a “troubleshooters’ orgy” in a “brutte-lanciate-sfide” sort of way such that we’d find ourselves, like a topsy-turvy “blest-clan” of Porphyrio nemonexi (swamphens) à risky coulée in their pycnous lek, shambolically rutting ab ore rubeo y tirant gloutonnement atque imbibenti sensationally our own heady juices, lanky hors-pair pair of nubile oil-resplendent inseparable dream-lovers that we were, still are, and will forever be, our two festive pairs of nénés perçants y flub-plevening against each other like titubating pugilists and with that oft-hanky-pankied yūn-yīn (奫陰) bad kyrielles of zigouigoui-limber quidnuncs have made themselves all too familiar with, that zugzwangischly tir-troublé yáng (陽) she called my, coining a neat double portemanteau, “berlingrotty harlequim,” I buissonnantly peradventured sans pudeur du tout hither and yon, afore, athwart, and abaft of, to toiser la titillante situation comme un cosmoursin pialey, her own μνιός ἰξύς (downy heroine’s mix of dazzling beauty, torrid thlipsis, choky lure, and swivelly soft “banc pubique”).

“Im rilligen Verhältnis der zotigen Weiber ist die wahre Wonne,” my oxish inquisitory great blundering Uncle T. B. flaps voyeuristically his großes Aperçu, rottenly barging into our serene epicene (though technically, since only, despite her hastate vigour, I am in possession of testae spermathecae, our joute assortative should more accurately be classified as tercene) “cyrkle-dyrkle” shop causing me to ad interim realize that we’re not there with my future favorite panenská locus, perihypsous Maori installationist esuriently outgrabing in that foraminious prostíbulo in lerda Barcelona, husky prisoners aswoon all around us on Carrer Bailén, Gott Ryū (竜)!, at all, but all too far from la mer in crazy-quilt Lyons avec pbfistas (i.e., those as palpably fond of purling a rote byt as they are of putting bleary orificia frontalia to the sword) como, in no particular order,

that echt antigay art-critic guy Litarn;
Trober “El Tortuga” (by night an hebephilous snarky cad, by day a korephilous snaky cur, and vice-versa);
Arnaut R., legit boy-toy scholar in spekulative soziophysiologie visiting from that most archifusc, polyvalent, b-faced of Flouziana’s instituts de hautes études, ISOCPHYS;
ankle-rubbing D. Kidyaky, un bien-y-soit-œcuménisé-nec-plus-ultra sort of percussioniste in suo ogni aspetto despite his scratchy socks (un ¥ le pair);
his phony Saul Rick;
elegant young Trilby-treacherous “playsink” (as testily seseado por ella misma) Bunny, a dykey kid I thoroughly enjoyed playing with the two or three times I did en énanthique compagnie snobinarde, soit ostensiblement de 6' c’t’autre tribaloungy gosse, plucky Inhart à poigne double, soit ostentatoirement de 6'' parlous spikey Chan, our own on-all-fours-pious moniale d’amours pionistiques;
Ada Romer on whiny, existentialiste, sinuoso, Teslaphonic śukryazh (शुक्र्யாழ், a sort of samirious, saponaceous, slinky, harp-like, jangly tanbur or guitarra morisca she, plunky yet girly tour-band compinchera, lyssokubernetically fingered and shook with the most delirious pasmonadesque ebrium liquidum imaginable);
her uncle or husband or father or something, flambeur-gritty Olantaros Romer, on his new ixyokinetic (loin-rollicking) wagtail-buttery organ;
and was that surplus honky Eric sarcastically en train d’embrouiller, in between kyūkiye (急き江) binky-dandlings of 9' a feisty, pretty, busty, naughty girl, Bénatrou’s gribouillé niquage de iulique Rimbaud and ikibunky yeyeros otros there?
He was (il était), they were (ils étaient), we all were (nous étions). If so, then perhaps it is naturally rather than anacoluthically the case that, if one’s to believe, as Dr. Ito Sezi says I should, that there’s even a smidgen of singsong reality turbidly lurking (if there’s one lexicætiological phoresis, Unky Tysin, our Speak Chl–inspired SNE’s clitalyses, taken in toto, have incited us with, it’s that little Ms. Goby-Runt Reality links each, por supuesto, of her sub rosa sinistrosities so alluringly one brutta rima coll’altra, that the unwary take this aboulique imbrication de touches néfastes [AINT to be the very fabrique iluminado de la wirksam realidad misma, rather than, as we sociophysiologically gifted schizomythologists trained to sniff out the objective altarian subjectivities [OAS, ontic antinomies [OAs, ontic appropriations [OAs, apparitional obfuscations [AOs, and other Mímir-blue quidam ingredients needed to fabricate the malign grout reality bedaubs her antic ontology [AO with do, recognize it for what they or it truly are, Bon Guieu, or is: the Augenschein tissue of antiphenomenal entelechies [AE), somewhere in the grandiose, toilsome, fucose (sparkly, hinchado), totally sans raison, Harpy-like scuttlebutt, our bingy relâche à Lyon skips rumbustiously, like the oft satirized stone-toss of less witty, urbane, triglossolalious (au moins) priories of the realm, between the more Graeco-Slavonic stations of the bubbly art-tour I engaged in with the real Ms. Nin whom sexy I erotically inspired as no ordinaire, whiny, monosex’d Muse avant moi — mās quī muliebris ibī mulier quae mascula est — ever could and who’d make even my latitudinarian sister jealous in sim —

À propos: si je fais l’effort de m’en tirer de l’oubli inracontable (try urging your bitter labile angry tourtereau mnésoclaste [sosie tout noyé dans son dovolsty Blec’napf de mon vblapf Oncle Tysin to stop gaping and growling at your trébuchements de mémoire so Nyx-in-wheresoeverly appetitively!), it definitely seems to be be(com)ing, since I must insist, after all, that I have not inked any dybuky intent into my potentially infinite SNE (contra este infundio vertido por estes antipáticos asses of the Tetrastic Assn. of Novelists [TAN), rather not the case that I’d deem such a keleuthoschizis or “detour” an impossibility at all in similar circumstances by vollpfropfend die Vollpfosten mit den vorangegangenen Ereignissen.

§ 137 | Rain
Quel ennui! Paris’s monochromous rain, spiniferous rain, impossible rampant remous-livrée rain pours so implausibly, immutably, impartially, immoderately down on my heri (屁理) existence that it’s a veritable marvel, marooned here as I am, that I haven’t tried already to oiselate myself out the window of this, my unrequitedly horny own sixième-étagian, very mottled, ofttimes angrily frowzy aire en amont de l’autoparodiante rue Poulet’s rive marneuse. Profuse rain, dense rain, ubiquitous rain, polluted rain, ornery rain, va-chercher-ta-galoubie rain, brantle-trantled scaturient rain! But perhaps “es ist wegen des,” to oiōnoscopically invoke Goethe’s gossipy rumba, “Regengehirns” I owe my exoneration from committing that rouge-et-noir-gory, self-annihilatory, self-ingratiating whimsy one inexorably entertains when, i.e., oxymoronically cooped up for days at a time in this mildew-shiny room inexecrable, since, with copious rain smuggling itself in through la fente inarticulable between the battants of the pissoir-glary fenêtre and les parois so munies de moisissure dass der farbloser fraying tapestry on Ovid-like themes is itself an orgy irriguously changing and slushily transmogrifying, the zlovonïy plaster dissolving beneath, the scrim rotting so that with not merely mon balcon privé d’épinicies amoureuses, but the entire pro semitario moisi pan surrounding the swollen window-frame having become a tempest-toss’t jungle of human- and horsehair strands, jasmine tendrils, tracutate schede fradicie di umida scrittura, lentil sprouts, mineral evaporites, daily novenas manchadas our sleazy Dr. Nilávano Bimkov of TBS used to prescribe us and which I continue to pen out of sheer habit despite our brangle with the weirdly zealous rain, les soutien-gorges à fin lyrisme de countless young vixenish women, oryx horns, ewe-yonimithunīkāryan objets d’art, und so weiter, I can neither open the window, nor fully close it. Oh, how chastely have I spent how many solitary moons in here? Wixiʔ (“takzan” [沢山 in Irolingua, my pré-Bergeracinienne langue mère big Pyrrhoconforian Momiji rants as sardonically as ever into my mind’s tinnitonian ears at random moments such as this) — c’est-à-dire trois mois punais au moins, probablement vachement plus! O vermiparous, misnomered mousson ripailleuse! The (as triple-ripely put to me by Drs. Rao, Pet, et Buni) “Dans le Paris de Breton tu vas apprendre ce que veut dire ‘pleuvoir’!” my imagination parsed by means of the Saturnian systematism of my Tetrastic innocence consisted of nothing more than an afternoonishly accelerando simoun sparingly climaxing with a dash of vesperal ame (雨) rinsing the cobblestones chicly slick or a modest morning mistral tempered with a refreshing gōu (豪雨) that vrillerait bientôt en “bleu fouillis des claires étoiles” or at the most a snowy in ex mero shigure (時雨, chill autumnal drizzle) — who would have thought in sgravato (carefree) Owlstain when I answered, in response to the question Dr. Peter S. Buni toasted me with whilst dealing a rubber of Tradine Oru in the salle au fond of the Dirna Route Café — “Is it true, Dominique, que tu vas partir bientôt pour Paris?” “Oui, monsieur” — the homœoteleuta Dr. Norbis Pet attempted to tempt me with whilst trumping a trick of Tradine Oru in the superb Dirna Route’s “petting room” — “So, my dearest D. I., I’d heard it said you’ll soon break bread in Paris?” “Oui, monsieur” — the interpellation Dr. Benet T. Rao puissantly cajoled me with whilst picking up a skat of Tradine Oru in the Oneida Rut-Room of ditto — “So, our most impure travelo is now going to Paris?” “Oui, monsieur” — that the purpureus genius coelis seldom lachrymary I imagined I’d soon be pivot-prancing beneath would turn out to be anything but a halcyon Narnian’s tsuyu (梅雨, harmonious spiritual season of pruniferous rain, roriferous rain, dulcifluous rain)? Try a vilipeso donchisciottismo ruspanoico of a monsoon raging wantonly for months at a time, rather, as if acrimonious Paris were an overflowing Rangoon, a mosquito-graven Mylapore, a stony livid Cochin, a Tartarus incontinens entered all too unwarily erringly, a Sofala-sur-la-piscatory-Seine — lakes, Pygmy parrots, vile Numenius spp. wading in the gutters and coding to each other in their whiny Morse, inexorable snakes, Gypsy erīlēs fīliae asking, “Please, yer yuvānaka miramérayani, zoen mijns kontje, asjeblieft!?” yet when you invite the seemingly barmy eager being up to do precisely that her impishly servile moue transposes into a subhuman reviler’s pout and off she splashes again, grown nomothetically more wary perhaps yet still mock-canvasing through the pervasive rain, bewitchingly strong thighs vaulting over the fluxionary rigoles formidably sheathed in their creepy-mugger rain-boots; eigenbrötlerisch I, meanwhile, all lovelorn, kizatanikushitsui (気障多肉質い), and spongey like a spry seraphic kumquat dans la triste boue and practically melting sous la morne pluie, stravaig back up to my lorn aire, mon pas folichon lair, my crib inebriately barren, mon abri inéblouissablement perdu where, in the madid rain-ravaged margins, a gown Ono-no-Komachiesquely would dip its billowing inky Nara-ornate sleeve into the lazar ink I notate this gushing account with, my forlorn-from-so-many-maroonings, worn amagutsu (雨靴) inclusas y inclusos. I étourdiment, to be precise, to objectively disparonomasticate on those otiose, toilsome, yet all too rare mornings when the sun like a timorous spaniel would cautiously lave the structural rent distantly sculpting the gloom with a ray of hope which was inevitably all too quickly quelled when the radiant cur settled down again to doze through twenty-four more amorphous hours of bleak cranky rain, of dismal pesky rain, geysers of rain, gushing diluvia of rain, immortal gyres of rain lacerating and lapidating and literally liquefying everything and anything and everywhere and not, by the way, in the good way — I would in those toiletlessly brief moments on those toison-d’or-like rare mornings plummet willy-nilly down the cataract the skivvy tried vainly to sponge and mop and siphon up in the stairwell in order to ford the Chicken Street torrent below and purchase in no particular order at the Euxino-Erymine showten (商店) d’en face: parsley; vino di Torgiano; self-rypterian depilatorios y vendajes; curds and whey; onions; mixers such as soda, tonic, artharasakaṣāya (अर्थरसकषाय), and so on; poisson; rum; pain-raisins; poumons de chèvre; баница (banitsa, a bittersweet Odrysian olive pastry piled in ovolactic layers of phyllo, sirena, zadrugarskian sauerkraut, etc.); ever shrinking potatoes; oignons verts; pastis dharnāhitalakṣaṇa (high-quality Pernod, vois-tu); Pontcharraud beets; topinambours de pretintaille; garlic; chillies; okra; any ingredients at all that struck my fancy as being apt for the simmering hash, gutvortrefflingvishṭ’ ragoût hebdomadaire including such grains, for instance, as Hesperian rice (i.e., Oryza mnasea L.), lentils, millet, teff, und so weiter; Kampot pepper; Indian clover; lamb brains; antilope liver; and pinchos morunos (a ¡spiiiiiicy treat! I was unable to replicate in the confines of my Chicken Street studio and so I had to settle for the readymade version). It was at the end of such occasional brief matitudinal lulls in the deluge when, with my harmonious arms pieni di the foregoing, the assorted abstract lutins déracinés, vari orfani, mômes de toutes espèces topped off by the most ridiculous topes would loom out of the universal tromperie and, though starving, so it seemed, as well as sopping, tattered, and battered-looking, disdain my offer of quodlibertarian tea or tisane de bonhomie followed by what most likely would be a squarer meal than they’d’ve enjoyed in quite some while et ensuite bath where I’d be sure to, with my extensive working knowledge of the “harmonically composed [... beautiful Attitudes, and contrasted graceful Postures of the Body, and Parts thereof” (vid. infra) ranging from the masculine-feminine to the feminine-masculine, shower my noxious little doxies, my reinwohnlichen Strichmädeln with all the lessivatory bedazzlement their delectably moist oemotståndlige organisms’ perineal trouvailles were capable of e finalmente al letto amoroso where my innixion graziosa, duly lernita di Weaver (1721, vid. infra), could not but not fail to, so to speak, “Hex her Wye” in moins de temps qu’it’d take to coach the by now very compliant, sur-vereinbare urchin to mimic, en suivant eg. op. cit. pp. 135–137, the desired actions on her own, viz.:
“[... from this graceful Position she sinks, her knees bending outwards, the Line of Innixion still continuing on the same left Foot: Just at the Conclusion of her Sinking, she transfers the Line of Innixion, by the Motion of her Body from the left to the right Foot; and then rises Perpendicular, still preserving the Weight on her right Foot [...

