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

A strategical position

§ 330 | Ego Art Role
§ 331 | Erie
"Advance into knowledge is just like advance upon the grand Erie canal, where, from the character of the country, change of level is inevitable ; you are locked up and locked down with perpetual inconsistencies, and yet all the time you get on ; while the dullest part of the whole route is what the boatmen call the 'long level' — a consistently-flat surface of sixty miles through stagnant swamps." [Melville, Confidence Man, ch. 36]

"Her legs, her lovely live legs, were not too close together, and when my hand located what it sought, a dreamy and eERIE expression, half-pleasure, half-pain, came over those childish features." [Lolita, I, 4]

"What drives me insane is the twofold nature of this nymphet—of every nymphet, perhaps; this mixture in my Lolita of tender dreamy childishness and a kind of eERIE vulgarity, stemming from the snub-nosed cuteness of ads and magazine pictures, from the blurry pinkness of adolescent maidservants in the Old Country (smelling of crushed daisies and sweat); and from very young harlots disguised as children in provincial brothels; and then again, all this gets mixed up with the exquisite stainless tenderness seeping through the musk and the mud, through the dirt and the death, oh God, oh God." [Lolita, I, 11]

"I was soon to be taken out of the car (Hi, Melmoth, thanks a lot, old fellow)—and was, indeed, looking forward to surrender myself to many hands, without doing anything to cooperate, while they moved and carried me, relaxed, comfortable, surrendering myself lazily, like a patient, and deriving an eERIE enjoyment from my limpness and the absolutely reliable support given me by the police and the ambulance people." [Lolita, II, 36]

§ 332 | Gal V
§ 333 | Other Cunt’s Halo
[Song by Romer's Samba]

[Scholia:] OtherCuntsHalo is the aerolexical handle of an author on the ER'd Edda, among her works are Reams Too Often:

Other Cunt's Halo

What teases me tithes me, and too often reams;
Takes this cunt by its limp ears, and taunts its seams
With blunt posts spattered with mire I wouldn’t mind
Wallowing in, smirching my jowls with its rind,
Pulp, and seed — was that a bulbul’s Nachtlied heard
Far beyond the ovoid wake of what I’d fear’d
To repress beneath desire’s lurid keening?
O, my fancy fuck-farce of cryptic meaning!


But the other cunt's halo is free to do
Just about any sly stunt that would please you!

