Across The Perilous Line , Series III 1 Coil just keeps on coiling all around the glob. Mule discovers the tunnel full of delirious ghosts. The ghosts kept attempting to haunt Hammerhead. He paid it no mind but lounged all night at The Old Hotel. Liberation pertains to Black Lake. Liberation glides right by Mule. I pocket my opal. I think all the way through to Crystal-- my tunnel to it penetrates my gorge. There are ghosts in my crystal. Every being intricates her own opal. Forever to court one's melee is to iterate, celebrate, liberate-- these three.  How to define The Work: an image of crystal-- a portentous passage through a tunnel-- an odor of violets.  Habits inform in two ways. The opal opines the tunnel itself and leaves a crystal gleaming before a liberated Hammerhead oblivious to the fact he is haunted by a feeder trough of fecund ghosts. Wrench Boy "cuts coil" into finer and finer disk-like slices. A silent Jaguar stands there like a ghost: Don't See it-- Be it.  Then the garden and its ornamental opal silences melee and discovers the quiet mole and his giant Fork.  The closed Loop encloses the Gorge and its opal. This structure is not what liberates Hammerhead.  When the Fork appears, best to feint and fade toward the fuzzy tunnel, as Mule steams at whose mouth. Fade toward the Gorge with a chizzel in your left jacket pocket, another chizzel in your right or else an African Rattle.  If a coil is open, the thing can serve as the sign of a hex.  A glob with a mouth--it might just be such an image that liberates Hammerhead perpetually.  We are in The Old Hotel holding a Liberation Pot; that is, one set to liberate for one time only a small mole. Across The Perilous Line III 2 The Giant Fork was festooned with violets in a twisted loop-- a melee really. The mule stood motionless and watched it for many hours as if it had been astonished by a ghost. No more work for him. . Have you ever seen a mole stuck in its own tunnel? Moles dug a loop under The old Hotel He grew and grew but couldn't open his mouth. . Eternal life is a frozen melee. . Hammerhead has a very special mule. It works its mouth sideways as it sidles up beside The Old Hotel out back by the garden: near here you can see the Giant Mole.  Just because we're liberated doesn't mean we don't keep running round in a loop or that no melee besets us like a racket of exasperating jaguars. The moles keep digging up our gardens. Do we care? Quite.  Even now Black Lake is never obvious. And even after Hammerhead took out quiet rooms in The Old Hotel, he had no way to skry ghosts, and Moles had no way to gaze into the sky or dream of Crystal. Each one has an uncompensated deficiency. Melee can't sit still. What can't mouth do? Hold its form and shrink to a point and scurry down a mole hole.  Moles and Wrench Boy saw a giant fork stabbing a mountain. Horrible act. But was seeing that some sort of deficiency? One might doubt it. But that Mule will never fit in the tunnel dug by Moles? Well, you tell me!  Eternity's Loop commutes with Eternity's Fork.  A ghost's deficiency is life in The Old Hotel, the flourishing of whose gardens surely will never fade.  Covered by hood and black habit, a man with a fork sat at his pot having parked his mule. He conceived it was necessary to indicate a hidden tunnel by stabbing a mountain with his giant fork and by continuing to sit there shaking an African Rattle. His head was like an opal. Hammerhead's mule sidled up stared right into it and he skried a ghost.  Around and around Eternity's coil, Moles and Mule did ride and after eons of doing that devised The Old Hotel-- its magnificent deficiency-- its global inconsistency.  A glob of moles completes the gorge. Eternity might seem an old hotel but for the stamping mules, the digging of moles, the pulsating globs. Across The Perilous Line III 3 Jaguar examined the coil with minute attention. The closer he looked, the nearer he came to Black Lake. It all became like a garden. He used a jeweler's loop to see the minute segments of the loop. A mule whinnied restlessly in the back of his mind and as he allowed attention to wander thence, the segments faded. First there was but a glob, then rampant cognitive melee. And yet the mysterious sense of Black Lake's absent proximity did not abandon The Work. The sound of an African Rattle flashed across the garden. The fluttering passage of something ghost-like blurred his loop. For an instant he wondered if he might not enlist the sound of an African Rattle to assist in The Work, that his study might grow like a crystal--pristine, lucent-- and clear the glob.  