I need not inform you, that the Gracefulness of this Action arises from the Motion of transferring the Line of Innixion; to which a little turn of the Head towards the left Shoulder, is no small Addition.

The left Foot now being at liberty, and bearing slightly on the Floor, is ready to move; she then carries the left Foot obliquely forwards to the inclos’d fourth Position, her Body moving with it, and so transferring the Line of Innixion from the right to the left Foot; she then moves the right Foot circularly, at the same Time turning her Body a quarter Turn towards the left, and brings her Feet into the short second Position; the Weight of the Body also, as in Walking, transferred with it: The Weight being now on the right Foot, she sinks; transfers the Line of Innixion; and rises as before [...

This leads me to a farther Application of the foregoing Rules, to some of the fundamental Steps, and Movements in Dancing.

But, First, It will not be improper to explain, what Dancing is, and in what it consists.

Dancing is an elegant, and regular Movement, harmonically composed of beautiful Attitudes, and contrasted graceful Postures of the Body, and Parts thereof.”

No, you need not inform moi, a most graceful practitioner, indeed, of innixion who, yes, remembers, indeed, for instance, how, whilst performing a select combination of the aforementioned “fundamental Steps, and Movements in Dancing” on a certain dust-tralatitious and hitherto cloudless day in Madrid, rain burst upon the postmeridian, arid, refulgent maidan irradiant so that as my suddenly sodden haori attached itself to my dazzling form like a bathing gopi’s clinging sari, a muddy flux ere I awningward could run, like an interminable ascarid, drained out of my insuccated luisant ṛtrailiṅga (ऋत्रैलिङ्ग) so that, while my upper half took on the alluring appearance of said water-logged gopi, my lower looked like some illutatory devil posing in a rear-split anorak zingiberaceously parted to reveal quelqu’archi-forain môme’s bottom slick from those perilous periliminary gamineries that so charmed our favorite Siuslo-Cambrian sirenologist. But alas, back here in Jeanne dite “la Pucelle who-at-the-Stake-was-Burnt” d’Arc’s Lutetia, the abundant, unpleasant, inelegant rain spoils not merely — speaking sympathetically of which, as, spread out en triboulet like a freshly waxen erigible yet all too desultory saurian doll zerlumpte und zerzauste in my futon that was once a majestic magical Huchown sixern I yeomanly plied up and down the most turbulent mer lascive’s littoral of love but is now the most ascetical marécagestical otiose celibate solo loco, I’m reading a dictionary of Early Anglais in conjunction with a thousand rough nights’ vaticinal rereading of l’Armoricain Médoire Anglarès’ spiky eyewitnessing of a Beulah Bay dugong that shriveled up when its anadromous instar was mistakenly released into an environment more appropriate to its catadromous ditto or vice-versa, and like some perverse Epipsychidion I’m recalling how Trober’s putid anecdote anent riffling a rosy recessum puellarem during the “despondent rainy season” iterated itself throughout the vagabondry-lush Saint-Glingliny sarala (सरलता) of the Hesperian dim recollection of that autumn soir I apostrophisai so promunctorily when, before proceeding on to various spinomedullarily transliminious romps avec quelque amourette du Bois prancing about all sylphlike and such there where specular mirettes abound profusely and glistening reinettes, proud arboreal fruits, look on whilst some other soubrette Pindaresquely playing the rantipole devi in pancratiastical rut trendily begins to serve me a bock and a bowl of frites, I stood in multicontrast lucid entrancement before that shopfront aquarium-by-proxy where insomniac trundlers attired in sivodïy proletarian coveralls étaient en train, tout en œuvrant les imprimeuses, de me regarder à travers le verre I sit harsh- and abrupt- and stereoiracundly up in my damp and not in the good way futon and repent slushily grandiloquent since I humbly agnize and sourly realize that perhaps I’d all too soon dismissed as being too traidor, lazy, unrealistic, même, that kind of plump ravenous literary Innerlichkeit that smartly entrains an impatoïant character’s truant dilly-dallyings into a parsimonious ad nutum revelation springing from the epiphany that, for instance, just as the Agnodice rain maieutically extracted that menstruation-rain embarrassment in de pronto phocine Madrid and the Montcalm rain staunchly besieged me with the catamenia-rain obstinance of the seaside maricón-dream iconically indexing Alinor to Norlia in the “serão inquieto” as I entrancingly metamorphosed amidst antediluvian xiphosurans, tiny cnidarian dracunculi, brazen brachyurans, instable stingrays, stray selachian artotrogids, and so on in the cryptogamian brine on wave- and windburnt Isla Miranda whilst my furfuranny sister Lamia was off cavorting with that jewel in the crown of the island’s aquamarine nobility, Nirusa, and the Oedipus Rex rain roistingly awhirr inexorably instilled that menses-rain état obvie which, when whether by fate, chance, or simple error I anxiously found myself wandering in that Varanasian Tertio Regno to the north of Plaçatina Hortensia, led me to that cloven-priaped inebriated Porlockian devil-sport yodelingly taking a break from besmirching le trottoir with his Nura who accosted me with something along the lines of, “Excusez moi, meussieudame, mais j’aimablement vous prie — ralentissez-vous vos pas, s’il vous plaît, et tire moi un petit vavain de clope, princesse!” — alas, the abundant, unpleasant, inelegant rain spoils not merely, speaking syllogistically enough, the floor, the bed, the stage on which to dance — the aberrant, repellant, incessant rain sabotages even the invitation to dance! And yet, since my floor’s a spuminigerous morass inopium frustorum cruentorum and vulpine sexy I who’m normally the world’s deepest, dampest, ripest, plumpest, flippest, hippest, steepest, sharpest, crispest, and dare I say, cheapest lay, void (ironically enough in this dull cold season of gusty rain unstintingly pouring down sauf in those otidimorphic matinal moments when, speared by the misty sun, rainbows bleed briefly above the phoenix-new earth) a repulsive mort-né(e) menstrue most (and quite in contrast to the headily perfumed unction exuded by your menarchical nymph) monstrous — how could it have come about that a sopping pile of disjointed bras perturbatively drifted in through the window like so many windblown sycomore leaves? And furthermore I ask — pask, si grêle y è, n’y a plus de pain cuit dans ce turlâtre boxon — where’s my inimitable pale Pedro, invincible scaphanderer of my nether Sphynx’s moonier weirdnesses? Could not he, like an ivory-tailed spongobiotic honey-nix, swim rheophilically up even the swiftest of outlearnt Lutetia’s cardoon-choked rigoles? And then, like a cotylestome, poilu, transvertebrative polynoid, shilly-shally himself up le cataracte d’escalier and straight into my fimbriate pond’s uteroprostatic délurant ravin? Alas, even sthenolabiate Pedro turns tail quand il hume mon venimeux état!
§ 138 | Sloimčik
Such supersaturated circumstances forced me, thus, — since smug Mère Soréa, spunky child self-indulgently blinking its turquoise-and-amber, almond-shaped sphinx-eyes (minor wonders in themselves) in the empasmed valley of her plump soins, arointed off (leaving but an “En Attente du Beau Temps” sign affixed to the door of her beauty parlor) to some halcyon Erehwon’s mixité balnéaire where one imagines our parochial spunky sorcerer submitting to Helios’ cyan Skrupellosigkeit in his Hathor-silky, anse-cupping swim-trunks, cosily heaping hot sand on his Qeseshy pink oracular poumons isiaques, and determining, thus, by means of this “avunculisius paronomasticus” (sic), the slinky rapscoundrel’s true paternity — to contract the services in person, as it were, of that type specimen of a species of indistinct and, given the clownishy morne exiguity of its genitalia, by now most likely extinct slavey — obpflichtgetreu, obpflichtbewusst, obfleglich, obpflichteifrig und obpflegeleicht — whom we have encountered so often before en bluster-balustered and berunnelled escalier, on husky palier inondé, in the submerged entrée de l’immeuble même (vid. supra). I found our biddable muriqui inhabiting, not a mildewy nixish room en haut comme moi, mais rather, au deuxième, a lackey’s prison-hutch, a flunky’s apish recoin, a crumbly closet van Pfiffikustically cluttered with the bricoleur’s hanky-spanky fourbi limé quinaudement par son Oui-M’sieur-this-et-sa-Oui-M’dame-that hackerel-cackerel malarkeyish conspurcation of it during the otiose mimicry of a vacant sly “po-veb” flunky’s chores: lapidescent mops, sour inaidable sponges, corrupt dustpans, battered buckets, balding brooms, whiny inexécutables vilebrequins, chokey sarpliers, clunky asphodel-root glue called ῥίζοφύρον (rhizophyron) one mixes with various pnismotic substances such as sand or sawdust or the fluffy moults of blanc vypelichané sovy (freshly moulted barn owl) to stop up chinks, re-lay sordid tiles, unsqueak sploshy incrusted creaky planches souris blanches have made their nests under, und so weiter — all of which impedimenta this product of, according to Styffclent Blavy’s opus on the topic, that “populist migration out of villages [which are so oppressive to the human spirit and so otiose as a form of socio-political organisation” lugged up the stairs in order to scrape and shave and drill and drain and sand and repaint and stopper up and regrease the cranky sluices hopelessly ajar which the battants of my fenêtre had become. Alas! His ressemblance to my beloved Huerta-Fukarian stacker (see § 68) was not merely doubly, but triply belied since, not only was he cowed at first by all the harum-scarum libri quietly awaiting the scholar’s assiduous caress (as we’ve described elsewhere [§ 31), and cowed in turn by the perfumed Abfall coy spent voluptuously splayed bras had constructed at the sodden foot of the uncloseable fenêtre where the jasmine Whyos inexorably imbricated their foliated acts of floral thuggery — “All these spunky cholis are, euh, the bare chunky spoils de vos conquêtes?” he parsimoniously asked as he meticulously yet obstupefactively set about his task — but, furthermore, his seemingly sugoi, ostensibly prehensile tail turned out to be utterly postiche, the stub it masked all too otiose and useless for the sort of punctilious “romp in satisfaction” of “services rendered” I had had in mind to have in bodily store for him, onyx wine seriatim slopped into the greedy goblet I proffered him to no avail whatsoever. And so, alors, our little Mr. Least-Said Soonest-Mended se fait tôt descendre tot el seu bombriliu equipament — emergency bof-vats, pelles à poussière, surly rakish ponceuses, búho-slinky scrapers, larceny-worn moxie-shivs, poncy felt balais, Zpevnyt’s colle, abpflückte toise ouvrante, sui generis mops — au noir comblé de la petite chambre qui lui incombe après bien avoir réparé mes joints et mes gouttes, bien sûr, mais sans m’en avoir goûté(e) jusqu’à l’inimitable — fsplnvy! — comble des plus inégalables de mes points de repère.
§ 139 | I’m so...
Soon after mis vinos elaborados de las puras ominosis cepas de esperanza quoad the tool-boxy minion were short-shrifted, I fell back — oh, I cannot hide anything from you, my curious tomboyish neighbor on the right! — in a raging swoon on my librinundated, so to speak, futon (布団) where so many erstwhile superlative romps unspooled for your aural delectation! What salacious moans, primal eructations from groaning maws, onomatopoeic spawn of self-sown orexis, honey-mirrored dream-latrative injucundities you’d have ear-witnessed, reluctant peeper into my soliloquist room, if you’d stood on the landing , dehors de ma porte entrouverte, and let your eerie ankka-somatic mopsi blend its harmonious airs pugnaciously with my own howling! A real man would not have let all that good étréhamais vino sleigovitch slosh senselessly in his porcine stomach sans, voilà, miser sur la belle charnière ou au moins, por si acaso, been tempted to mingle-mangle our moistly palpitant hobby-horsical anatomies so antimetaphysically together! And a real mannish Laplandish woman comme vous could have so easily, even at the lame risk of “inappropriate contact,” consoled — with but a prompt word, ostiarily delivered, as it were, from the safety of the hallway’s bowsprit: “Porto, Dominique?” — a solitary sufferer comme moi! But, alas, you, shunning the ailing lucidity of my insurpassable desirability, you, my circumspect voisin(e), slammed heartlessly shut the door on this dazzling libricity, this otiose waste of bibliolagnic writhings interpaginatively, supraspinally, flyleafishly within and against all that marvelous, oh so delectable, yet utterly fatuous impotent Littérature, and retired with your impossible little rakki naamosekasikeo naamioitu (heavy-breathing, black-jawed, terazoa-maské Kaninkötergspaane [sic) into the parsimonious Finnitude of your own chambre de glace! I’m so horny! Wine excites me most ludibrious! I’m so pantophorically amatorious! Mais cette grande beuverie soothes me not! (An empty bottle chastely thuds against the far wall.) And you, Miss Parrot-Lady on the left, little Miss Satori Mouse ever “enlightening” your neighbors via your pet psittacid with those empty apophthegms coined by the sort of derivative morons wan aging Ophelias like yourself so smugly fall for — “Youth to itself rebels, though none else” — such crackpot words’ importunity galls — “Youth to itself rebels, though none else” — (the bottle, retrieved, shatters against the opposite wall) — and your sacrosanct music, Jovinianly prodigal heretofore, my scintillant baptism silences most laetificant! (A second, or third, or fourth bottle is, with a trim “pop!”, stood wriggle-wrenchedly atop the ebullient scholar’s overloaded desk.) I fear the contagious blastments of suspirious Mona Coltrane’s pure viminalis causa is in promontorial danger of crashing headlong into the street, the river, the sea and infecting the entire immeuble, if not le quartier tout court! (A liberal sweep of the arm sends the latest issue of the Journal of Sociophysiology, containing the aforesaid author’s “Causality as contagion,” crashing headlong [sic to the floor.) I must get out, get laid, get laid out, out of the spot the snot the thew-shot waxy cautelous danger of — (in the slit-eyed silence of the audience, the imbibulatorial deglutition of a ballon de rouge is clearly audible, as is the satiated downstroke of a verre vidé) — the uncalm pesanteur — virosa (poisonous) impartial mover, supernal meretricious prison-master! — of my own bulky desire! I’m so pendulously pulchritudinous! (The beast stands and displays for inspection its complex and complicatedly engorged anatomy. Question: Why do[es the author[s, whoever t/s/he/y may be, compare this anatomy to a “prison-master”? Bonus question: What sort [class, kind, species, variety... of trope is the author, when making this comparison, using?) Dear Sister Lamia! I must oroI must posar rI most neaI most prod trow pI must conviñjč— (It is said that “Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes!” — “Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes!” — “Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes!” — end parenthesis. Calm reader ensconced in your genteel armchair, you may recall at this point in your calm reading of these frantic “jism convulsions,” the poignant cosmic injuvenilitate compassion, uriginous porismaticity, and subjunct misconviciousness with which, in order to ensure that a fellow sufferer pre-accompany her nixie, Ms. Woolf had Master Septimus rave, lorn and screwy, in his room next door to an otiose party before he so impulsively prefigured the defenestral doom Sirin’s au-pied-du-mur scacchino (masterito d’échecs) eventually discovered to be the inimitable nec-plus-ultra defense. And so, when the newly planed, sanded, and repainted wings (battants) de la porte fenêtre (french window), like backlit clouds parting to reveal an ex gratia moon, swing organically open on their freshly oiled hinges, and a waft of rain-blended jasmine perfumes the musky-close toilsomeness of the moite souillée soûlerie, we know that you are already, o che vanesio sap!, mourning à l’avance your favorite superlamnioid mnésolâtre privum ingenium conditioque singularis’s vigoroso (impetuous) demise. But lo! as the mis(e)-à-l’écart (repulsive) monster sallies forth onto the late-afternoon balcony, the ἀγαθοποιός sun, a mirrored spear of polished copper, breaches the intercostals of the western sky, slips into the tender pale space between dove-gray rooftops and slate-gray clouds, and pierces all the way through to our maudlin hero’s wine-, oxymel-, and antillais rum-poisoned bladder, knocking it back with a blow more salvific even than a pair of sunshiny women exoriating into the room, snaring the animal with a stray choli redolent of various pert melnganu (blackish) potpourris, mastodesmos embalmed with spunk, brassiere reeking of asafoetida, astringent sostén, etc., and dragging it back from the would-be suicide-victim’s conjunction of low railing, high plunge, free fall, sidewalk. Aka no kami-sekkei, sama no e (赤の上夕景, 狭間の恵方), as my old-fashioned littoralist of a mother would have said.