Shoehorn and cornhole me, you vulpine minion, Sexy whore: my touchhole rants for your onion To flavor my _ author's carnal cholent, And the arch crush of your coho's muculent Flesh the only latent eluant of hocus Pocus truth that can focus each lotus's thorn, each stolon of ruth troths every lorn thrust of the loons, the louts, the goths who'd unclothe my torah, bash in my tholos, defile my peribolos indulge my desires and so much more Free from judgment, hurt and pain free from bondage and chains open to the world - inside and out I can dance naked or scream and shout in my alternate world I'm alive my inner being can grow and thrive I'm beautiful, sensuous and whole I answer to noone, but my heart and soul I wish I could be her when I'm awake but then again, it's not a choice I can make It's a doorway to my hidden being in her I enjoy what I'm seeing am I really that different when I'm awake How much of a change do I make which one is the true part of me can I not be both and will it set me free I think that we're more the same so why do I play the game? And push her back in the shadow and not let her (my true self) show if you look at me closely when I dance you'll see her there and I'm in a trance my body gets taken over it's how she entices her lover using my body to lure him in promising pleasure - free from guilt or sin she uses all her skills to ignite his fire kisses, touches, tastes fueling desire once she's taken you in her bed thoughts of her will consume your head you'll do anything to keep her there walk through fire, you won't care Because all your thoughts are of her the intensity, passion and pleasure more than you've ever experienced before she does it all with abandon, anything you want and more takes your body to heights you've never dreamed of blow your mind - those secret things you love it's as if she reads your mind exposing thoughts of every kind she'll lay you out on her bed answering yes, to things unsaid her hands and mouth seem everywhere at once kissing, touching, caressing almost too much taking you almost to the peak moans, gasps and groans the only words you can speak but just wait she's not done the pain/pleasure has just begun wave after wave crashes over you hours on end and she's not through the things she does for you are unreal this type of pleasure is to good to be real this is one dream you'll never want to end the sensation she's creating is a perfect blend at some time late in the night when everything she's doing feels so right you reached a point here you can't take anymore soared to places you've never been before and just when you are ready to explode she touches a spot and you shoot your load but not all at one time it goes on and on oh my goodness you're so far gone as wave after wave crashes down over you your body rocks, twists and spasms too again and again your orgasms comes and as you come down, you realize she's not done no more you want to scream but again are afraid to wake from this dream slowly she eases off and you begin to relax her kisses and caresses slowly slacks just the right touch to finish you off you take a deep breath as you feel her stop and you realize as she lays in your arms this body is there - she's so soft and warm stroking her hair you drift off to sleep not wanting to end emotions run deep all through the night you can feel her there smelling her essence, stroking her hair next thing you know the alarm begins to ring you're still lost in your dream but then you open your eyes and my God she's is real all those sensations - you really did feel you honestly thought it was to good to be true but there she is right beside you fast asleep with a smile on her face once again your heart begins to race gently you lean down to kiss her just to be sure and as your lips touch her skin you feel the heat stirring within memories of her from the night before wanting her again and so much more as you reach out and touch her she begins to stir and as her eyes open, they're a deep green a more beautiful woman, you've never seen so many thoughts go through your mind how she's beautiful, sensuous and kind you could get lost in her forever make her you companion, your lover and then you realize you don't even know her name at this point it doesn't matter, but you ask just the same you both laugh, because of all that's passed and yet this simple question wasn't asked the words flow easily between you so many things in common, so fresh, so new you while away the day lost in conversation so many things to say and before you realize the days slips to night it's amazing everything between you feels so right neither one of you want it to end you've found the perfect blend but finally a bodies needs must be met plans for dinner are set as you get dressed and prepare to go you hope and pray she'll show you feel like a teenager again sweaty, eager, can't wait for the date to begin you rush home, shower and shave now uncertain how to behave and as you arrive at the appointed hour your eyes look through the crowd for her all your fear slips away there when your eyes meet - she's here the smile on her face says it all so you relax and have a ball after dinner, you take her home for dessert can't get undressed fast enough - just tear off her skirt your hands explore her skin tracing the lines of her shin once again she's in your arms spoiling you rotten with her charms for hours on end you play as you drift off to sleep, you whisper - please stay the next morning the sun begins to rise and as I open up my eyes I look around and guess what I see?? you weren't the one dreaming, that was me...

§ 334 | A Tara T Dirty
§ 335 | RITM
§ 336 | TD
§ 337 | Rape being my urge
“Rape being my urge,” Nolan E. Deal is reported to have told the court, “A weld a knife ta tear off her skirt.” A sort of retro-freak Shaker frock and shift, actually, the vestiges of which would later be used by the sore, befouled, but nevertheless still spry waif to flag Aunt Oprah. “But A didna force her,” the unrepentant Highland rake continued in an all too hackneyed vein, “to sprawl upon the glebe, ae, nor strike her with a ferrate instrument — ’at lass done troth me fife on the eskar of her own accard. Her nature, you see, was innater ’an me own. And ae fifth kore A did come across in me treks offna terra ’at day, the frowsy ferret-eyed stork-shinned heifer was. All tarty, toffish, frisky, and no sort of shrieker
shrieker “There she was, poor Mother, flat on her back with her legs in the air, shrieking, and my huge father lying naked on top of her, dead as a doornail. I had the hell of a job getting him off her. The smells! Twelve years old, I was” (J. Banville, The Untouchable, p. 52). “I particularly enjoyed bayonet practice, the licence it afforded to shriek at the top of one’s lungs, as one deftly disembowelled an imaginary and yet strangely, shiveringly palpable enemy” (J. Banville, The Untouchable, p. 172).
ta shirk and fear, harkin’ but slim effort and less prodding ta fork her fur-trimmed shako athwart me trotters an’ shark.” “Are you telling the court,” the lawyer for the prosecution, Kristoff Haerter, was reported to have addressed the theatre of the jury in retort to the shifty roker’s riff, “that your affret was owing entirely to the contrary natures obtaining anent yourself and your victim?” “Ae.” “And that the freakish thirst which launched the raft of your lust upon a voyage that would entail strafing the soft hiker’s frith, was but the afterthroes of a froward heist to which even the triffest of heroes could be made susceptible in the presence of such delectable fritters as glistened and steamed and harked in the forest unveiled to your glomming orbs when you tore off her shirt?” “Skirt.” “Pardon?” “Skirt, your honor. I tore off her skirt.” “Rather. When you tore off her skirt?” “Ae.” “And yet you admit that your primary urge was indeed, as you say, ‘rape’?” “Ae.” “The prosecution rests.” (Saian Chaabran, “Scrappy waif signals plight to kith with skirt scraps.” The Lyness Selsyn, 22 October 2002).
§ 338 | Orated Bieyda
§ 339 | Lupanares
“Los lupanares de las posibilidades,” nous a dit Noruda Tibreteps.
§ 340 | Ene
§ 341 | EP
Ère Pataphysique. Erotic Pet. Editor and Publisher : Skid Slekton is EP of the Owlstain SCAT. Emergent property (see JSocPhys 00711).
§ 342 | Elite tears
“I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead! Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream!” (Ossian); Thränenfreude, the pleasure of tears. [Swopes still awaits morning at Ecadence? Or recurring awaiting of morning?]

