Money Has An Enemy 1.3 : Wrench Boy's Story In my bank "infinity" spells "infirmity." I am Wrench Boy. My uncle is Hammerhead. Things are a bit precarious, tending toward melee. I found a special crystal outside of town. It wasn't just a handsome rock. This crystal seemed to harbor an infinite interior. I showed it to my sister we call Wrench Girl. She also saw Infinity. We two, together are both called Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl. We have this song: "I am just a little boy, I am just a little girl, and when our fingers touch, it is not only we who disappear." I better stop talking now. Next stop: The Bank. Here comes Hammerhead.  The light inside the crystal, if you watch it, becomes The Old Hotel, which shimmers like a crystal. If I don't stop talking soon I'll see The Bellows. All along the road are patches of violets.  We are limited in our vocabulary. We don't have "aberration." We don't know "infirmity." When we work our wrench a certain way, we meet the Jaguar. It is he that calls us "Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl." He introduces us to Violet. She lives on a rock.  We like the number Zero. Crystal! Crystal! Shake your Rattle! Initiate Transport, Crystal! Or else we'll have to jump into a Red Book.  Blow the bugle. Put a charge in Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl.  Now Long River is running hard. Transport makes us fly a running course above it. It makes a sound just like an African Rattle. Jaguar runs with us also. I think it is his mind that makes us Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl.  I am just a little boy. I am just a little girl. And when we make our fingers touch, it is not only we who disappear.  Return to embryo. That's the aberration. A crack in the rock-- a quivering light through crystal. High on the hill The Old hotel--The Old Hotel where Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl dwell. A crystal tale in a Red Book.  Now The Bellows shows. Within and without Red Book. No one knows where Crystal is until all time returns to a Black Box. I am just a little boy. I am just a little girl. And when we make our fingers touch. . .  In Deep Deep Storage we sit transported, "Aberration" is not yet in our vocabulary. I am Wrench Boy, Wrench Girl too. ABC XYZ  Aberration is our Infinity. Conflagration-- no aberration. Infinity no aberrancy. Hello, Violet. Where is Hammerhead? No need for rain gear. Hammerhead wields the tongs. Money Has An Enemy 1.3B : A Note on Theory They keep their secrets tied up with The Bank. Intelligence is beset with infirmities. Complexity drives on to infinity. Wrench-Boy Girl is instructed but her drive for knowledge is not sated. Hammerhead insists on solutions to the most abstruse equations and thinks that without theory-proper the mind reverts to melee. Crystalline intelligence can be considered from various perspectives. Consider the analysis of rock. It reduces to a rather dull and uninspiring species of crystal. The theory of infinity fascinates Wrench-Girl Boy. Infinity overwhelms Wrench-Boy Girl. (Or is it the other way on?) It has apparently little to do with The Bank and, to Hammerhead, is inconsequential.  Vocabulary is subject to aberration, even for him who is not subject to intellectual infirmity. And yet the Jaguar made himself known to Wrench Boy and Violet appeared on her rock.  It is not nothing to contemplate Zero and the recondite theory of crystal, and to boogey all night to the susurrant pulse of an African Rattle, or to combine all these and compel the induction of Transport. There is a dream, attention fixed on crystal, seemingly otherwise than theoretical. There is the work of writing in Red Book.  In the Dream--a bugle and a small bronze African statue of a boy or a girl holding a large wrench.  Long River allows itself to be provisionally abandoned to theory. Theoretical transport remains theoretical only. Theory people do not turn a deaf ear to the sounds of an African Rattle. We do not theorize Jaguar, except, perhaps, in some cases, and then rather disingenuously. Wrench-Boy-Girl hesitates typically but in the end with some reservations is able to perform theoretically.  Violet offers up an altogether singular instance. She is in essence oblivious to theory. Contrast Melee. Though quixotic beyond determination, she takes an active interest in how one arrives at her condition. Wrench Boy studies it all including all that theory adumbrates but never can encompass. Infirmity seeks remedy, Aberration--denial; and that includes of course the subdolous deployment of the theoretical. Our entire discourse cannot make anything of tongs, and this does not escape the intelligence of Wrench Boy.  