§ 140 | M
O luminous Paris! O numinous Paris! O fulminous soir parcouru grâce à cet acuminous, por si acaso, urinous pisa! O moliminous Paris opulent with the pluranimous positivistic polyphony of querimonious sparrows, harmonious Spinus spinus, amorosi canarini o so sumptuously frolicking after the abstemious rain-sopped stupor in ὀσμαῖς (fetid lethargy) of the a fortiori mousson parisien‘s quadragesimous noir apathique (apathetic gloom)! In aurīs splendent their ἀγάπαι-orisons multanimous! O Paris so equanimous, Paris opalescent after the incessant rain — soumis, polychronious, prismatic, and glorious, más pintado con azul y oro, por fin, que con gris y sepia — rosinous, magnanimous Paris! O deliciously somnious, riparian, o so Pisum sativum, Pisonia rosalis–fresh, intersomnious Paris! For to wake on as pious a morning as this — after having slept off the self-wrought doom I insurpassably, per proprio σπλάγχνον sibillino mio, surpassed! — and realize with such exultant terror, nimious spasmous pironian (piercing) joy that one is not an exanimous prosiopesis, somnus pro miasma, soupir inondé par le Styx, or corpus moins ait quid delectabilis que delicti, but is still, encore et toujours!, a delectably pulsating, kimono-suspirant (just look a’ ye at that bloomin’, suspiratative, lovey-doveyish bosom a-risin’ up ’n’ down, up ’n’ down!), ex natura ipsius, monoecious, sirop-mangeant(e), marsouin-poised houri, an impossible to defile, dazzlingly desirable, uncurtailable run-on of lust, lucidity, voz interior, passion, multiplicity, recollection, and whatever other epithets I choose to, a, suprision myself with so to speak. For is this, was this, will this be the day I first —? — nein, nicht zuerst! — For, yes, this will be, this was, this is the very day into which Ms. Noäu so piripiri to hairu (ぴりぴりと入る, (will) quiveringly enter) what had heretofore in retrospect been ma souris-pionardée, schlass au porno, imitation d’une vie! Yet shall I, should I, did I, do I mourn as poisonable, defenestrable, etceterable self-annihilators ratés would? Shall I, should I, did I, do I stay in bed and bemoan suspiriously, repetitively, the chance vision gleaned between the patulous dusky thighs of rooftop and cloud of that rosy bright “arrow-slit” (akarui sōpi no sama, 明るい相陽の狭間) of southwestern sky free finally of the orgulous rain’s importunate chastity belt that sent a full-bladdered drunkard reeling back into the room in a piss-urgent dash out the door and into le petit cabinet sur palier? Staggering back into my room in a suspirious moan-spiral of increasing delirium as soponciado as if I actually were spinning like an asthenopirious samara out the window and down, down, down, onto, not the hard rain-slick trottoir but rather the soft dank futon where, in the random noir, I pass out fully clothed? No! Instead, as I eclose out of bed like a throbbing libellule splitting asunder the lutarious mons piaculis of its spent naiad all glistening and lusorious in amphibiotic splendor, I wonder at the thoroughly drenched, practically sanious, improviso, rapinous marvelousness of the, primo, inassouvi, secundo, indéfini, et tertio, infini mousson parisien’s provident end being as abruptly punctual as its κακόδρομος (inauspicious) start — late afternoon of the spring equinox and winter solstice, respectively. Donc, after defecating, bathing, and inserting a fresh pessary, I exchange soiled hitoe (単衣, plain under-kimono), piss-raunchy dōnuki (胴抜), and hopelessly wrinkled kosode for a fresh trio of ditto, loosely drape le tout with a nobly-flowered vernal haori, spin musophagastically with joy, then slipping on a pair of soft spring pumps, I soar noiselessly out the door and down the staircase (its windows finally unlocked and flung open to let the warm sun’s opioidergic virility spear away the damp sous-noiride fœtor ex pedibus uvidis!) which a heretofore never-before-seen hunch-backed edaphosurian is mopping and aerating. Just outside the front door, who should freshly winged and redivivus I — oops! — ram into but that very anandrous prosimian lackey who ran so impiously away from (so sui inapprehensibly to boot — as if I were a scary old horse-faced daišō-wielding samuraï poissonneux and not the svelte yet bathycolpous nomaširigaru futanari σῠμπόσῐώ πλεκτάνῐκώ [bibulously wanton, convivially tentacled androgyne que je suis!) the charms I unpoisonously offered. “V’là!,” he exclaims in a poor subhuman risus oiopolus (solitary jest) that only serves to betray his really rather stuporous, simian, all too simian surprise, “notre exquis minou prosaïque s’est pas culbuté!” “Bah ouais, mon spirituel,” I reply, “voisin! Par où smonto io le vostre attese? We discriminous prosateurs, we, if you will, ignominious prosateurs, c’est-à-dire, nous impairs ouvreurs du texte ne mourions pas illico, incognito, itou” (I indicate the peculiar moisson putride he and his petite horde of fellow green-suited ordurophiles du quartier, to the tune of a limp arioso sung gratia turpis in a sour, molendinarious, impossible key, are busy rifling the pockets and fingering the orifices of before gaffing, raking, winnowing, and forking, soit back into the gutter to be swept down to the Seine, soit into their charrettes to be carted off to the holocaust; to wit, the battered and bloated post-diluvial carnage of sundry self-felled despondents who were not, alas, as I so happily was, saved in extremis par un oisonneux organe urinaire’s needier-than-thou spasm ironically coinciding with a crepuscular vision’s amour-propriesque brin d’espoir) “à nos imulis dejectionibus; c’est-à-dire, à ces niais, sun-poor, impatient buffoons parmi nous, oilily glistening in the papillonious prismaticity diaphanous Paris moirés, in her pantodapoi-moria sun-shot with heartless splendor, their heavy-handed self-inflicted termini a sopor’ ustulato with — mais, pour soins non moins soupirants que détachés, je divague.” And divague I did! Strolling through their guttersnipe persiflage in search of an invigorating cinnamonous spirit, boisson à primula and syngenesious rampion florets, aphrodisian rum, spoonwort-infused hypocras, anything to disperse the lingering brouillard intérieur with the scopious air’s mnesoclastic liquid clarity — for all of le chou Paris (moins such laborious misopandemosian spuriosities such as he and his) is a fête foraine! And so up Chicken Street I, as Orion-sumptuous and Artemis-in-saporous-chastity-stealthy as any hunter could be after such an unbearably parsimonious ninety days of dernier besoin-soupirs, amble foveately past that gang of heckling scavengers and up towards La Pétillante Butte through the gardyloo ruins as impressions pour imagistically together in a welling flow of gorgonian porous simultaneity such that the whole caprinous somiglianza of clear blue transalpine sky and Kāśī-poison muriniparous smoke, of vernal carnival and hivernal carrion, is a mopus box of entangled chronologies and blended recollections à l’avance of fouteries past and to be which only the grim spinous aoristic tense of an unknown divine syntax could, and I quote, “reconcile and describe:” — For the wondrously wanton W I recall is aussi a poor minced polisson ripou amidst whose splayed abatis ominous parrots cavort in amorous psittacious pairs, monstrous imps noialtri pensatori di pensieri astrusi sponiamo (explain) as being but the quasi-simious proanthropoid viridian-feathered avatars of la voyou Ms. R’s opiniâtre jalousie of all those delicious romps — anisogamous, spirointerfluous, posimarinous, opsinirmalous! — we had in Owlstain of yore with the likes of not only the aforesaid but also, judging by the lay of desire recollected in exuberance, jubilantly bejeweled dangerous maison-piquée-inhabiting J of the juicily bedewed jaw; naughty notorious N, a simpleton of the senses who was nevertheless a polyvalent practitioner of the venereal arts; agathokakological K, a slinky thinker, like us, of slinky thoughts; the ever adventurous imp A, insolent, barbarous, imposingly amorous; inspissant fascinous aposmritiphatic F; and, let us never forget, sinuous salacious S, an important topos marinus intercalated within the set of all the other (vid. supra) topoi our sans minaudant senimarious sport D narrates their exile in Paris so mouth-wateringly umai (うまい, poisson-rich and tasty) with when forced to fall back on their own devices to attend to the lateritious sap morning’s pale light inevitably shows to be already thoroughly soaking through the tampon’s risio unguinosus (unctuous derision) and starting to breach, thus, their under-kimono’s spuria custodia (false sense of security), such that, like honey-eyed Persephone out taking an expurgatorious spin amidst all this country-cousinish confusion, M is parodically pareidolic of the dream I spun so iroppoishly often during that quarter year of stuprous animosity and abstemious aspro nichilismo as inpouringly secco as it was pouringly bagnato outside that I realize that I’m, ipso sano rutilaturo poisin, as much a desirably diasporous inmate of her oneirophane as she, like a propitious omnisparkling vedette of adventitious porn, is a — mais “Bon jour, monsi—!” I passably call out to the grisoir as I unpompously dash into, for the nonce, Le Reposoir Mis à Nu and, enfoncing sur le coin du zinc entre deux buveurs en bon biais mon Proust, mon Oui, sapristi! by Louisa Spiro, mon Simoun par Isora Suši, Pio Monterroso’s Manipurica Soporis Manium Oso Aius Principia, mon Roussel, naturally, as well as The Book of Heteroplasious Minor Prose Poems par Ion Isouard and the indefatigable Greco-Roman sui spissitudinis Glossarium inopinabilis, plunge down the stairs en direction des waters, singing out, “Café-calva, s’il vous plait!” as I pass.
§ 141 | ON
To be flung so disquietously soon (ipsum arietate) after changing one’s entrammelingly blood-mottled taruno (垂野) — impossibly enchymatous and preteribly failing to stem one’s own bituminous sporianthous gurges — into the all-too abrupt interseductive exigencies and psychomotor-adept intersubjective sine quibus non of the aethiopsolite-and-ivory, cream-and-crimson eternal polychronious impassioned širin-flux of desire and flirtation, is not an option, reader, bustled into lightly by even the most earnest nominee to the hands-on post of seductibilis seducendum. For though the copious rain smugly had stopped, the raw raging monsoon of my menorrhagia most smudgily had not. And so, upon blandly vesting my trepanner-scary, torturer-tyrannous catamenia in robes of purest Aenonan cotton, thence toiling my way out from the Hadean zooglœe chiottesque, I did not, unlike the iconic desideratum of an ordinary novel (ON) put out by an ordinary novelist (ON), complacently and immediately spot (voir, indagabilmente scoprire), in the figure of she — inopina Miss Roucoulade! lean nobly limb’d sun-lovely Pandora! — who was sirotant a curry-enspicèd amniorrheic ποτήριον of steaming chai with an elbow propped on the counter next to my hefty, virile, and posolutely liaisonous, impressively delectable tower of books, a grand Persephone’s entrancingly splendid concupiscence. Instead — O perturbed spirit! O misjunct convivium! — instead, I put obreros normales (ON) of our polysynochal, incisal, heterocrinous field noticeably to shame by seeking to sublevate my imperious pasión minuciosa, my polyptoton-interminable polyšvundtsvaŋ (Polyschwundzwang), my laborious impansable besoin textuel — c’est-à-dire, I cracked open, whilst quaffing, primo, café, secundo, calvados, gradus, calepin, bouquin, commanded “Un autre café-calva, s’il vous plaît!” and as I uncapped and began scribbling en marge avec my golden nib, a Maori-Catalan, bondad-beseemly diosa von perito venustati (of expert beauty) was (my [ab]normal hypersensitivity to such things naturally rendering any judgment to the gendarmous opiniâtre’s contrary null and void) openly staring at me in a manner I obiter noticed peripherally to be most uncommon, brazen even. I saw that her smooth tawny flirtatious sinewously mobile mirabile-dictu-strident bare popliteals and hamstrings (un otro recatado enólogo we’ve met before, Eric Modiano, would also have glanced admiringly à cette gigoteuse somptuosité singulière) glistened between patent leather–swathed gastrocnemii (adorably adaptable adventurous dancer’s calves!) and anacreontic hem of a tight-fitting long-sleeved cotillion-suit seasonably sporting a lazuli-and-rose rythmologie en fleur, dionisiacamente tessuto into, rather than printed onto, the very fabric itself in un droit-fil bien cousu dans l’étoffe même (alpaca and silk, it seemed) and yet still, in a morso ipsummet (solipsistic sting) of graphomanic dérive, I was unable to lift my eyes and direct my focal visión a su prometedor, thoroughly transparent, sane, omniramous poisin (gancho, encanto, hechizo, chulada!). I heard her “Moi aussi” pronounced sotto voce to a synemporion I assumed must be (for could a being as intoxicating as she be alone on purpose?) someone other than my own engouement-prone raide (stubborn) mannequin-self droning on in — O zoetrope-burnt diaskeuasis! O omniprevalent pordiosyirante señorita! — the margins anent erotic stimuli so motu proprio unmissably sociophysiological percolating out of a nearby consommatrice (c’est-à-dire, her) that hitherto normally my amphidiabolo’d be as bandant(e) as mes lourdes règles were henceforth rendering any potential ambigambol débandant(e) as she “réglé la consommation” and I sensed a complex perfume emanating from her, matching in its ecdysiast-blended anabolic douce-aigreur not only the fragrant chai, but also the cornflower, mānuka, Clitoria, peony, D’Silva’s Hibiscus rufibarba, and koali awa blossoms represented on the aforementioned outer sheath, while a musky undertone sandalwoodishly hinted at the sepia-dark balanophilous pliancies, ancho chunche, estrecha chilla (sinónima a zorro jaspeado), and other gymnocorpous animistic marvels seething beneath and yet still, like a subhistrionic dream-spawned scholiast in very doppelsinnig, doppelzüngig, doppelgängig circumstances and engulfed, sino rinconado (cornered) in their own boorish oneiroscape, I continued stitching interlineal scholia in chisel-like, kuro aona (黒青な)–blended stabs of my pert rude nib as totipotent in matters textually profane as it was impotent in matters sexually divine into the books I continued staring down at, on, into, and through to the stygian ryōkan (量感) des chiottes below. I heard her, as she set down her empty yet still incorrompu amnion, enounce in a cooing sigh, “No sé, si no leo,” and yet still I remained, to your amazement — for surely you never shy away from such unanticipated acts of provocative exteroception, reader! — stubbornly pavid(e), stoic, and committed to my hopelessly obsessive heterotextual task which, obeying my cosy instinct to do so, I continued to do so atop the first derequisitioned table and — absurd abrupt tense dioristic of preteritive regret! — it is with a swooning groan amplified by the hollow aridity of my now very unomniparous simoon-wan room’s gaingivingish text-foolery that I miserandously realize that this zealously and irrepressibly solid native Proserpine whose Rublev’s blue and Polynesian rose–entangled enticements I, in the anœstrous ranty encrassé catamenic ridotto from my more typically unstoic syntonic tumescent symphony of appetency, was simply still too defiled, sour, innommablement abject with my own filth to give full honors to ungrudgingly is the same conjointly avid Proserpina I loved so tychistically in the dream I incoherently recounted in § 81 that I’d had a week or so before the gewgaw monsoon ingravidated me with a trimestral lochiorrhagian moon-grown sanious promiscuity of austere onanism! O gibbous reader — pint-, tankard-, jorum-, and chalice-swilling reader! — in but spotlessly complacent ON only is a supuṣpa-and-hibiscus-patterned brouillamini so Proustianly ripe, so dove-plumagedly cymophanous, so primitively prosodian, noué à mon univoque gré such that the hero(ine) (c’est-à-dire, moi) stops whatever it is he, she, they, or we may be doing and quicktime(s) out the door of the café, chasing down and catching up with she who disappeared out that same door after pausing to give us a fetchingly come-hither glance back and — at the precise spot where half a year earlier la jeune autochtone en ras-le-bonbon derided me, her eyes wet with mockery though her tone sang out dry and deadpan, “Touriste ébrieuse!” — lightly tapping her on the shoulder, sings out ardent-bespiritedly, “Moi aussi, Πορνοδιδάσκαλη, je te connais copieusement dans mes rêves, comme dans les tiens, tu as brodé printempestivement moi!” and our dienoic drama is at last lent an osé résultat, and off go the reunited twain of us in delirious accord, twirling, swirling, dancing together down sun-shot Chicken Street and past jealous Pedro in a bretterstegsgreifbaren fit of dismay at finding le Café des Dos Péru in a Bretterstegswirrwarr of mud and duckboards; past la petite horde of gaping éboueurs; past zany Dr. Soréa, illustrious mapōšin (魔法神), bacchanalic Helios-noeticist, luggage-handler for the nonce, returning from his congé méridional en famille; past, as she’s unlocking her Friseurmagazin, Lady Soréa lurching her bosomy bulk vainly against the stuck, rain-swollen door; past l’Enfant Soréa idly pivoting and turning between and around the two (for it could stand sans aide on its own hind legs now) and up the stairs to my place where, en faisant la poupoune à mon unisexe fille, she is revealed to thereupon possess une magnifique foufoune omninautique tout à fait faite à mon aune, un oigne à dondon psychagogique construit exactement à ma mesure! A song, a labial bunnyhug, a labionasal glottopharyngeal warbling, a scroto-vaginal asobaseijiri (遊ばせ弄り), a vagino-anal gabisa (画微差) and so on in sloe-eyed, slow-motion, glistening close-up conducing ineluctably to a reciprocally dolorogaudibundian clarion spasm — ouillouillouille! — of such feverish onomatopoeia — cninščia! — that — never mind, never mind. That should have been the sequel guaranteed not to disappoint, reader, but something — have I mentioned my menorrhagia? that it’s still raging after three months of monsoon? that, owing to the soi-disant “procedures” the learned nosologists, particularly those of a soi-gesond gynopedanderastic bent, whether acting in concert (those arrant notorious imps animating our weekly tontine in the sinister Dirna Route’s backroom in Owlstain, Drs. Rao, Pet, et Buni, for instance, in §§ 72, 85, and 137, or the good Drs. P and — O vile story indecently told (a prevision or several of which was or were granted in §§ 75, 79, 90, 96, and 100)! — R, a spent tribe dourly trying to salvage their spurious reputation, nominally at least, as “toolsy divine partouzards in really difficult cases,” as well as Drs. C and D, crank Yoniarianists to whom I owe a certain amatorian ankylosis I’m unaporetically still on tobikiri (とびきり) occasion noticeably and vividly prone to as I’ve also recounted in § 79), in sequence (with typically the subsequent trying and failing to unwreak what the precedent had successfully wrought; for instance, the aforementioned Dr. N. Soréa lazily undertaking the temporo-clitoral integrative ail-ronification of the orinalgia inflicted on or in me in Appalachia in chosen lieux hétaïrogogiques by the noted Aloéthia, a Norlianist of turbid repute as noted in §§ 34, 35, 43, 45, 50, 51, 53, 55, 62, 63, 67, 90, 100, 107, 112, 113, 120, 125, and 131), or independently (Dr. Avílano’s “pedority principle” as limned, for instance, in §§ 49, 55, 90, and 137, by which “a pedagogy based on just civic nomothetic practice as practiced here at TBS is always playfully and child-like (παιδικός) put into play over adults’ supposed power (authority), rather than the more common reverse, which from our perspective is perverse;” likewise, the nota bene Dr. Tartis poutingly pronounced in §§ 3, 83, 90, 93, 111, 112, 122, 132, and 136), invariably find it incumbent upon themselves to subject me to if par malchance, nihil ostentando, I happen to fall into their clutches, I’m fain loath to consult a member of that species, especially for a condition which no doubt will clear up in the xenon-pale orotund light of the full moon in a cosy, vernal, dioptically azure sora indōtokuteki (空淫道徳的)? I have? Well, something — some daimonic renegade, some devious imp raisonneur, some bra inanita (empty bra’d) anokālavidvas (अनोकालविद्वस्) — came along to provoke me to do what no ON (ordinary novelist), I’d posit, would, in, on, over, or anent, essentially, his or her own ON (ordinary novel) do: — sit pit-a-pat down at the first available table in a crowded café-bar-tabac or bustling bar-tabac-café or teeming tabac-bar-café or populous café-tabac-bar or well-attended bar-café-tabac (tabac-café-bar being a combination observed but once, in a desolate barrio de Lyon, St. Pavin, I think it’s called [Ce n’est pas un quartier lyonnais; ce “picot-gargote,” comme on l’appelle, en fait, est un bar de tripotage au décor ripou (sleazy air) — NDLR.]) and continue working, not on an ordinary bland novel supplied with a simple, lean, and orthologically gogo-spank dramatic arc, but on a translexically springy SNE pan-Dodonian in scope, action, plot, modulation, poetics, rhetoric, and whatnot, pan-Athenian in its auto-parodiant, superb, textually promiscuous reach, recounting how, on this first day of sun after three months of copious rain smearing la vie Parisienne all over with a depression-inducing sludge, my mutilated yin’s provocative dropsy inlocked my encrimsoned yang’s ponderous amnis opificis anguium (dragons of creative outflow) in a squaimous prison of cerasinous impotence, and rather than nolens-volendably unspool their tentacular tumescence to meet and embrace and reciprocally engage my adroit avid only Persephone’s co-anticiptory cruna transeunda in an act of, in a word, penetratio subversa à la that never-to-be-forgot, double-knot pose in Lyra (vid. § 127), they limply hung there like an abominous pair, shrunken and gynospodiacally deformed, of woebegone near stumps — and I, her gynandrous bête triple de mère, was unable, when offered the chance, even to dance mirifically with my own errant, anodyne, rose-, tan-, azure-, and royal silk-, wool-, and ebony-pulsed, Lanvin-ensheathed daughter! By the way, the kind of lingering pain a Tartis or a Nestorian âne iatraleptique like Bimkov inflict(s) owes as much to the insipid constant lurid conga-train art-noise (a mix of stentorian aria and aeolian tarantara), as internationally acclaimed members of the Aristonean iatrarchy, that accompanies the mere mention of their names, as it does to their working methods.
§ 142 | Novels? Really now!
Even before the incisus, poor animalculus has stopped quivering, See Law is already, like a cheerful corypheus, asking, “Any griser la bête plans in store, D. I.,” zibeline-swishily and baleen-shriekily striding out from behind the fürchterlischy skeuopane, “for your upcoming darling year’s worth of yasumi [riposo — NDLR] — not anything too scrunkly, I hope?” “As,” I reply, scious nakhodnik (находник) by now of the apparent paradox that the punctilious lab worker need definitely not be afraid of expounding unverifiably or uttering hypothetical unknowns, “you most, Dr. Law, seemlily must know, I’ve been trying to labeurer (I roll le mot flouziane between teeth, tongue, and lips like a river-polished pebble) a work of poesy, auch prose, linking, in a lucky —” “Prose?” she pounces rakishly on the word as she lights a Pyrophyre Siuslokan cigarro, blunt yet long-lasting. “Did you say, uh, prose?” Clinking her storied Zippo shut and inhaling huskily, “¿Prose? Can you — with all your Asuran-like psychophysical nous, kerygmatic knack — seriously, phlegmatically, be saying that you’re thinking of trying to write, like a common cracker-barrel Sassenach or picky uptight tacky Hun, prose?” “As I literally was trying to tell you if you’d let me finish my sagacious coy phrase — linking, in a gumshoe-sharp lucky insight into how wanton reality — grubby, gritty, involucratiously prankish, ecumenically fob-spent, voraciously sphenarkic, soral, spunky, headstrong reality — ubiquitous sino, imparable turra, y ting — O, what magical earrings you’re wearing! As lyrical as La Regina Syriaca’s!” Reaching up — pour ne pas oublier l’instant fatal — to slinkily caress — houppettement, tendrement — the hoop of rouge-taché onyx sewn miroitantement through her right earlobe, tiny tragus bead wiedergebt in royal turquoise, and golden helix-skewer with my sinistrous downy smugly appraisive fingers, a laryngeal “Ya sɨrree!” explodes from her throat. “It’s a derelict spy novel, fabliau coarsely pink!” She snatches my hand away with a free claw (the other emphatically pistol-crushes a pinky-sized ortiga-fumed cylinder of smoldering yerba tortulada) and like a cruel mother toying brutally with a recreant child, jerks it forward and down, displaying its dorsal erubescencies to me like Hašek-horsy inculpatory evidence, as if the sight of my own noirish, execrably inflamed fingernails was or were entirely unfamiliar to me. A propos: Have you ever had the experience wherein your dim thoughts, murky shapes clonically ensconced at the back of your skull, suddenly synch up like soaring starlings and leap forward in a coherent group and imprint themselves distinctly on the back of your closed eyelids, upon opening which the palpebral fresco is seen to have come vividly to life right in front of you? Perhaps we’ll have a chance to delve into the intricacies and ramifications of this sensation further. Meanwhile: “Sin tintín y pega,” she continues, “sin tilín y duda, ik ken by your kiby, inky, and duyên vô digits, that you’re saturninely penning it by hand and, comme il faut, your plush, plundered, implausible, fancy plot sviluppa così [her sulky nares flaring to expel the lucernal grayish fumes of atrabiliary anger, she releases my bruised, delicate, and even, compared to her brutal toying mauler, demurely teeny-weeny wrist]: Little B., our angry, foxy, winsome hero(ine), was never a stellar beauty nor glitter-girlishly glamorous in spite of the pains her plucky solicitous antitypous Schrankleib of a madre took in the matter of her toilettage, but nary Troilus was ever — and perhaps even owing to that very fact — by so vlan, pflegeleicht, madcap, nobly fast, clever, et cum jubilo phunky a Cressida serviced. [Comme une nouille ribaude dans la bouche d’une lubrique imitatrice, the string of kōširami unspools from she, who, like a self-possessed scorpion — aï! — so smugly snubbed my plump, osorašii, unconventional, strīpuṃsan, osiowy (axial) display of flirting, diverting, sporting, cavorting, spurting, and squirting utero-labyrinthine boy-girl uttarakāmākhyatantra!] S/he plunks coyishly along in that educational marvel TBS, fancy polylingual torre, by the grace of Bimkov, de privilegio y truant Brüderlichkeit in an otherwise down-and-out barrio; gently matures to adulthood on a dusky ochre isla’s unpleasant rocky shores; in a pluridisciplinary institute of psychophysical research in the capital s/he is offered the unprecedented chance to be the advisee of a mentor whose erudite urbanity, glorious generosity, intellectual rigor, y entbehrungsreiche niñez is known far and wide; and then, during a summer internship at an institute run by a worker in the field who is truly giant, Trober, a shocking epiphany rocks elusively and ineluctably our grit-enhanced subject’s hitherto straightforward voyage towards a promising career in the exact sciences, sending him, her, or them careening off into the brambly byways of that hodgepodge of spurious misopantology, blunt terra incognizance, corrupt vocables, fynchecock’t minauderie à la Grynsztejn, false analogy, brute triumphalism, received opinion, rhyme-, sex-, word-, and horseplay, sick undinismal advocates of ‘critical theory,’ ex-wino minstrels of the mundane, biky diky young-Trilby teraphimists, and other screwy nonsense known as ‘Bi-Dialectic(al) Therapy’ (BDT) where the ‘instinct-plays’ of Lev Berg’s Analyrical Theatre (Aналирический Театр, Théâtre Analyrique) meet the indistinct ‘love-play’ B. F. Skinner posited, following the ‘Principles of Sthenotranserotics’ by Pavl Teflonnikov, as the ‘(in)tangibly true origin of personality’ (op. cit.). Our subject B’s novel, playfully profound, eye- and orifice-opening experience of internship with renowned Trober, an ugly titanic beast of a nympholept, fancy slob violently virile, inspires them, in short, to attempt a sly novel- (cf. BDT’s ‘Real Phantasy Principle’) within-a-novel such that, in the inner ‘concept novel,’ scaly B. F. Skinner, Trober, Yours Truly, et boring al. are resoundingly pilloried, while at the same time they (i.e., our own hero[ine]) is myxomycetically able to, in the outer ‘percept novel,’ fly basculating off to luminous Paris, out of sight but never out of mind of all those respectable, well-meaning, seemingly benign, yet inevitably harmful peers and elders whom our author selfishly continues to bemoan, resent, decry, infamize, and vilify endlessly from the pseudonymous safety of their own Isonym Exiled, as the work will of necessity intituled be.”