"Through tears never did man see his way in the dark." [Melville, COnfidence Man] "At these words, recalling the sad end of his worthy parent, China Aster could not restrain some tears." [p. 329]

§ 343 | Pestle plea
§ 344 | Cratti D’Aruntles
[Nom d’appui of Kiko Devi.] Author of Erartsos, or, the Arts in Eros.
§ 345 | Conjunctivism
Conjunctivism, the official Journal of Appalachian Reactionists and Sociophysiologists.
§ 346 | Trash thug vigor
§ 347 | Stairs and jars
§ 348 | Oil hat
§ 349 | Paperist
(“the thermophilic chemoorganotrophe Dictyaglomus transformosa is an anaerobic bacterium that elaborates the xylan-digesting enzyme xylanase with which English paper manufacturers have been able to pretreat wood pulp in order to obtain high levels of whiteness without having to commit recourse, as your Scottish or French paper manufacturers are wont to do, to chlorine bleach” — Litarn again, loc. cit.)
§ 350 | Never meet a
§ 351 | Earthy augury
§ 352 | Atta
Apparently, the dark moon and its transition to first visible waxing crescent through the first two evenings of its “wingbright gift” (Johnson 1999).
§ 353 | J
“Just ask ‘J’, the subject of ‘A crime of shadows’ by Mark Bowden, one of this collection’s most stimulating essays. J was lured through the world of internet sex chatrooms into ‘confessing’ his desire to sleep with a woman’s young children. The woman — actually a detective — persuaded him to come over to her house. J later maintained that he was only interested in the woman. He’d gone along with the ‘game’ as an erotic ‘fantasy’ to please his apparently depraved interlocutor. He never had any intention of touching the children. J was arrested on his way to meet the woman and subsequently kailed for a year.” [T. Lichtig, Twenty-watt brains. [Review of:J. Dibbell, ed. The best technology writing, 2010.] TLS, 25 February 2011, p. 30]
§ 354 | RA
Following Bennett (1910), the ideal towards which our senimality strives is some combination of poésie imaginative (PI) and roman affreux.
§ 355 | Abenaseli
§ 356 | Asectairage
§ 357 | Unict
"Slutty sprawl of cowgirl tunic snap by snap unsprung. That child I was cracking a cunt-proud squat all dollish and slapfully awkward." [Divastigations § 96]
§ 358 | Nolan E. Deal
“For F to support a proposition of [Nolan E. Deal]’s was sufficiently rare to tip the scale.” (A. Powell, Books do furnish a room, ch. 2, p. 86)
§ 359 | Irora Rexni
[Nom d'appui of Chester Kidjaki?] Biocosmozeologist, originally from Abenaseli.
§ 360 | Redashter
“Wie es unsere,” according to Ure Aders, my rédacteur at Editions MSS, grâce à la ronische palatalisation, “Gewohnheit in Ruhr-Lülnrar zu sagen.”
§ 361 | Noruda Tibreteps
[Nom d'appui of Fatima (or her sister Renata?) de Queiros of CACA? (Or a composite of the two sisters?)] Co-inventor with Swopes of the Urdostoist Aerolexist (a pen for writing in air) and VAPID, the Virtual Authoring Program and Interactive Device, a ludict that makes the act of writing manifest in the act of reading?