Experience: sudden transport to The Old Hotel. In one of its occult chambers a Vision of Being in Embryo. Pervading the entire event the lucidity of Crystal, and yet not without intimation of incipient conflagration.  When the thing is done, have it again in writing in Red Book. Wrench Girl presents this to Wrench Boy. They are amazed to behold their own embryo. They take an afternoon walk in the shade along Long River and talk about each other's unqualified infirmity. Infirmity for them is still a Black Box.  The mystery, in theory, is this: Just one embryo for Wrench Boy and for Wrench Girl. This presents no difficulty for Crystal.  Portent of Conflagration. Portents and their inversions: a subject for Red Book. But Wrench Boy aka Wrench Girl still must integrate their embryo.  A task along Long River: It runs straight through its own infirmity, it brings infirmity to life; returns all manner of things to One Black Box.  The Theory of Deep Storage is theory indeed. It places transport in Proximity to Aberration and arranges to resolve the matter in ceremonial rain gear. Infirmity follows its course. Rx: Tincture of Violet. Is theory in such a case itself aberration? A crack in the Measure: The Vision of Bellows. Money Has An Enemy 2.3 : Theory Master Jaguar If Jaguar were Supreme Theorist, infinity would be his bailiwick and that fact alone would allow him to exceed The Bank. Consider him then, to begin, Supreme Theorist In Embryo. But take along rain gear. African Rattle were his most pertinent implement-- that and two sets of tongs, one blue, the other otherwise. All this most decorously committed to Red Book. Even the tongs. Was The Bank in a state of consternation? Hardly. All but metaphoric, fiduciary embryos meant nothing to The Bank. The proliferation of embryos-- the multiplications of lines extending from points of time was everything to Master Theorist Jaguar. The Master Theorist had something better to do than seek a Master Theory. But just in case, he also invented rain gear. Supreme theorist that he was, he required, and indeed had access to, an astonishingly rich ontology. First, on the docket, he had a free hand with Deep Storage. Besides the proliferation of embryos, he knew, beyond the world, the suck-swoosh-blow capacity of supra-cosmic bellows. They blew into apparency any world whatsoever and sucked it back again according to logical convenience, material contingency, or some rule of cyclicity otherwise unobservable. He himself wore on his brow a diadem of crystal. Thus he controlled the whole continuum-- infinity within the gem, infinity without and with a cosmic attitude. And all of this commuted freely with Holy Zero.  Hammerhead had no root in any embryo. Deep Storage intrigued him, but certainly not its infinity.  Every cosmic theory keeps an eye on Melee. Strictly speaking Bank does not have a theory. Wrench-Boy-Girl-Boy soon, as it were, were theory out of school and smiled at Melee. Such thought as Bank commands quickly manages every suspicion of Melee except its own. It thinks itself a rock and counts on rain gear.  The Old Hotel takes variable place in our ontologic heterarchy: violets in every window; Melee rule The Lounge; Long River That Flows Both Ways disgorged from the magic mouths below its porches. Magic of Zero Magic of Black Box A closet equipped with ceremonial rain gear.  You may have judged it from the vocabulary exacted here. I am Jaguar and work the tongs despite my predilection for theoretical elaboration. The theory the Bank has, actually, my tongs scratched up with a view towards ultimate, or rather, intra-epochal conflagration. I am by no means fixated on my own embryo, though I do work matters out in my red book.  Aberration is ineliminable from theory, and The Necessary Bellows blows and sucks and Conflagration lurks in every embryo waiting to be fanned by some contingent bellows.  There is, of course, a general theory of Embryo that allows it the Door for Transport, because in the concourse of existence it is the gate, first station passed Zero, first inclination toward ontological cloaking, no ordinary rain gear. Vocabulary seems curled up inside-- a principled aggregation that nevertheless tends toward Melee and cannot quite be reconciled with Bellows. But do know this: Actual Infinity springs from Vocabulary, yet the latter is nothing if not but potentially so. When I need a break I prowl about, leap into Red Book, and sate myself on a bed of violets. I sink into Deep Storage. Then once again in embryo I am Jaguar. The Master Supreme of the Theoretical and not only in embryo. Money Has An Enemy 3.3 : Under a Cloud and Into The Forge Can Black Box be under a cloud? Consider The Bank. It queers its own intelligence. The principle officers dismiss the jaguars posted as its sentinels. Black smoke bellows so broadly that innocent entities from everywhere blow a bugle of alarm. Omens of conflagration are reported over the plain . . . Hammerhead makes crackling noises that project grim glee. Deep Storage recoils within its darkest chamber. Hammerhead replaces Jaguar. How long till Bellows sucks back black smoke? Can Jaguar climb The Mount and wield the unwieldy Bellows? Is there a chance for supra-cosmic badinage? What goes on in Black Box now that Being itself is under a cloud? We tune the bugle.  