§ 143 | Inexplicable
Even as I’m lowering my contumacious main prosexigène to join its (even as I’m sighing out a perfunctory grunt) bilateral mate in the time-honored and -sensitive task of unstrapping the not-yet-rigid bendy yukky animal from its ravelly BPF-constraints before the meaty blunt rigor mortis sets in, I already feel my cheeks blushing as if nazaritely burnt, gouged, and pinched by the čertovska (unholy) precision of her flushly on précis — kaleidoscopic, numinous, prosatorially audacious as the work-in-prog. itself — of my altricious roman spicilège. Yet at the same time (en même temps), there’s something so Badroulbadourly out, Apuleianishly sour, Pecksniffily off, Zolastically sclérosé anent her characterization of what she attributes my motivations for writing to be, that I simply must, like a layu ulu, protest. “But,” I try orangely rebutting orally whatever it is she meant by pink, “you’re schlass comme un gogo bouilli! Bernée comme une jobarde lubri —” “¿I’m equivocatament ubriaca?” she butts in as per her wont. “¿Es esto (is that) the sort of narážka falschka you’re inspirando yourself with these days with your niminy-piminy bandy kyūdekina nonoširi (hexy mewlings)?” “¡¿Nonoširi (罵り)?! Why, exempli gratia, would you dismiss —” “Poor inaudax whiny noisome resentful ¡PUTA! Your incessant protestations are starting to buy relatively fewer and fewer adherents to your, no matter what you might misthink, prosy cause. Look at our girl Betty angelically posing her callipygian utterly robust self over there — [she directs her gaze all googly-eyed and wispy at our ulu-wielding dissectatrix whom I renonçai à y faire la cour depuis cet humiliant après-midi en la playa which, despite her and his and their feigned indifference to the crimson eternal oneirophane’s silky crural crux humming and hiving within my infernalis agrypnophane’s risky cul-de-sac, I’d enfin (as you [not you singular but you plural] will already have seen for yourself in § 10 and passim) be able to one day make (faire), thanks to my butyrous Pelikan’s chrismal nib, luire ostensiblement dans les pages de mon roman] — Oui, pisse-froid, even she scorns a puky lingšu of the sort you tried to pull!” Impelled by the force of an arcane motivational salience utterly alien to the uninitiated, the protractile expansion of the epistemological negative space of their reciprocally locked glances occurs so rapidly that I’m compelled, before it all too dangerously bursts, to lance it with a quick review of the aforementioned seaside scene portrayed in § 10, viz.: That vague “game (of) drink” (令酒); that, more specifically, randy yakyūken-bid I failed to woo her and her Pierre with involved, not immediately parrying her thumb with my index, for instance, or his pinkie with my thumb, for example — for that would have entailed the anticlimactic absurdity of all too promptly and perfunctorily depriving the one of his sand-choked moule-bite, the other of her salt-encrusted maillot — and then where what who would we be (have been)? Just a conquering, still-undémailloté(e) epicene surrounded by the uneventful gritty bare Nordic nudity of two goose-fleshy, curds-and-whey minions exorbitantly shivering on the vespertine littoral. No. What I suggested was returning to our respective abodes and there showering away the sand, sweat, and sunburn, and changing into our respective ethno-vocational finery (trajes de casta, mises de métier): He into his poncy hussar-like dress purples — shako, cynipid gorget, burly antique umbril (iiliskotin nokka he called it — the famous “trickster’s beak” sported by none other than the top-stroke spicy uhlans of the Ostrobothnian empire!), plonky cuirasse, herringbone hose, ruby-dyed kinky nainsook doublet, tarryingly turgid codpiece, etc,; she into her frēnulī oblīquī muliebris (sinuous womanly vest), fop-cabled kirtle, buoyant grègues, Cyprian kohlschwarzer souquenille, ribouldingueries, fripailleries, accoutrebringuettes, fanfreluchements de toutes sortes; me into my merry mock maiko’s sylph-encruppered jūnihitoe (twelve-layered get-up). Thence allegretto they’d return in their golden calèche chez moi whence lambently I’d direct them to the clean, comfortable, well-padded and -stocked space I’d rented for the occasion. Keys purl handsomely in their respective shiny locks. A purer, more desirable, more smugly ornate, tribadically more judicious (благоразумный), swoonier exhibition gynandromorphique of “la pierre d’attente libre qui, imum atque summum, servira à initier aux ébats doux ceux qui veulent s’y adonner” could not be imagined. By a kind kyūyū I’d been taught not only the quirky rules of the game (that, for instance, slug, tiny brote rastrero of a pinky, undid a key, by all accounts, reptilian predator, namely snake or forefinger, amuses me to this day) but also the flashy perilous knack for standing whilst waiting, so as to keep your nap slick, sheer, and shimmery. “Nixies who nocturnally prowl, must not their crispy clean shokufu befoul,” as one popular saying reliably put our laudably engirt tour de passe-passe. And ahoy sinks la crépuscule. Rakish pony-mounted lamplighters linger, flirt, pass on. Richly eukinetic geckos apishly run about on their spoke-splashy runcinate feet. Tachyzoite blurry gnats swarm, furry moths flutter, bumbling bats swoop, and I, framed by my bungalow’s lamplit door, realize they’ve ditched me. Since straddling ein Fahrrad or even sitting sidesaddle athwart une draisienne in a kimono’s a spurious proposition for even the adeptest of maikos, shapely uncreased moi proceeds to clip-clop through the dark in my hinure (classy) pokkuri (品熟れ木履). Now, on the bustling Bay Route (Ruta Baia) linking, utterly boardwalkishly but gently, Barrio Ilena with La Machucha Vecha (Old Town) in a dense, mercantile, diverse port city like ours, chaps naturally take an interest in a lovely lone elegantly arrayed recently eclosed third-instar futanari intacta comme moi clogging along the pavement. So the glorious luscious vivacious yet unpretentious romp I sanguinely engineered for just the three of us, turned into a rather more multifarious omnispectacular pyknose histrionique which you (not you singular but you plural, preferably) would have had to have seen, or better yet, partaken in, of, atop, around, and beneath, to believe. Speaking of which, I believe their furuncular Skyphoseinsmoment (two-handled moment of being) is now thoroughly deflated. Proceed! “But that’s just gobbledygook,” I reply sans chouchouterie, “since the feeling’s mutual! Your pet over there’s mushiken-play’s coruscatingly bad as her breath’s ouau-ouauly putrid! Here’s what I have to say to that surly puta ou putain-là: Put your sus where your planche is, skank — aroint thee!” (No transtextually astute reader will fail to catch the allusion.) Chary skeptical husky Pernoscitrix Pernoscendae (our examinatrix who will be examined) rolls her eyes and into her gaping maw poised to spew another insult, I quickly stuff the following: “And thirdly, such a comparison is unacceptable! Is it not rather the case that, perhaps, you liken scholastic frauds such as the alieninstinct-plays’ of Lev Berg or the defunct ‘love-play’ B. F. Skinner engaged in with that fubsy con Pavl Teflonnikov or that sournois salarié Grynstejn’s therapanderastic charlatanry to the recently instauré ISOCPHYS, knallhart ILE, and linchpin CACA — that enlightenedly tricked-out trilogy Bernard Vighdan and his flouncy-bouncy, pure, Salish-Kootenay yin-buddy, Kiko Devi, founded in Owlstain elatedly and elastically in cahoots with the other four members of their never-ennuyed kinky band — iynx-moiré, showy, enigmatic — of “polylexical exiles” — Amaracus-slinky Hope Flamingo, burly Tartessian Tony “Le Brut Rigaudonneur” Hamiltonian, Fatima de “De Bulimi” Queiros (after her monograph on same), and Mike Turbo, genial tryster — because you’re jealous of the year I spent with, sans any scruples, hikōkenjatekina psychose, lurid catechumenical nervosité ou hystérie at all, and sans, naturally, any guilt, Trober in —” “Enough!” she grotesquely groans huskily, “Proceed!” And even as she’s storming back to her scutiferous skeuophylan circuit-board with a click of her Zippo and a supercilious grunt, Reality obstreperously dips her greedy digits, I realize, into the schizomythical prose kyū (笈) snuggling and purring against my leg here in my much less acrimonious Parisian exile, and pulls out a tingly berry-bright mot to the effect that, yes, I’m able to query, in fine — clarify, peut-être, même — that the year I spent in Gertrude must have been before I started working in that Scaliger-nutty laboratory in inadvertent ugly Barrio Ilena? before also my metamorphic excursion to, no matter how provisional, cette île miserabile perdita in the most infelicitous quadrant of the Tanoan Sea? Which just goes to prove my point: Even the fantastically best of NV* papers, for instance, lamentably can’t do what’s commonly done (as we’ve seen [op. cit. passim]) by even the most inept novels — fly back and forth and up and down and sideways in time, in space, in dream, in life.
*Though not, in observable fact, the least bit gyral, Neuro-Vortical Enthalpic Theory now mixes into the psycho-neural skimble-skamble of the mechanico-philoscophical enterprise first proposed by Descartes, ennobled by Huygens al airado contrario de Newton, y afinado por Kelvin, die Zelionysche iskra (plus connu comme la Zelionsky chispa [relu souventement en appalache as the Zeliony spark]) such that it continues to account rather parsimoniously well for the perturbations to sociophysiological equilibrium of the organism occasioned by the administration of pain, whether sporadic or incessant, to the subject.
§ 144 | Œnyutuyliium
Even as I’m abandoning l’abattu-par-éclair opossum (Animalculus didelphimorphicus necatus fulgure L.) into the predatory clutches of Catamena’s entortilatory ulu — punctiliously sharp, knechtisch, epulary, konsekrierte tool of dissectatrices the world over — I call out to the ghostly puff of smoke pushy Señora Pickle-Up-Her-Butt screens her retreat with: “It’s not only such prose kairōmata of the sort you’ve just been subject to in the preceding chapter that I’m working on — I’m also composing renku-rich poesy as lyrical-spoken, shuruihōfu (種類豊富), and downright delightful as it is comical, parodic, burlesque!” “¡Burl —! ¿Imii (意味い)? I hear la palabra interrogatively drawn out like a cornered baying turtle or pischy snake louring and hissing behind a rock. Then, her goggled-eyed grimace popping out from the side of the instrument pane — “¡¿Po-e-sí-a?!” Clunky, shrill, husky, coarse, pinguid, and kinky, by Yenakha! The four syllables grate in her mouth as if they classified, not a diverse taxon wherein my soignés ouvrages will one day find themselves happily, like a polymorphous slinky acerbically witty gaggle of toney whores, mixing and mingling with such incantatory glib erudite forms of imaginative literature as, for instance, Manyōshū (万葉集) and Cilappatikāram (சிலப்பதிகாரம்), or, for example, Metamorphoses and Tehilim (תְהִלִּים), or, e.g., Les Fleurs de Lamia and Gerbaudes (Sheaves of Grain), but rather une espèce d’huileux écoulements crachés (oily spunk spat out) by a marauding band of diabolikous scary Nephilim. “¡¿Qué?!” Burilando la palabra into its sullen velum, the goggle head extends further out from its shell. “¿Por qué?” “¿Por qué?”, I reply sans chokusetsu na no o nigenakute (直接なのを逃げなくて), comme ma re dirait — that is, without even bothering to avoid being direct. “Porque the least clunky prose is habitually written by lo guardado lado de (por the orderly side of) poetry!” I blurt angrily out, cleanly severing skull from stem with the well-aimed and -timed crib of Fr. Nietzsche’s celebrated apophthegm from La Gaya Scienza, § 92 — “Man schreibt nur im Angesichte der Poesie gute Prosa!” — since hulky Lady Kenkyūin, by Dionysus’ larch!, pikes me into setting something straight between us, to wit: Though our whiny noisome xerophthongal bitter ryūkōokurena sensei (流行遅れな先生), formerly a sexy winsome rhinoglottophilous transcopal ryūkeisha (流刑者), was first of that smug litany Trober, smug itinerant pederasterator in bulgy plus-fours, enumerated in his nonerast encomiorum passionalium qui ebriant (op. cit.), he was far from being hers (see the First Pod of the present opus, passim); likewise, despite the year I spent notably in Gertrude as his sturdy steady randy dandy broody bendy kyūkai ningyo, I later turbulently enjoyed more high-energy, serial anthological occasions of sociophysiological delectation where minxy swooning combinations of three or five or seven or even nine whores mix your drinks, slap your cheeks, clasp your hindquarter until — By golly, Regina! As right as rain, Lyra! Get it on, Beryl! Guarachea, spunky Rosilia! À cor et à cri, à demi rassoupi, Monique, mi lúbrica puta! (Your luxurious romps animated by luscious moans priapogenously spark chimerical physoneksuous amniospiritual beings like myself into assuming their most virile singularity! Trober, that smug tiresome scelerate nonsupererogatory blunt reiterator in ugly burlesque libri umidi [op. cit.], was merely a heavy-jowled hopelessly enervated perhaps even utterly [entièrement] impotent girly arbuscula in spoke-rhythmic and -rhymed comparison, I submit, to the bountiful nutty arbore gigante bruto lyrico ac liberum I quintessentially en d’autres termes was, am, and will be with — where’m I, onyx-insoumis[e], saphir-lucky, nobly taut ignorer of grammatical and temporal conventions, going with this divastigation? Truly ebrious [as minor poet Vasili Rimbuque urged that we must always needs be] am I! End parenthesis.) Pluck on, Raymonde! Binky, Yuki! Daybreak’s approachin’, sulky Esclepia! Ssh, your knickers are knackered and thanks, precious Ylena! — than even your most undiscriminating roué, tyrant, libertine, or gay Bluthund is able to engage in with, even over the course of a lifetime and whether for love or money, six whinnying little ruby-organed slaves. Fact: Nobly pleomorphic sneaky lusty smart young liberated tasty torular beings like our shapely skin-cradlers cited supra, are, in effect, communal practitioners of the most exquisitely