The point of course was to taste liberation, and that through the intimate, intricate beats that individually comprised the African Rattle and its rapid, dense, and well-nigh continuous susurrus-- well, the sound made the garden vibrate and appear as a place extended in time. Suddenly he saw The Fork and the figure of a hooded thing-- specter or human, standing motionless beside it.  A huge mole moved beneath the garden. He sensed a tremor in the waters of Black Lake. He searched in his pouch for an opal. When one was not quite given to concentration on it, its habitual form was no more than a smoky glob. But Jaguar's mouth and jaw were both relaxed and well-set as if with zest for the work, so that pronouncing with exactitude the formulae, caused the smoky stone to show up luminous and crystalline, and where a glob had been-- the finest floral network hung there enwreathed of violets.  To pass through the tunnel--all its segments-- divides time; but ghosts are lost in time. For them the wherewithal to enter upon the work, to temper mules, to clear a glob, is unimaginable.  The Work and thus the use of The Old Hotel is the business of Jaguar. The transmutation of the Gorge is thus not ever too much for him. But still it takes an ever-finer openness to time's dividedness, its continuity, and beyond that its in-existence--It takes time as one sits in front of a bubbling pot to feel the terrestrial globe whirl on its loop and to bring the obstreperous mule to obedience and strenuous quietude.  The Work itself is a perennial loop not only committed at the mouth of a garden. To pass to opal from glob and return-- to pass through the form of Wrench Boy and come back again-- it cannot be iterated too frequently: the Coil is not a Garden, Liberation not only denouement in the image of Crystal. But The Work is like a mule; The Work engages 10,000 avatars of Hammerhead to traverse the globe in transfinite many dimensions, Melee at the roots of the garden, though the Work be of crystal, its wagon is tugged by a mule. Across The Perilous Line III 4 On the dark altar a pot and a fork. The ceremonial chamber was at the end of a tunnel. It was constructed to put one in mind of a darkly ruddy, profoundly occulted crystal, inside of which we labored. We were under Black Lake. Black Lake. It drained and filled from a loop, perpetually liberated. About each of the lake's four sides a violet garden. And Violet herself tended the outermost gate of the tunnel and as daylight began to fade she removed the ceremonial opal from a large ceremonial pouch and handed it to Crystal, who stood there also. Mules whinnied in a dark receding meadow behind the hallowed precinct. Black Lake shines like an opal. As the days fade into the mouth of the light Violet performs day's obsequies.  We waited. Crystal and Jaguar entered the chamber. "Darkness Visible" yet hallowed-- the quality of being under Black Lake. Violet entered, arms linked with Melee. The whinnies of the mules had faded. Violet smudged the precincts with the perfumes of her tinctures. We formed an image of the surface of the lake, everyone seated about it. This was to be a ceremony for the exchange of names and forms. I become you, you another, another's other me. Crystal gripped The Fork. The Fork had five tines. Whoever faced the holder of it . . . etcetera. The mule would henceforth be addressed and referred to as "Mule." He was the Inverse of Opal. Loop teemed with violets and devolved or evolved as Coil.  Existence took the form of a coil. Around it, ring after ring, a chain of violets, between whose links, ghosts received ceremonial cognizance of their being in future times and their ectoplasm glistened like crystal. Opal herself is in essence a primordial ghost slightly tinctured by violet, so long as they wound in the Coil.  In front of the dark altar and between the officiants, there rose a globe of crystal as if from an invisible mind that worked like system of tunnels This was The Old Hotel, the essential locus of The Work, the site of the oracle pot. Moles acted as sentinel together with Mule. Under the pot there was a tunnel, also impossible to witness. Small handsome females like sexual zealots of several metaphysical species attended the oracle pot; they were garbed with hoods and habits. The energy from their quiet erotic congress with each other and with invisible consorts exuded an odor of violets that rose through the existential loop.  