The tongs, not magic blue, are strong and made of rusted iron and difficult to operate. Hammerhead has his hands on them but is not happy. He watches as Long River of molten iron spits forth fake African Rattles. Jaguar, his force and intelligence, has small business here.  Hammerhead, under a fiery red cloud, wants to devour Wrench Boy. He thinks that this small creature is a magical being and might somehow enhance his iron bellows. Invincible tiny black earth things work in the forge.  Long River of molten iron requires a mighty bellows-- a bellows with resonant access to supra-cosmic force approaching the infinite. Transport of this sort is the soul of conflagration. The forge and factory fabricate a hefty quota of hammerheads according to production formulae dictated by Red Book. No infirmity in the workers will be tolerated. The Bank is fully invested in Red Book's calculations. Grim Hammerhead devotes himself to the business like a father working for his sons. Tongs plink stones in the hot stream until the matter in them goes to zero, and all the force recovered is available to Hammerhead. He wishes to force a crystal as big as the world free of all aberration with iron tongs and report it to The Bank in exchange for credit. For this he must devise a deleterious vocabulary eliminating every jazzy superfluity.  Melee, eliminated beforehand by Hammerhead's invention of invertible rain gear: rain gear that puts rain inside and stifles Bugle.  Fortunately for all of us Violet need not witness this. She sits on the bank of a water river that has no iron in it with fair Crystal far from Hammerhead holding delicate small blue tongs. She sits on a rock. There is no matter in it. But Hammerhead thinks he can use The Old Hotel as a forge and struggles not to hear the distant music of a well-tuned bugle. Money Has An Enemy 4.3 : Wherein Jaguar Speaks, and So Do The Officers of The Bank All things redeemed through Zero. Jaguar at full-tilt, theoretical and magisterial. Black Box is Pure Being not just a congeries of world-views. Long River flows into itself, flows backwards, flows both ways. Vocabulary coagulates, dissolves, covers everything. Wrench Boy, Wrench Girl, wear invertible rain gear in a ceremony that concentrates The Old Hotel-- ceremonial rain gear fetched from Black Box to cover the meager specificities of beings. Long River flows forth all beings in the fullness of themselves. Zero reconciles theories through thaumaturgical operations with vocabularies.  "Theory ought not seem timeless or rock-like," continues Jaguar. "My tongs, my rain gear, my temporary accommodations with Hammerhead, the structural magic of Red Book-- even the querulous attitude toward aberration, inverted rain gear's compensation for infirmity should jibe with historically trackable variations in vocabulary. I wish I had space to deal properly with infinity, but even for Red Book it is a topic too theoretical. A shame. Consider Long River when it flows back into itself-- hardly an infirmity-- it is one way that a sense of things might be without an end. Red Book knows this very well. That it not find patience to expound it I consider an aberration. And still, as Jaguar, I have other uses for Red Book and must keep accounts for The Old Hotel."  African Rattle can speak for herself. She anticipates, depicts, and conducts ekpyrosis, that is, Conflagration. At the very sound of it Hammerhead hallucinates Long River flowing with ten-thousand hammer-heads.  Long River flows with everything whatsoever, exciting an enthusiasm for Melee. The Bank, however, has a net and extends it as a narrow but knife-sharp deployment of vocabulary over everything. It is its method for exteriorizing infirmities and enforcing the ontology of money: "Feed them to a forest full of jaguars," says its officers, "Let them wreak havoc on The Old Hotel, the hell with their feeble hopes to provoke a conflagration. We The Bank shall own The Old Hotel and put straight its motley guests and ghoulish chambers. We choose which embryos prosper, which shall be aborted to avoid such monstrosities as Wrench Boy Females, Jaguars with intellect twixt beasts and bureaucrats. That obstreperous feline actually commandeered our red account book and filled it up with so many aberrations and oddities that we ourselves once howled for Conflagration. But we ourselves are not an Old Hotel. There's no such thing as Wrench Boy-- (girl ((boy girl (((boy girl ...."  