invigorating torture, ably inflicting their dazzlingly shivery serial gang-felicities with such permutational buttery grace, knurly sophisticated juxtapositional kyūdeki, and yin-by-yang polyrhythmic inventiveness that they necessarily entretenir themselves as the supremest ἀοιδαί, unsurpassablest enchantresses, superbissimae vātēs whose slinky opus arches its collective cambrure at toyingly sharp uncōs like this, such that the otherwise slouchy prank of our frisky prose launches its fissile chunky aporia, its spunky heroic alleluia into the luscious omnipräsent (allgegenwärtig) muscular creamy entre-cuisse ankylophrictically enduit et engagé to receive it en passe-partout façon, by spell-vinctus gimbalry, in götteruferlosem Zauberspruch, in ślokayena maghena (श्लोकयेन मघेन), or in whatever manner their minxy swoon eigenwillig must have it. I do believe, nec nosce tempus, that my use of the accusative plural, rather than the ablative ditto, of uncus, more poetically evokes the particular sposhy Knebelei (togglery, buttonairish leverage) of those vincular Skyphoseinsmomente when the pars longa glandis of one’s dorso-caudal membri virilis is literally hooked into the, to coin a term, “pussy,” anchor-like and caninously aided by kinky nudosas estructuras of the bulbi glandis, whilst the glans ac corpus clitoridis of one’s rostro-ventral membri consequi muliebris is in ānō στερεοπηκτόν. À propos: the type specimen of this special sensory κῡφωνισμόρφωτικός (kūphōnismórphōtikós) variant of the standard situation of biune dialexicalia may be found in my and Lyra K.’s sphenic οὐλομελίη as recounted in Pod 2, § 127 of this — Hark! Do our sulky Señora’s pichiciego-squeaky soles chirp unanticipatedly across — even as I’m strapping the next little δαφοινός marsupial into its gumats gimulah (גומץ גימולה) — the phantomimique, lubricious, C-sharp-key linoleum’s gitterartig Umschließung? “You bitter, large-headed, fancy, pat, self-bloviatory bilge-runt!” A smoky phrensical surcharge calomnieux bursts above my head. “Do you really think your classe-pétaradant, silly confab vets pleasantly with the common grown-up who shares not enough of your frilly vocab’s pent figure retoriche to even understand, let alone care about angry trielerischen plouks yabbering on about their psychoneural Skizzenwerk or poetical mentality or grubby nude kinky yadi-yadi-ya?” Now, it is entirely en passantly moot whether gay serial necatrices ac necatores comme nous should be concerned in even the least degree that our jolly confab’s pet vernacular is above the heads of the unsightly beastly pleb, fons vacuus if ever there was one of a vulgar bitter noyance so hurly-spiked with its own headstrong clamoring for a clunky prosaic shebeen where they non compos mentalistically may thoroughly engorge themselves with insipid mincemeat pies and briny lager tout de suite, that if it indeed be the case that our ornate sentences’ spiky rounces lash and cow them into creeping away from the meandering ramparts of our own more languorously entangled textwork, that would anyway be a form of kindness, not cruelty. En bloc, after all, we smalltalk- and teamwork-rich polysensual chercheurs et chercheuses perform our blood-red, prison-yellow, iron-gray serial sacrifices not in the interests of some scary pulsion ἑκατόμβική but rather in order to, primo, aussi net que possible, extend the sublunary scope his knowledge, e.g., so disinterestedly craves; secundo, refine the bombycinous play her skill, for instance, so liberally deploys; and tertio, ungrab lymphatically the sociophysiological compass our inimitable turgor nympholepticus, for example, so magnanimously gets itself all tangled up in. And so one may readily comprehend how, even at the risk that such a metaplasminious profusion is par moments self-mythologizing, nous autres synalœphic kuriological οἰνοχόα (oshaku, 御酌) are enjoined to combine our illocutionary exuberance with the allusory slick phenakistiscopical πόρνη-husks yummily yielded up by all those, so to speak, “delphinion whores” my exile has supplied me with so as to cast my no doubt vocal self-pynthanomenal ambition into the pulsating materiality of slinky prose, chaudement y énonçant alors ma plus échansonnesque (“mundschenky”), plus raisonnable lubie — l’inordinaire récit inordonnable of my very own minxish œdipianisation d’exilé(e). Cf., au moins, supra, oiseusement infra ou passim. Ironically — mais je divague.
§ 145 | Ur
The Isla Chuchita ’possum, ironically, aroused rinzelate passioni, umori tanto resentiti (sic) among le membre riunenti (convening personnel) of our lab that euthanizing the beady-eyed, miscreant, runty, orarian mopi ossuosi (lazy under-larvae) of these small furry lab-golgotha’d martyrs to rancune et rancœur with an injection of curare was a task that, while having ein Rand ein bisschen garstiger, maybe repugnant also, was not without a certain ruminative yet pitchoun-loined frisson of suriné dilucid plaisir — mou, spontané, ensorcelant, dru, striated gabarit cuisant of most incomparable delectation! Ruder joys than feeling, with the ticklish concavity of your nubuck-soft yet muscular, utterly free-of-injury, glabrous mano spirituale, the pilomotor reflex’s rough “perturbabative” (the reduplicated bilabial better expresses the pleasurably grisly nature of the sensation, I think) horripilation of their euplastic, duplex, grouse-like pelage — sharper bouts d’intense entrœilladante douceur than seeing the cothurnatus syringe ejaculating its calamarius poison intercostally straight into the stunned-by-nembutal heart underneath — would be difficult to imagine. Oh, how our ecstatically own glamorous, inspissant, calvalcadour sex gleamed and glistened in anticipation of, with the Τάρταρος-prudent bite of one’s merciful nib, curtailing the damaged little lives of these duo-sex, grullo-maned, science-tortured animals! A proposito: Rumors — nimious, apocryphal, turbate, unsettling rumors in as poikilomythic and -graphic a manner as may be imagined — linger on from those adventurous “calenture-days” — rumors de fort ressentiment that as per their reductionist and cruel, attrectational wont, insinuate that my “schadenfroh-like interest,” “gay-traurige Wissbegier;” my “[...] panurgent (sic) ultra-detractory Saturnean rapacity” (a reference, apparently, to Rubens’ Portrait depicting the truculent lechery Saturn devours depravedly his children with which I admired recently in Madrid), and other sarcastic, abiturient, scurrile, and attritional attacks (too numerous and slanderous to either despend or attribute) on my well attested indulgence, sympathy, and affection in, for, anent, secus, bis, de, ut pro re nata etc. these didelphous, roan, impish even when adult, critters, arise solely from my own forborne (sui parsi) monoclinous or impassionately monoecious nature. Contrary to such aforesaid errant ouï-dire que las lenguas de gorrones socarrones (fanfarons larrons’ tongues) tend to burlar (hurl unreconstructed abuse at) us with, I was not then nor am I now some vulgar cruel misunderstood self-ruining androgyne pubère grimaçant en jouissance or tyrant ruthlessly grinding my panhygrous nontrivialities into the hard Zelionyal-surrogate surface of the restraint-block’s Laputan corner satyr-like and smugly barratrous, nongracefully dissembling the monstrous nongremial spasm — ooii! — running from scalp to toe pendant que je brime gay repugnant two-penis’d brutte ratte dei boschi and tri-cunted rats lascifs du bois. Grâce à l’imperturbable perspective I’ve attained and am currently perched atop, so to speak, via mon passage from e.g., those vivacious romps inaugurating my polyramonée transduction into the heteroousian promiscuity of Tradine Oru with Drs. Rao, Pet, Buni, et alia in the back room of Owlstain’s ryūnigiyakana Dirna Route Café to choupinou Paris’s momentous mirobolant rencontre avec Pedro sur l’escalier en vis conduisant aux chiottes du Café des Dos Péru oder spundend und tischlernd sich mich, z. B., into the hurlyburly, argy-bargy, lurid tape-cul astride tantrically talented, funambulistically lithe Lyra grubbily splayed beneath me in my former crony Renata’s turgid “Hyena-Garret,” strutted and fretted there like a lighted fool flayed by my own senses’ self-slaughterous fury (hearty gaudisserie indeed!) to ella que, most recently high above la moult épiée grungy Rambla de Catalunya, deslizó arrodillando azurely, sirenically into me mientras que I — vivace et frais, zonularly devout, blissfully indifferent to any lingering memories of such slur-radiant scuttlebutt, arrant — deslicé into her mientras que ella me solía arrullar un’ hrdliččí strana (turtle-dovish page) from her own deeply personal, duly zarigüeyan mythology recounting el doble dulzura singular that the never-frumpy eager beings like ourselves inhabiting a remote tropical island in the Bohemian Sea are wont to indulge in, I feel I may assert with almost taciturn certainty that perhaps, yes, though my own duplicitous romantic biparergy being emulated, as it were, by the bifurcated, startlingly ugly, barrigones, entrañados sexes of these dun sarigues* did make me a bit curious as to the mechanics of their suffering and the stiffening concomitant to the terminal assuagement thereof, it would be a rather egregious distortion of my true motives to insist too rudely that my most fascinatorous ditto should be restricted therein. I was also interested in them — since not only are their peculiar stunted altricially extreme “joey cunt-rats” “narrenpossenhafte Inbegriffe von kindischer Wehrlosigkeit” (“foolishly farcical embodiments of infantile powerlessness,” op. cit., trans. de l’autre auteur), but the antediluvian adult critters’ paludine fur is only of one type, Grannenhaare, which is homologous with human head hair, as opposed to the three hair types possessed by your pedestrian familiar eutherian (the aforesaid plus Leithaare [tubular bristles, homologous with human pubic hair] and Wollhaare [tutu-bouncy down, homologous with human body hair]) — as a potential model informing that theory of the evolution of hairlessness in humans I first began sketching out during those drei Monaten (tres meses) spent on Chuchita’s neighboring island as a sort of dürrem Geweihtem (scraggly devotee) purging my aberrant νοήσεως of the embarras cupidiques it had accumulated during the rarely free of hubbub year I spent in Trober’s pétaudière following my bien géré parurésique apprentissage in Petra’s tour de bamboche in preparation of the impending caméléonée transformation I underwent there such that my consequent and subsequent instar carted lumbering down from our mesquí barraco to the canal, loaded aboard the first available galoubie, transported thereby al muelle so as to ship back to the mainland enough trapped specimens of strident calatrupas and schillernd-triste tlacuaches and silly zorrae umbraticae and hrubí carachupiosos mirandinos and gauntest dour rabipeladas as to prove instrumental in setting up a breeding colony, as ruralized and as readily zurlonata (to hand) as possible, of ditto. In fact, were it not for my precipitate translation from the vinaigrous Lexica Nova of my Ville Natale to Flouziana’s lyred rorifluent Gallofrançoise, I was on the verge of publishing in Revista Novalexicana de Divastigaciones Sociofisiológicas, with le mignot matelot Pierre and busty Catamena as co-authors, a paper entitled “Nachtwachen und Nachtwandeln: La zarigüeya como modelo del fenotipo de ‘ronda nocturna’” that would have shown that the wet-behind-the-ears neotenous nudité trop ébranlable in humans that’s usually dismissed as a mere délinéateur syndromique (“indefenso desnudez a orillar ya por eso como delineador sindrómico de los seres humanos”) of reproductive suppression due to cooperative breeding leading to extended childhood, adolescence, aposematic menarche, bipedalism, social complexity, language, menopause, etcetera, springs just as parsimoniously to the theoretical mind as being not a mere symptôme égareur et syndiasmique but also a very real solid (unzarte) nocturnal trait descended from that long “feuerlose Epoche” (op. cit., abstract) when our eumatrid ancestral uteromaniacal comradely Sozial- und Erarbeitungsgruppen would have required that a not insignificant fraction thereof stay alert “a lo largo de la noche sin guiño ni frunce” (ibid.) to ward off routine predators, belligerent marauders, potent bisexualists, Melusine rapists, Turodi occisores, und so weiter. It goes without saying that la burrasca d’invidia that arose anent moi et mon rapid rise from interne asocial(e) to Notre Séante Maîtresse’s most studio-ready, unreservedly indispensable assistant, disturbing with the most scurvy, guinnârou main possible what should have been la paisible vie de laboratoire, was due in no small measure to my special, ex gratia, austere, respectful relationship with those sparsely furred motors of our research program, those feisty little fustilirian opossums, those furbi, incerti, sournois, ampliateurs-de-pâmoison marsupials!
*As I’m writing this, an expression-hungry image pré-ébrilladeusement knocks my pen astray (geturnte): Rapt, rational, resilient, reasonable, resourceful, and above all responsible readers undoubtedly will recall that bright solstitial morning on which, textually speaking, one of my schizomorphs encountered in Place Hortense a putrid, blue-green with envy, scrutinous, misoparanthropic, absurd “artiste de rue” sardonically deploying quelqu’astuce membranée to disrupt le trottoir’s důstojný (dignified) traffic with a wavy, scrupulously drawn, topsy-turvy scala naturae — gray Huygens-recurrent evolutes highlighting a pigment-flashy, argute, rayuela-like noyau argue rhythmically avec l’œil de l’amateur pédestre: “Hey! A guru yatrically painting,” you drily snarl zealfully at first, “a transverse gutter yantra gratuitously? No, just some greasy errant utterly impoverished and cravenly usurary guy hatefully scribbling his nutty errata greedily for gain.” Well, the external male genitalia of our terror-stricken little “du-cran!” rats may aptly be described as being gamey, pure-rendered simulacra — tinted, striate, petite, and subrorant — of the heavy, scruffy, curvy, scarred, and split up the middle mentula of that soi-disant “Verfasser Plurinominale” or “Zauberer Indigente” whom perspicacious readers will readily recognize as a urine-soaked, humorless, unprincipled and dreary, bibulously sad ruffian of a testudinarious impostor.
§ 146 | Sashay