Hammerhead welcomed the recently liberated and faded toward The Mouth. Then The Mouth itself faded in a puff of violet odor and color. There was peristalsis throbbing through the coil.  Black Lake reabsorbed the various manifestations of Violet. Gorge was a storehouse for ten-thousand avatars of Mule. Pot was a name for Opal. Wrench Boy was General Witness. A fist full of violets was ticket to the proceedings. When you went out they gave you a cup full of tumbled opals and a looped ribbon as token and a postcard picture of Black Lake. Then they shook the African Rattle. Mule turned into an opal, and you had the distinct impression that Violet shriveled. Interval "Jaguar's Relapse" (so-called) or "Bartleby's Avatar" He sat at the bottom of a huge pot observing his own minutest impulses-- to rub his ear, to scratch a spot--there on the side of his fork-- that the impulse preceded the act and that he might demur if he so chose to. But to think--and just this thought-- what thought was that? Already caught in the act before the act of slapping the ground with his pliant tail. These inaugurations--initiations-- of small performances came without imperative like bubbles or rippulets across Black Lake so close to the Mothering Dark-- so different from the bossy admonitions with which he generally composed events in the course of his existence-- his prowlings and auto-animadversions, his interminable ratiocinations, his projects, his lectures to the other confederates of the Loop. For the time being, he thought just to think, "I prefer not. O Bartleby, O humanity." He allowed a subtle smile to tweedle his whiskers and returned to his contemplation, almost at one with the bottom of the pot, almost absorbed in Black Lake. Across The Perilous Line III 5 Will Wrench Boy cop an attitude toward this latest escapade of Jaguar? Cognitive melee. He too prefers not to open his mouth. He too seemed squeezed in an existential tunnel. Tunnel to what? Black Lake, possibly. An attempt to discommode Existence. If existence were the coils of circumstance, even if, in an eternal prospect, actually crystal, liberation through it requiring an old hotel and the capacity to keep one's mouth shut; still, such circumstance were no loop merely, but criss-crossing tunnels under The Old Hotel. If you are trapped wandering, questing, searching in there, liberation means just to get out and shake your African Rattle, get out of the pulsating coil.  It matters little if you prefer it or not; auto-animadversion may well be required to pump you through the tunnel-- existence is no garden but a constricting coil-- a coil compelled by your habit to coil up in inhospitable morphologies. Crystal was breathless. Her light withdrew into the tiny chambers under her facets. She thought, "I'll stick a fork into the ground and trap the tight constriction of a mind that has compelled its own deep melee into the self-evolving writhing of a long coil. Violet! Do you hear this? Existence is a Coil! It introverted sweet Melee. If she sets flames to her crazy red headdress and makes her freckles dance, will that get her out of it--if she EXISTS?"  "Nah," said Violet, "Melee doesn't 'exist.' The coil is just the nemesis of Jaguar. He's sick of work in The Old Hotel, keeping accounts, constricted into a tiny booth as concierge and bursar. The coil itself is a tunnel in and from and toward existential predicaments generally. And anyway, it takes a maze of tiny tunnels to undergird a garden; and loops themselves are transverse segments of worm coils: they coil--it is their habit-- between the tines of the gardener's fork. Existence itself is nothing like that-- take it from me-- I've been there."  But a riverine flux of startled ghosts suddenly flowed out of the worm's mouth and Melee woke up from her opal.  Violet grew thoughtful and multiplied her racemes in the windows of The Old Hotel. Now she was in a loop and all she could think of was to make it to Hammerhead, for whom the existence of such specters was impossible.  Mule knew all about recalcitrant preference. No coil'd catch him. Let everyone else panic to the point of abject melee. He'd bide his gorge.  Glob was never given to preference. His mouth at times absorbed, at time disgorged, Melee and everything else. What did it matter to him if Existence were river, plain, or coil. He thought, "Sooner or later it all fades away around an endless loop, but I know this: Existence itself is indeed a tunnel to Black Lake."