Will Deep Storage speak? It seems to us it already speaks through everything. Violet speaks through her tinctures. Conflagration is the end of speech, yet its Transport, if speechless, is nevertheless never deaf to Zero or Deep Storage.  Crystal rests beyond serenity where all Long River's moods flow passed Inversion and Hammerhead himself is crystalline and Bellows commutes with Bugle and Wrench Boy and Wrench Girl cohere to resolve infirmity, and Jaguar dreams of speech that is better than theoretical. Money Has An Enemy 5.3 : Seven Lakes of Crystal Can Aberration speak? Ask Black Box. Language sits at the lip of Zero Lake. Next step: The Seven Lakes of Crystal. America A Prophecy of Transport abuses her own embryo. Native emblem: a bugle. A matter of Stiff-necked denial and exploits of Infirmity. Bugle, then, O America the potency of Zero, court Asia, support her promise of crystal. Let Aberration bespeak strange conductance to stranger transport.  The human body would be an Old Hotel made new as a Temple to the Infinite. Secret bugle-calls open the body's seven secret lakes. Varieties of zero-- varieties of Infirmity fuss about the lakes. Jaguar lurks about Black Box, senses its infinity.  Come lets spend a week in The Old Hotel.  Hammerhead is expert in hammering out difficulties. He set up a franchise to package and distribute an infinitely marketable access to Transport-- no matter what one's infirmity-- in a shop in the lobby of The Old Hotel-- nobody's body now. The little bugle-tunes, a penny each. Melee slowly rises unsettling every lake, no secret now.  I don't feel so well. Emergency rain gear out of Black Box plucked by tongs and readied for transport.  Conflagration right about now too steep a remedy. Put the bugle back on its emblematic nail. Modulate to moderate application of bellows. The body's secret lacustrine harmonies are wise to retreat to Deep Storage. No bugle-call for that. A fine business that one's quest for the infinite had ought to be moderate.  The Bank is cognizant it isn't the only trip in town. It only wants to assert its inalienable serviceability-- All other pleasures must submit to its orders. Deep Storage must limit its store, Crystal glisten for a fair price, not grow too fond of her power to buoy up Infirmity. There is room for all in some old hotel; that is, until there isn't.  Money is no longer based on a rock. How old is your embryo? Better ask Wrench Boy. The Old Hotel has an eerie white glow-- the whole human body one white crystal.  White Crystal's body reflects the color of violets. Jaguar's white eyes flamed like crystals. Infinite light filled The Old hotel. Six hundred pages were bound in one red book. It took that many to produce the blast of a single bugle and waken Wrench Boy to his dream of an amazing crystal and that his body was an old hotel made new by seven black crystalline pools that absorbed every last one of one's being's infirmities.  His vocabulary was expanding equivocally: each item just like a crystal whose structure flashed the infinite and settled at last in a lake that was like Black Box. Long River flowed backwards then into Deep Storage until Infirmity received its own Infirmity. Money Has An Enemy 6.3: The Will To Count Melee surrounds and pervades. Zero encloses and reduces. Aberration corrects. Tongs chooses. I choose violets. Bellows disposes. Vocabulary will not be dispensed with. The context and content of an infinite universe contest with Vocabulary for the proper use of Aberration. If you develop the deployment of tongs, Aberration is an asset. Melee a scattering of violets.  Deep Storage stores entities without prejudice of size, from punctiform mentalities to rain gear that covers the heavens, the entire reference set for Vocabulary. Just blow the bugle and all space fills The Old Hotel with the sound of an African Rattle; each seed as it crashes into the wall of its pod stimulates Vocabulary. But The Bank has erupted with fiduciary instruments so abstracted, it looses the possibility of Violet.  The infinite, in embryo.  Transport must abandon its dependence upon tongs, even quality blue ones.  The White Jaguar zooms in a fiery ring around The old Hotel-- all vocabulary a blur-- exciting African Rattle to enter an embryo at rest on a bed of violets.  