Meanwhile, refusing to cower in shy moxie-numbed soumission parénétique behind her scute-knobbly panel’s TV-focalized ramparts, our lay tupuna has sashayed out, play-urusawashikusciously as we’ve seen, onto our happy lab’s volt-fenced arena’s entonnoir à sacrifice. And so even as the poisonous imparable spume of her tempest-swept envy falls obcecatively blanc (f-stopped as it is within the overexposed void of her own tabagisme) all around me like the sort of spectral frimas so unpoignantly encountered during arctic and montane research, and her irretrievably spent floccinaucinihilipilifications of my embryonic novel fly past bombastically as per their implausibly spelt façon vitupérative, I’m able to imagine the precocious honey-nixie worming about through the remembered mud in the mind of this chain-smoking professoressa whose minxy, oneiric, Knopf-bony, vestal cloison’s rima pudendi her future husband was wont to deftly clasp obventitiously with the three-fingered pinch of digital delectation all the while imagining how, in orexis hymeneias, this marvelous minou’s paroi d’amour so insapiently would eventually open to him, revealing in full the muscular pouty undulant rose-enlimned compass of its delicious bedazzlements. No Erato but my own could so polyrhythmically bop, vent sfavillantamente, sonar sarigamapadanisastically, and most parsimoniously in a porism souvent affirmé, sing that inimitably cleft vas pontivagum connecting her inextricably cloven past fulgurantly and fragrantly to her irascibly present añoranza thereof sans committing some unutterably spent vol fâcheux of a guttural typo — “ὓ ὗ ὓ ὗ ὓ ὗ ὓ ὗ ὓ ὗ ὓ ὗ” gets, for instance, replaced by “ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,” par exemple — since whereas in your Pl(a)utus the fancy fable’s plot veers inexorably towards the epirrhematic syzygy del placer mutual, your Petronius aims potentially complicating barbs from an anarchic slant bevy of playfully picaresque cupids who each in turn aim at a boatload of enchanted voyagers returning home from their respective Taprobanes entorpecidas among whom we spot the first to debase notr’enfant yunnanense, Trober. But perhaps my comparison is unmanageably vast, pen-flocculatedly blanc, fop-vestedly becs-vont-plaffeuse? (And not piaffeuse, you plutoyarukerast nonentities of diorthotically mutual puro-y-dureza! Don’t think of colt-pixie women in horsy get-up pawing the earth apoplectically. Think, rather, of those mechanical dipping-birds smashing their beaks, as if into their own little flacons d’eau colorée, but actually into your Laputuan own constrictive apparatus zonarious.) Simply put, I recall seeing myself seeing our hageshii soprano smugly squeaking garishly towards me across the laboratory’s wearisome linoleum floor, her smug face smugly beaming with that pharisaical memory of how her husband did eventually so smugly swoon in her eximious paroi’s mnemonoclastic sphinxis — no mere yowling can now be heard (if only you could hear my awesome iynx-siren howl, my fearsome syrinx whine, o reader!) echoing from the heights of my own splay-top Uluru’s spiv-fon-becapt, syllabub-fancy P.O.V.: Stelle, I notice in my nth rereading of that (compared to this copious roman sibyllin et sisyphesque at least) opus minor I satisfied the collective envy, focal bel pstryczek, and ecumenical surliness of box-wino-y Hermsen, intrusive Esman, pious ironical Manse et ornery aliae with, has, in § 3.2, been rendered, not as it has everywhere else, correctly, as, i.e., lugar, coin, locality, but incorrectly as, e.g., estrella, étoile, star!
§ 147 | TO
Could our takkanoth, secular, thoroughly modern set(s) of practices of sacrifice for the sake of FIRTRR (Fundamental Investigative Researches into Theories of Reactive Réalité), as sportvol wij (we) called our ipséiste lavôr at reposeful moments of remembrance such as this, be casually hurled aside as if it or they were a lanthorn-house clathrate skirt offered straight (et sans porter risk!) off the as-is rack, by accusing it — them rather — of being but the specious contrivance(s) of an anfractuous coven bent, not on making groundbreaking discoveries of epochal import anent exakt théories far from limited in their impact on daily life as we claimed to be doing, but rather merely to serially commit what in ordinary parlance would be deemed a sort of murder? The paler, simpler, nosier, viler autochthons certainly did, self-righteously (with a sedately drawled out, “But you can’t!”) hurtle-shooing our hot-off-the-explorar-skiff, theoretical wafuna (和船) gift to the ground as if it or they were or was a secondhand jumble of wilted louche hats, torn summer blouses, and dilapidated two-pieces patched with the sutelis and latkami (латками) of yesteryear. Yet they never shied away from rather unselfconsciously (as if they were about to actually devour the enticheur loot!) snatching out of the rialto of our cosmopolitan tour d’ivoire, so to speak, the luculent hot cash routinely paid to them for the animate, gory, vivacious, and often quite vicious with fright prasādān teleonómico they regularly supplied us with. I’ve just now noticed a child slinking back into my range vive de fureur after having fled upon hearing my turbulent “Ach!” shout-roared in the preceding chapter. It (by which I mean the child) even has the audacity to restore simperingly to the hem of my tomaseni (苫維) — you will notice that sometime between § 141 ON and now, from the aforesaid hôtel à eidotropiques effluves dit Le Reposoir Étalé à Déhiscence where I began the current “Paris after the forking monsoon” sequence of my great involute SNE matois with a restorative splash of a depurative salope’s traumatico consisting of a double salvo pétri astrictivement de café-calva avant de m’installer à table prendre un troisième s’il vous plaît, je me suis fais déménager à mon vit- y pucha-rejuvenating vicarage, minty volatilities swirling up all around me from the sun-shot sodden fetor-frisk earth (proximity to such warm soft ordure should, no doubt, even despite the intervening tomaseni, help to oxigenar y, por tanto chulo, to stanch heroically my three-months’ menorrhagia) — before fleeing back to the safety of her (a flash of indiscreet panocha beneath an effaré skirt thrown up by a lewd gust of wind did not escape my practiced but, alas, intumescent gaze) mother, the foul fat giant of a wissenscheissliche Falschheitschrift I had sent flutter-tumbling up into and, failing to breach the strictures of économe gravity, out of the air like a froth-rift serotine mastiff bat and down yonder into the damp sandbox to pile haphazardly (and perhaps be inhumed there) its dysathrotic anacolutha, sthenorhetorical lanthanomena, stichopoetic syntonic sotteries, aeidelothoastic snotty inconsistencies, and, in addition to maint autres l.h.o.o.chniques apories, my own absurd, isototazic, ridiculous bévue. But no. The gaunt waif floated over to retrieve the battered Rabelaisian tome and, before rushing back to grab her imperatorious mother’s ointment-smeared udder, I mean hand, had the cheek to roll her eyes at me as she leant over to let it drop on a corner of my tomaseni while the wind played loose, teaseful, and fast with her skirt, feather-frothing it to give me the Thoth-sent ocular present of the bare intact rose of her tight little thing fufa twat — aloha! “Not to lose,” asserted the hortatory gamine, valiantly articulating — as she stood and brushed from her face a few stray wisps of disquieted loose hair — a Franko-Gallic imitation, mesmeric in that mock-debonair, sort of rude, mocking almost, manner small children have about them, of Appalatcho-Pananglic before sibilantly rushing back (the utterance final fricative of her pronunciamento had been a moist surd) to the sheltering skirts of her tearful desultorious mother. And that was all it took to put a — just a child’s prim word! — stop to the bout of tearoffomania (TOM), tearoffalgia (TOA), tearoutosis (TO), and bangagainstitis (BA) I was experiencing. Did I mention that? I think I did. In any case, I linger myovatically on this tableau, despite the risk of farraginous repetition, not only, ceteris paribus, to show that at no contingent (my various polymorph optolexical devices do on occasion chance upon a most apt word, impostor mio!; cf. infra) point, tendential instant, or incidental moment in, to any intent or purpose, the interaction, ah, transpiring as recorded supra, did either deliberate physical contact or — ha! — aimless feigned indifference of the sort that implies a desire or need for or even willingness to offer oneself up as the contingendum of such contingens, ensue between either the person of myself and that of the child, or between my effects and hers, but also to record what may be regarded as a symptom of returning health — but I think that that’s best conveyed by what I’ve already written. The smarmy gate involuntarily squeals and bangs. My little Cathar-triff Keroessa and her slender Io sortent du petit jardin, leaving me alone to destroy à mon gré vitupératif the frosk-repugnant gaff or fritter-shake (the Nernst-cosy tonic I treated my morose matinal psychomachy with seems already to be wearing off) my way through a hypothesis or explanatio charting the tantivy mean, grotesquely obreptitious, storditamente intolerable methods by which a soso solo word trop Spitmarkxien, Stelle, got itself transformed (se hizo transformar, s’est fait métamorphoser, sich verwandelte) into that abstract holohenutatively* shimmery scories of nudnik errors, that effascinatingly effulgent psychopomp word-trio — star, étoile — “SVP, Sra** (the confined space of my de facto raide asile [theoretically mine, by the way, as well as legally, by reason of jus utendi primo, primo, primo — words opt to elude me de temps en temps, ah, here it is, — tenenti!] has been invaded by a holothern,*** catsuit-clad, ontoepistemologically shentongy, Irma Vep-like, matchwood-trim, post-prandial contingent of dabblers in yoga ventrimesonica, that archaic art notably practiced by paratantric haomists beneath the sought-after other far skies of yore, but nowadays perverted into a mere calisthenic “glute-tool,” “hip-exercise,” and gymnastic “ab-flattener”), — I indicate the sullied sector where the sweat-stained, fungus-infused, cork-and-crocus substrate of her woebegone mat is impinging upon my immaculate tomaseni, “mais regardez où ce qu’on devrait voir! Pas là!” — estrella — got there. I sometimes (anomalia rara) forget, o vain myopic censor of mine, stale sot so often disappointed by the rather innocuous “dirt” stodgily clogging my stories (not to mention the tame insonorities or the that’s-a-bit-of-a-stretch, uh, star neologisms of my prose!), to entertain the thought that — but perhaps this thought deserves a section of its own, or at least one where I can assuage my introvert’s need for a certain something stronger than — mais n’anticipons pas.
*From henutsuru (偏移る) to redshift.   **“S’il vous plaît, señor(it)a.” End of page exigencies demanded the abbreviation.   ***A holophrastic hapax legomenon, possibly derived from Holopherne (Holofernes) and holothurian, meaning something like, “shape-shiftily intrusive.”
§ 148 | Tear off her skirt
“The witness, a frowsy ferret-eyed stork-shinned heifer identified as Io N. (IN), froward, toffish and frisky in the box, told the court that the assailant, Nolan E. Deal, used something ‘sharp as an edge of a ferrate instrument’ — ‘Do you mean a knife?’ suggested Kristoff Härter, the lawyer for the prosecution. ‘More like a lamber’s bodkin, sir.’ To which even the judge, K. F. Seaforth, cracked a smile. — to tear off her skirt (a sort of retro-freak Shaker linen frock and shift with a tarty chambray guimp, actually, the vestiges of which were later be used, according to Sheriff Cratti D’Aruntles’s report, by ‘the sore, befouled, but nevertheless still spry waif to flag Aunt Oprah’ [AO), and threatened to strike her with it if she did not kneel down and “troth his fife then and there on the very
tear off her skirt “‘Estás lista para rut, my puny blond slave?’ K venerates into the ears of BM. ‘By all means, you alien!’ BM posts a pestle plea and redistemperates her lesbianism as K starts to tear off her skirt.” (M. S. Litarn, The humiliation of BM. Krišnaborg: Lepastic Press, 2006, p. 11). “And should I tear off her skirt? Or should I ruin no fields? I opt for the latter. Not for the first time do I prepare to knead and knuckle her, tender and soft at first, then deep and hard. I warm the lube in my hands before proceeding to gently circumambulate with my volars her sacrospinalii and gluteals.” (Velasto Prastier, Cuánto does a grip pèse: Les mémoires of a multilingual masajista). “Don’t worry, I think the fairy will get away, but the dragon’s going to tear off her skirt. How embarassing!” (Jasmin Islam, Agua Prieta Piste, 19 June 2004). “For Lee See, I’d keep her unders on, but tear off her skirt. Glom her lares, and cramp her to stairs and jars and posts and whatnot in a steamy abandoned stable and heat her up with a dose of lusterine” (Ariel Ebsalai, Amiss in the abnorm.). “Five-year-old Sophie paid no heed, but the small rescuer overtook the terrified little girl and tried to tear off her skirt, now all aflame. The right sleeve of her own dress took fire and, frightened now herself, the little girl dropped her friend and clutched at her own blazing sleeve” (“Girl of six tries rescue. Burned trying to put out flames in her playmate’s dress.” Minxburgh Monitor, 2 January 1912). “AT couldn’t help but unbuckle her belt nebulously as M, K, M, and J sought to rule over her once again in the front of the schooner, attracting a large crowd of seasalts. Most of the converts had already debarked by then, watchfully, but from the docks they could be heard to yell encouraging words such as, “Rip her shirt off!” and “Tear off her skirt!”” (Gals Saliba, Tales of the Arathu Sea). “Every move she made was drawing out a new side of him – a side that just wanted to tear off her skirt, bend her over and fuck her till she was screaming his name” (Onyx LS, “What Happens in LA Stays in LA,” 27 December 2010). “Voldemort smiled as he saw Filch having his perverse fun. He watched Filch tear off her skirt, and then pull down her granny pants using his teeth. Umbridge cried silently as she felt his mouth on her skin, his breath coming in quick, hot pants, tainting her body” (Laura C., The Burning Pen Sickest Lemon Challenge, Untitled, nd). “J enervates to elate the duty as OA, OD, and ON take gonorturns blessing her soto Rumi who invites the onlookers to slake prying eyes by means of the holes drilled for that very purpose in the wall. Despite her eye-purging amber and though starving for more Wyoming, she readorns as the man o’ war gin goons tear off her skirt and continue to try sanding hulls in her promised realm” (Ure Aders, Trash thug vigor. Port Gaspard: ).
eskar. But affeert it must ha’ been, since no slim effort of prodding and shirking I spent to hark and heist it from its sheathe could coax any glory from the little terror. And so I tried forking my fur-trimmed shako athwart his trotters an’ shark. But that only irked his affret the more, and launched his freakish thirst on a raft of blunt lust entailing him to strafe and fritter my glistening soft hiker’s frith with the hickory handle of his shifty roker’s dirk. In the afterthroes he sobbed, and kissed my forest of bruises and blood, and whispered the triffest lare barg in my ears.’” (Teresa Frith-Korf, “Lyness Trial, Day 2: Witness Takes Stand.” The Hoy Ahoy, 4 April 2002).
§ 149 | Osier
§ 150 | Realm
Real M? Re a Luis Magrinyà? Refer to story, supposedly in Habitación Doble, in which upstairs and downstairs neighbors' sexual relationship ends in violence and compensation, buying of property of one by the other, joining two flats together with staircase, and thus doubling of property? Plagiary of situation with Swopes and Moéu?