“For F to support a proposition of [Noruda Tibreteps]’s was sufficiently rare to tip the scale.” (A. Powell, Books do furnish a room, ch. 2, p. 86)

§ 362 | Asa Egagal
§ 363 | Clonish Niechala
(Properly spelled and pronounced in Tixputo, ‘Kloníx Nyétxala’.) “Elle la mit dans son dos, je passai mes mains derrière son cou, en soulevant les nattes de ses cheveux qu’elle portait sur les épaules, soit que ce fût encore de son âge, soit que sa mère voulût la faire paraître plus longtemps enfant, afin de se rajeunir elle-même ; nous luttions, arc-boutés. Je tâchais de l’attirer, elle résistait ; ses pommettes enflammées par l’effort étaient rouges et rondes comme des cerises ; elle riait comme si je l’eusse chatouillée ; je la tenais serrée entre mes jambes comme un arbuste après lequel [auprès duquel (??)] j’aurais voulu grimper ; et, au milieu de la gymnastique que je faisais, sans qu’en fût à peine augmenté l’essoufflement que me donnaient l’exercice musculaire et l’ardeur du jeu, je répandis, comme quelques gouttes de sueur arrachées par l’effort, mon plaisir auquel je ne pus pas même m’attarder le temps d’en connaître le goût ; aussitôt je pris la lettre.” [Proust]

Clonish Niechala and her Chicana Hellions, a musical variety act

§ 364 | Tartray Gesturen
§ 365 | In a steamy
§ 366 | AGSAD
In the October 8, 1938, issue of the Times Literary Supplement, it was possible for a Londoner to read that Stephen Wilbeck, the narrator of H. G. Wells’s Apropos of Dolores, was “determined to give us his thoughts on the subject of Dolores, on everything to do with Dolores and for that matter on whatever else comes into his head. With Tristram Shandy for model he delivers himself of the bubbling story of his mind’s adventures. Idle to complain that, with Dolores still an enigma, we have to follow at some length his biologist friend Foxfield, who discourses on the ways of butterflies, crabs, ants, frogs, cats and elephants. Uselessly to protest also that Sterne’s is an unexampled delicacy of fancy and not mere avidity of mind. The day of fancy in literature, Wilbeck would say, is over — or very nearly: ours is a scientifically planned hour. And one can still pursue popular education, perhaps even popular art, through digression and parenthesis.” [Charques, R. D. (1938). Infernal feminine. [Review of Apropos of Dolores. By H. G. Wells. Cape. 7s. 6d.] Novels of the Week, The Times Literary Supplement, No. 1914, Saturday, October 8, 1938, p. 641.] At approximately the same historical moment, across the sagar sur les rivages du río Plata, a Porteño could read, in the November 1938 issue of Sur, that “Wells es notoriamente digresivo; Sterne fué quizá el primer novelista que hizo de la digresión una ley. Esos dos hechos reales pero inconexos no bastan para establecer una afinidad. La digresión de Sterne es un procedimiento literario de fines humorísticos y poéticos; la de Wells, el mero desahogo inevitable de una inteligence muy ávida. Sterne (como nuestro Macedonia Fernández, como Virginia Woolf) divaga porque divagar es una diablura; Wells, porque muchas problemas lo solicitan. Los dos me parecen incomparables. (Técnicamente, Sterne es contemporáneo de Gertrude Stein, es harto más “moderno” que Wells).” [Borges, J. L. (1938). Apropos of Dolores. Letras Anglosajones. Sur, año VIII, número 50, noviembre de 1938, pp. 76–77.] How to explain the parallels in structure, theme, and style (notwithstanding the latter author’s caducus nominalis) of these two reviews of Wells’s novel? Some would invoke the various modes of plagiary and stolen ideas (PSI) such as, moving down the litigious spectrum, intentional plagiarism, sometimes involuntary (IPSI); involuntary plagiarism, sometimes intentional (IPSI); and anticipatory textual plagiary (ATP); others would bring schizomythology into play; still others, vaguer notions such as Zeitgeist und so weiter. I, however, have discovered, through the intense senimalistic practice of sinemota coordinated with the aerolexist verve with which I capture the so-called errors of antiphenomenal evidence (AE) upon which I have been building, entelechy by entelechy, my case against reality (CAR), that such author-generated spooky action at a distance (AGSAD) is no more mysterious nor blameworthy than other forms of SAD such as, at the macrocosmic scale, gravitational ontology (GO) and, at the microcosmic, infraleptonic entanglement (ILE), for all three — AGSAD, GO, ILE — are manifestations of the primordial deceit, or eosdoli, which otiose reality inflicts on all within her yazdehan realm (and her realm excludes nothing).