This text is chock full of abstraction, I know it. But not enough to specify Infinity or pull from Black Box sufficient vocabulary to render number an absolute ontology. Put on rain gear for that. Acquire an adequate tongs-set.  They'll need to write music for Bugle and determine precisely the tones and measures of an African Rattle. Even Vocabulary must submit to a count; even the spectacle of the Sun putting on rain gear; even the scope and force of Conflagration. The impulse of Bugle begins and ends with Zero. They'll particularly put number to Rock.  Wrench-Boy Girl won't have truck with number. Vocabulary attenuates too severely. Long River runs on in oblivion. They'll turn The Old Hotel into an Institution for excavating and constraining Vocabulary. This is how the continent of Europe became a bank. First the abuse of Zero. Next the suppression of African Rattle. Last, the invention of Hammerhead in bliss with his hammers: an icon of the Will To Count.  To achieve all this, however, the function of zero must divide from the character of crystal.  Red Book takes it all in good stride. The Bank comes after the measure of everything counted. Use of tongs for that. Aberration itself brought under a measure, and there is no rain gear to stop it. We all awaited the games to see if they might determine a privileged access to Bellows. Money Has An Enemy 7.3: No Ideas, but in . . . "Our impression is that Cosmology today," the lecturer continued, "is in as much disarray as it would have been if an African Rattle rattled numbers instead of seeds in its rattling pods and nature's constants were some aberration determined in the sound of it read out as random calculation." The lecturer might as well have been Hammerhead. His mind was like a rock. "So much water has flowed down Long River since coherence ruled our intelligence," he began again in a sort of intellectual transport -- dot dot dot . . . In another chamber: "The bank is hoarding the money. It is not possible to transport property readily anywhere within the system. We're only days away from fiduciary melee. Hammerhead has taken control, but no one can say what he'll do once melee comes. Hammerhead himself may play things out quite as if he were shaking an African Rattle, while representing himself as a staunch proponent of the rocklike and the stable."  The Bank itself is on the brink. Aberration, Infirmity, Melee. Time for Rain Gear.  "The Cosmos is a Black Box-- anything but a transparently ordered 'cosmos'. And yet the infirmity is ours. The line between such mythology as that a cosmic Bellows organizes history and the hope that we can quantify existence without acknowledging a theory of Infinity-- might serve the interests of Hammerhead but it does not satisfy ME." Said I; speaking to a half-attentive multitude, randomly gathered in the Red Lounge. "Intellectual exhaustion enriches Deep Storage. Each mythologem induces its own sort of transport, but keep your eye on Infinity. Contrast the mythologem of Hammerhead with that which articulates Jaguar. The orders of abstraction are not merely a matter of Vocabulary. Shake an African Rattle at The Mind. Respond to Melee. Continue to contemplate the Wrench-Boy-Girl-Boy syzygy."  Rain gear. Say it! No ideas but in the play of Absurdity. Hammerhead will not come to express the absurdity of Hammerhead. We relax a bit and allow each of our twenty-seven characters release through Zero. But try to think through the Bank the myth and theory of Infinity. Aberration is serious Business, and still the Jaguar prowls within his own mythologem. And the possibility of Transport affords a daily moment of Crystal that Hammerhead cannot find.  Violet affords sweet relief from the reaches of these complexities. Hammerhead reaches for her. Jaguar is circumspect and reticent. He does not seek relief from Aberration.  Hammerhead wants to straighten all these levels out and write them up in his Red Book. He concedes, after much frustration and denial, that a proper theory of the infinite might assist in this endeavor, but will not configure as mythology either Jaguar or himself. He does not acknowledge the category of Transport even when it transports him.  In every room in The Old hotel another lecture. One of these works out the History of Bellows. Another has the title: "Does Every Aberration Lead To Conflagration?"  Hammerhead is as likely to close down The Old Hotel as he is to build one.  Infinity is Possibility.  Every occasion is an embryo whose subsequent history may occur entirely as Transport. And Crystal is far more than a Moment, far more than compensation for Infirmity. Transport conducts us whither? To her orders. Jaguar knows this.  