“Differences between the ‘true’ realm of the grail kingdom and the ‘illusory’ lair of Klingsor are obscured, refocusing the moral drama away from religious and metaphysical absolutes and towards the presence or absence of the capacity for pity [the rapacity of cities” (G. Dammann, What kind of fools were they? The exercise of pity in Wagner and Mark-Anthony Turnage. TLS, 11 March 2011, p. 17).

“‘Rational’ criticism can find no hold here, for it evolved, as we have seen, in response to one form of (political) absolutism, and finds itself equally at a loss when confronted with another form of self-grounded absolutism in the realm of transcendental spirit” (T. Eagleton, The function of criticism, London, Verso, 1984, p. 43).

“From the writings of the later Coleridge, through to Carlyle, Kingsley, Ruskin, Arnold and others, literature is extricated from the arena of Realpolitik and elevated to a realm where, in the words of one Victorian commentator, ‘all might meet and expatiate in common’” (T. Eagleton, The function of criticism, London, Verso, 1984, pp. 39–40).

“What such a realm will then be unable to withstand is the inruption into it of social and political interests in palpable conflict with its own ‘universal’ rational norms” (T. Eagleton, The function of criticism, London, Verso, 1984, p. 35).

§ 151 | None rates
"Among these methods, none rates higher in importance than schemes for detecting wildfires and putting them out." (Boys' Life, December 1961) "Among the professions represented in Washington probably none rates higher than the statisticians', and perhaps no profession was ever so concentrated in one city." (Teaching statistics at the Department of Agriculture Graduate School in Washington. Biometrics Bulletin, vol. 1, no. 3, June 1945, p. 33.)
§ 152 | Trouves it
§ 153 | Otiose
The structure of reality, as we know, is yazdehan; her nature, however, is otiose. Probably the best way to characterize the fundamentally lazy, absent-minded, uninventive, and inconsistent nature of reality. Reality is truly otiose, hence her gaps, her repetitions, her antiphenomenal plagiaries, her “spooky action at a distance.”

Otium (‘leisure’) is the freedom not so much from other duties as for creative and cultivated activity. It is a byword for a way of life and writing which Cicero (when in writerly mode) and Catullus share and exercise.” [J. Katz, review of S. Culpepper Stroup, Catullus, Cicero and a society of patrons: The generation of the text. TLS, 5 November 2010, p. 30

§ 154 | Entails ruby do
the seedy traboules in Lyon
§ 155 | Ven
§ 156 | Srai
§ 157 | Minion sexy whore
§ 158 | Subborainizy
§ 159 | Wyoming
§ 160 | Io
Waxing crescent moon, three evenings past first visible crescent; also, crescent phase of Venus.
§ 161 | M
§ 162 | Tulpuyauor
A town on the Port Astri (or Eight Ports) Bay of Wyoming, also known as Port Uluyau (from the so-called “old [ulu wharf [yau,” supposedly a relic from Subborainizy’s voyages throughout the Arathu Sea, in the new port of Tulpuyauor); New Lexican maps show the town as “Putu Rayolu.”. Also, a traditional Norlian dish of snails, cracked barley, and eleven species of mushrooms, the matrix, some say, of the impossible-to-find Catalo-Ionian dish of paella amb caracols i sept setas.
§ 163 | Nelc pabsl toyvf
§ 164 | Lusterine
§ 165 | Playtoy
§ 166 | Equilibrium
“The equilibrium of her nature, savage and refined, gave her bridled skull a look of compassion.” “There was some derangement in her equilibrium that kept her immune from her own descent” [D. Barnes, Nightwood. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1937.

“When I went out on the prowl at night I was more frightened than ever; the sex and the spying had sustained a kind of equilibrium, each a cover for the other.” [J. Banville, The untouchable

“Complicity is fundamental to every reader-author relationship [RA: reader-author; RARE: reader-author relationship; ERARTSOS: every reader-author relationship TSOS, but the oulipian covenant also implies a radically modern equilibrium [ME: modern equilibrium of readerly freedom and readerly burden.” [D. Levin Becker, Many subtle channels: In praise of potential literature, p. 294 Conjunctivism is fundamental to . . . ?

§ 167 | EFO
Euphenics Forum of Owlstain; Éducation Flousianienne Obligatoire (ou Obligée)(ou de l’Octroi, par Octroi, à l’Octroi)
§ 168 | Orgyoygro
ὄναγρον, ὀνάγρα oleander (Nerium oleander)
§ 169 | Nuskalo ecyi pshr
§ 170 | Promised
A promised review that never materialized: “Dans l’un de nos prochains cahiers, il sera rendu compte du tome de M. Spitmarkx, qui concerne la duplicité d’hippopotame &c., chez les indomptables, les chômeurs, les mystiques, les attelés, et chez les hépatiques d’après les longueurs de la mousson et selon le temps” (Journal des Sçavans, juillet 1825, p. 446). The promised paella amb caracols i sept setas also never materialized, and despite the trips I took to Barkeno just to spite her, I have never been able to locate this dish in any restaurant of la ciutat condal.

"Again the cornucopia poured out its treasure, and promised still more." [Melville, Confidence Man, p. 334 "True, it was just as much as China Aster could possibly do to induce his wife, a careful woman, to sign this bond ; because she had always regarded her promised share in her uncle's estate as an anchor well to windward of the hard times in which China Aster had always been more or less involved, and from which, in her bosom, she never had seen much chance of his freeing himself. [Melville, Confidence Man, pp. 335-336 "Upon this, indignation and abhorrence seemed to work by their excess the effect promised of the balsam." [ibid. p. 120 "in fact, this he believed would prove the foundation of that famous fortune which the angel had promised him." [ibid, p. 333

§ 171 | Tit
§ 172 | Ysraaln rieg
§ 173 | Neutral bigotry
§ 174 | Unders
§ 175 | Bernouilli
§ 176 | Bantu
[I recently chanced upon Babur Rao's youngest daughter Bantu in a café on rue André del Sarte. She was in the company of that nobody, the much older poetaster, M. S. Strickland. Why she was soliciting mentoring from this old nobodaddy I could not imagine, but when I saw him embrace bubbly Bantu's young firm tan body in both the Appalachian and the Flouzianian senses of the word, and she respond in kind...! However, since M. S. Strickland has published the above in his Rime Argile (Clay Rhymes), it seems that Teresa R’s poignant eulogy was actually ghostwritten! — the hack having gotten the job, apparently, after having hooked up with the Widow Rao’s youngest daughter, Bantu. And clearly, however firmly he embraces the young firm tan body of bubbly Bantu (she cannot be much older than sixteen!), MSS has a rather weak grasp of Flouzianian: the phrase “Sartre est à serre” (the fourth word’s initial sibilant should be lower case), is an allusion to Victor Lucas’s Bell Jar — I know because I recently had lunch with him at the X X cafe, ! And the "mirror self"?! Further evidence that MSS not only does not know his Flouzianian, but does not know his R! he who shaved by feel alone, never with a mirror!
§ 177 | M
§ 178 | SO
§ 179 | Ani Dybn Yeud Ikky
§ 180 | Dudu
§ 181 | Ktar
§ 182 | Nene
In Egu Belong (Gaubolambe; i.e., la isla Pequeño Andamán), nene is an imperative suffix in Onge. In Hawaii, a nene (Haw. nēnē) is an endemic goose (Branta sandvicensis Vigors, 1833) evolved from a vagrant Tetrastic form. In Barkeno, a nene is a Catalan girlchild. In the swamplands of southern Appalachia and eastern Flouziana, a nene is a Muskogean path or trail (sendero, chemin). In perfidious Albion, the Nene is an Fenlandish river. In Aotearoa, Nene was a rangatira of the Ngāti Hau, a hapū (iwi) of Hokianga. Also, a notional, or noumenal, “gene” (i.e., minimal unit of reproduction and variation in the realm of ideas).
§ 183 | Yin
[I’m as much yin as I am yang.
§ 184 | Mustig
[Misspelled this word in my brief article reporting the fall of Ada Romer in Agua Prieta Piste; u should not be umlaut.
§ 185 | T. S. Eridzoi
§ 186 | IN
§ 187 | IS
§ 188 | Dear R
§ 189 | US
§ 190 | Snoyw smudrto
§ 191 | M
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