sinemota [AG sad = “Anatilo Glemep is sad”.] [The explanation for Author-Generated Spooky Action at a Distance (AGSAD)is coterminous with the Argument that Gravity is also Spooky Action at a Distance.] [Anastomotic grids of syllabically associated glyphs (AGSAD)]

Antiphenomenal gadroons, gallantry, galliardise, gallimaufry, gaucherie, showing apparent difference; antiphenomenal, gadabout gangrel, or gamphrel simulating altarian disparity or deception; of something apparently different

Similar to how, for instance, sans what phusisticians dub "entanglement," there would be no structure, no so-called geometry, of soit-dit "spacetime" ([http://arxiv.org/pdf/1005.3035v1.pdf], [http://arxiv.org/pdf/0905.1317v1.pdf]), Author-Generated Spooky Action at a Distance is the very structure of literature.

§ 367 | Verhy guyd
§ 368 | IV
Irena Veb née Vibra; fourth and youngest daughter of E.-B. Ervani and Vibra Bei. The original of Irma Vep, protagonist of the eponymously titled kinetoscopic tintone by Asso Toloste.
§ 369 | J
§ 370 | Idea
"Am more and more confirmed in an idea I have long held, as a matter of common sense, long before I thought of any old aphorism bearing on the subject: 'Ars est celare artem'. The whole secret of a living style and the difference between it and a dead style, lies in not having too much style — being in face a little careless, or rather seeming to be, here and there. It brings a wonderful life into the writing:
A sweet disorder in the dress. . . / A careless show-string, in whose tie / I see a wild civility, / Do more bewitch me than when art / Is too precise in every part.
Otherwise your style is like worn half-pence — all the fresh images rounded off by rubbing, and no crispness at all. ¶ It is, of course, simply a carrying into prose the knowledge I have acquired in poetry — that inexact rhymes and rhythms now and then are far more pleasing than correct ones" [F. E. Hardy, The early life of Thomas Hardy, 1840–1891. Compiled largely from contemporary notes, letters, diaries, and biographical memoranda, as well as from oral information in conversations extending over many years. London: Macmillan and Co., 1928].

"It involved an assault on the idea of men and women as autonomous individuals with rich interior lives." [T. Eagleton, Fast forward. Future fetishists and artists who don't paint: how the revolutionary aims of the avant-garde led to the 'sick joke' of postmodernism. TLS, March 25, 2011, pp. 3–4.]

"Time is, first of all, an idea — the idea that an ordered sequence can be recognized in our states of consciousness." [Aveni 1990]

"Potrei dirle che il mio libro ideale è quello che non riuscirò mai a finire." [E. Vila-Matas]

§ 371 | Agua Prieta
[Velasto Prastier’s eleven-month residency in my natal dorp seems to have coincided with my cradleboard-bound infancy. I suspect he would have heard my mother, or so many other Tixputanitas, crooning La cuna acula nuca... The inspiration, in other words, for his La Cuna.]
§ 372 | Pinc
The Poldevian Institute of Norlian Culture, located in On.
§ 373 | EIOP
§ 374 | Tent
"And across the tissue of the years in which persists the blain of my mother bathing the node of larval me, transfixed by the spasm and the tears, the lascivious gaze of the elders through a focal rent in the tent's canvas, I take my beak and my lips in hand, burrow into the shadow of the shapely scene blurred and scumbled by Lee See's daubs, and come." [§ 1, 10: Intense]

“Thou’lt not so often woo me to thy airy tent, to ponder on the gloomy rooted stakes that bind it.” [PIERRE: OR, THE AMBIGUITIES. BY HERMAN MELVILLE. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 1852.]

“I had a sense of a general, large, soft settling, as of a sheet unfurling and falling on a bed, or a tent collapsing into the cushion of its own air” [Banville, The sea].

§ 375 | Sex Logur
[Could I dub those charmed, transgressive, sector-straddling spots of Paris, such as la place Valhubert, or the rue Bleue/rue Paradis tangent (more of a segment of sine wave Fouriered and Fouriered, actually, until the only tracks left of it average out to a drably notched square function invisible to maps but not the discerning senimalist’s eye) so conducive to intense sets of café tennis with or sin les petites filles du trottoir (I’ve played up to nine) — could I dub them, sex logurs?]
§ 376 | Ows
§ 377 | Iagier
§ 378 | Manowar Gingoons
§ 379 | IX
§ 380 | LI
§ 381 | Sly excerpt
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Copyright © 2011 Michael Sean Strickland