Blow the Bugle. Don't whimper over Infirmity. Apply the tongs. For God's sake, Apply The Tongs! Money Has An Enemy 8.3 Enough About Rocks and Rain Gear Conflagration. The city on wheels rolls into itself and the flames are not to be voided. Death of the gods. Revolution. Big Crunch. In any case, social Melee. A magical ecstasy with rattles out of Africa. Ceremonial transformations: uniforms, costumes, disguises. Clothes makes the man. Weather makes Rain Gear. What goes on in Red Book stays there. What's stays there manipulates History. Crystal exceeds crystallography but still is only a symbol of that which she portends. Happiness in and Happiness beyond Conflagration. Jaguar panther p(y)uma wild-cat pimp car haunts and prowls maintains his human avatars. Violet makes love in the rain with her secret consort to the distant rustle of African Rattles and under a delicious sort of Rain Gear. An African Rattle is a sound inside the perfect silence that prepares pure Being for every sort of Rain Gear. Cycles of Conflagration recorded in the Book, one of whose avatars is a Red one.  We are trying as is our wont to take stock. A question just like "shall we transport Rain Gear up Long River?" More frankly put: "Shall we shake a Rattle out of Africa or invest in iron Tongs to manipulate History?" Is "I" a variable whose values range over these: Zero, Infinity, Rain Gear, Jaguar, Bank? I know I am Long River; I know I've a passion for Melee; I rise like a figure in music from the incandescent rush of an African Rattle. This is not a question about "this person" but about the variable function that an "I" am.  I can give rise to Infirmity, respond to a tincture of Violet; I--a Black Box I--a sentiment up Long River. In fact when I respond to a tincture of Violet, I go into transport. I am Wrench Boy-Girl boy girl boy . . . I am set into relation by my unisex Rain Gear.  The Old Hotel has a hundred heads stuck on the ends of long necks like flames out a hundred windows. Long River is being tongue-whipped by Wrench Girl. She blows her Bugle with strange gusto and exports an alien Vocabulary. Violet has no idea what to make of it. She runs to The Bank.  I think I am Aberration-- an artifice of Red Book. There is no escape except to an excessive Infinity. The death of one god is the death of all. You, me, or any god. The expedient: Conflagration or the blind girl with a fist full of Violets.  Rain Gear. Brain gear. I got my foot caught in Deep Storage. I chunked out an old block of Vocabulary but thoughtfully garbed it in Rain Gear before chucking it all as Jaguar fodder. Jaguar retired to his haunt along Long River. I gave up on Infirmity. It was no challenge for Rain Gear.  Enough about Rocks and Rain Gear. I'm just about to jump into a Black Box. Will I turn out to be Melee? You'll have to pump the Bellows to retrieve me from Infinity. When the gods get sick of their own Conflagration, that's when they start to whine about Aberration.  Transport a whole box of Wrench Girls with nose-gays of Violets and a DVD with lessons in Vocabulary to be fed to all fresh Embryos. Transport Melee to Deep Storage. Money Has An Enemy 9.3: Breaking The System 'Long about now, everyone wishes to break out of the system. Wrench Boy has an African Rattle with which to initiate Conflagration. He can blow The Bugle and cause Deep Storage to rupture so that Tongs, picking Rocks and gazing into Black Box, can see that just those Rocks have inside them the very life of Conflagration, so he too Blows Bugle. But Conflagration, essentially, has already "broken out," so what is a Bugle to him? Wrench Boy exchanges being with his Wrench Girl consort. They touch fingers and rupture Deep Storage.  Is this wish Infirmity, then? Crystal in her most elevated avatar and Jaguar in his have no such wish. The one may be the object of Tongs, the other, at times, the subject of Infirmity. But Tongs themselves are the very means by which disruptions to the system may be effectuated. Crystal is the system itself, in one way, but also always very far beyond, outside in an ideal, conditionless condition, and in perfect Transport. Only in a lower avatar is she--not she at all, really-- to be plucked by Tongs.  Long River will flow where she wills broken only by contingency; that is, by the placement of Rocks. For Hammerhead the very idea of the system, its virtual identity with The Bank, is so entirely like Rock, that the probability of his envisioning its outside, let alone his wanting to go there, approaches Zero.  So what is this wish, and who expresses it? Certainly not Violet, her indigo shadows-- utterly liberal proliferations-- know no systematic restriction, even if one might argue that that does not reduce the system to Zero.  African Rattle. Her music when called upon. Perhaps. It conjures through a kind of mantic propensity: a lordly need for alterity. What might not appear within its white sound? What indeed. But then where are we? Outside inside inside out.  Bellows. Is this not the system itself? But with its blow-suck-swoosh is there no room to Bugle out alterity and thereby usher in transforming Conflagration?  Infinity exhausts the system and then some. Once we see this within the white quivering filaments of Crystal, we know that Zero rides her Jaguar invisible through The Bank, transmuting blank Rock to new Embryo.  Bugle plays the system throughout the Old Hotel till Tongs picks Rocks and agitates The Bank. Black Box is graciously at the service of Great Jaguar: his nature is Black Box.  But perhaps when Aberration whispers, the anxious officers of The Bank themselves grow whimsical and set up little pyramids and Crystals on tables in the vestibules and write on special banknotes ornamental symbols of Infinity. Anxiety is its own Bugle. Zero is no Crystal. Flames of Conflagration tickle the hams of Hammerhead. Go get your Big Red Book, O nervous officers; advise the public Bugle to keep the news at Zero. Pretend that African Rattle has rendered Vocabulary vicarious, and that it is but a foolish Bugle that blows its own Bugle to instigate unprofitable Melee.  O Crystal, when true Conflagration comes, and all our Rain Gear glistens like Crystal; when true Conflagration comes, O Crystal, you'll ride your Jaguar across the cosmic system out of Deep Storage. Money Has An Enemy 10.3: The House of Dreams Embryo turns in on itself and what it finds deep inside is no conflagration. Wrench-Boy-Girl-Boy in deep deep slumber uncovers the beginnings of new vocabulary. The Old Hotel is a House of Dreams. Hammerhead has no dreams. He fosters only empty embryos. Zero is a membrane between deep embryos and there where Wrench-Boy-Girl activates vocabulary. Every dream for Wrench-Boy (girl) boy projects one item of vocabulary into an Embryo which gestates in The Old Hotel.  To dream about rain gear is to enter the weather. Will nobody absorb my vocabulary? The outer world can go to zero, but I tell you, the Black Box first thought itself up on the already attenuated pages of Red Book. But that means Black Box was already controlled there, while dream life (famously) exacerbates vocabulary so wantonly, that the only remedy is the subtlest contemplation of zero.  The entire vocabulary penetrates dream. In dream, first infirmity relaxes; then it seems happy that dream too has a Red Book.  Violet's aroma becomes atmospheric; vocabulary, sub-atomic. Aberration sets hairline fractures running across each rock. You have to look it up in your red book to catch its quality. And even then, at times, its measure is Black Box. If you opine that this is an abuse of vocabulary, your score is zero.  The mind of the dreamer is not only Melee. Its jaguar can be indexed in Red Book. Its Wrench-Boy--a jack- in-a-Black-Box. Once his spring is sprung he uses tongs to delicately pick out simples from that black box that sprung him; acknowledges aberration; sets out along Long River and sets up a Trickster Shop in The Old Hotel.  There is no zero in the mind that's nothing only. But like a bellows that blows vocabulary through vocabulary, nothing's wave spawns an African Rattle out of Deep Storage. Vocabulary is capable of every Aberration-- all the way to Conflagration.  Dream's Infinity enflames Red Book and jerks around with Bank's vocabulary.  I looked into my crystal; suspended all vocabulary; acknowledged aberration; set out upon Long River; and came to a place where zero's bugle blasted through sleep itself and magic blue tongs from the dark side of dream faced in a direction more absent than zero; found a Black Box; snapped three times invoking the inverse of Aberration: all of existence seemed one rock.  Give me those bellows. I'll speed up the cycle prescribed in Red Book, from Zero through world to Black Box and back again.  My vocabulary did this to me. A state of transport. Money Has An Enemy 11.3: Across The Boulevard Take the bellows, Wrench Boy. Pump up an Embryo. Enter High Transport. Leave no infirmity uncovered by Rain Gear. Take from Deep storage the antidote to every Aberration. Evolve from Deep storage The Embryo. Transport Embryo. Transport Bellows. Restart Infirmity.  Jaguar, Hammerhead, and Wrench Boy went on a retreat up along Long River, transporting themselves in a high finicular carriage. During their passage and the confab that followed, conversation was as zero. They all shut up Vocabulary. Hammerhead asked nothing of Embryo. The exceeding intelligence of Hammerhead stayed fixed on a rock. That which was to come of this confabulation was to be and was a Black Box. Long River just kept on rolling. Deep Storage rearranged its similars. No one anticipated Melee.  The father of the boy across the boulevard owns the Bank. His sister wears her red hair in a fashionable melee. Not so easy to transport oneself across the traffic of the boulevard. Relationship thus in embryo only. In the vacant lot a pile of rocks. Stashed in the closet in the hall all sorts of rain gear. There is a small red box and in it a statue of Wrench Boy and his wrench. Mother quivers with infirmity. In a nearby neighborhood, they say there's an African Rattle. In "science" in school we learned the meaning of Black Box. The president of the class is Hammerhead. His uncle drives a jaguar. In the fog at night we develop tactics of transport. I cannot stop thinking about the girl whose head is a melee.  Time is as a zero stashed in Deep Storage. Crystal rides above us, a sweet lure for Transport. We stashed Tongs in Deep Storage and an old military bugle. Nobody goes into the basement anymore. It is a Black Box. No one knows what might be down there in Deep Storage.  Episodes of Melee. A sudden explosion of violets about the ancestral maple in the front yard. We sneak into the attic: deadly transport. The attic of the garage at the end of a ladder: another sort of Transport. The summer itself: a kind of conflagration.  Melee herself, a kind of Transport. I brought her a fist full of violets. In the little red box I possess even up till today, the statue of Wrench Boy.  Myself, a life-long infirmity. In the summer we stay in The Old Hotel. The humid odor of its lounges: another sort of Transport. The contents of existence, conjured by memory; another sort of melee. Displace the mind of memory itself to the mind of Wrench Boy. Money Has An Enemy 12.3 : The Golden Dawn Long haul, Long River, where time is forever in embryo. Now the bellows blows and the world appears a field of violets flashing at infinity. Swoosh and suck: World Night. Bugle: Taps: tranquility all across What Is. Lights out in The Old Hotel. Bellows poised twixt blow and suck. Aromas of violets spread along Long River. Then nothing. To Infinity. Worldless world without end.  The ghostly structure of Existence: World Night in The Old Hotel. An infinitesimal, almost invisible crystal-- the crystal that a somnolent intellect can feel in the absent world.  The cosmic jaguar prowls the absent world; circumambulates existence in embryo, listening for the slight susurration of an African Rattle-- pulsations attuned to invisible crystal. All things, one rock.  The world is clothed in ceremonial rain gear.  When everything is empty, the bellows is full. Interior of Black Box.  We receive from Fed Ex a package of new rain gear. The Great Change has come. Rain gear out of Deep Storage. World Day dawning. Dawn's One Crystal glistens in the east before bright dawn burst. Violet yawns and marvels: the world is nothing but sprouts of violets.  As for Hammerhead: he didn't sleep well at all. He stormed about in the dark and empty chambers of The Old Hotel trying to find his vocabulary. Not even one syllabary. Absolute Zero. The Old Hotel slept soundly dreaming of an African Rattle.  Aberration obliterated by Universal Night, begins to scrounge around for fresh employment. African Rattle jiggles its seeds and listens for signs and sounds of The World To Come. The golden dawn lights up the eastern windows of The Old Hotel. Spiders and pebbles, ragas and phonologies spew from the Bellows' nozzle. Cosmological hypotheses reformulate themselves in the face of the most recent anomalous data and vie for full-tilt cosmogonic stature replete with singularities and normalized anomalies.  Zero unsays itself. Does anybody have some rain gear? Transcendental Crystal doesn't change. But a few anomalous persons in recycled rain gear catch an innocent glimpse of her through all this exuberant burgeoning.  It would be a good time to start designing rain gear. Aberrant species rattle about trying to find their niches. Everything feels like its analysis goes to infinity.  Deep Storage experiences light from above and--in its corridors, stacks, and cellars-- shadows form. Ten thousand crystals shimmer in nooks and niches. Lights go on in The Old Hotel, one room here, there another; soon in the kitchens and lounges. Someone opens to page roman numeral iii in his own Red Book. Cold tongs hang from iron hooks in the dawn light. Thumps and rumblings coming from basement three must be stirrings in Deep Storage. Such is The World In Embryo. The Bank: Only ghosts of deposits from accounts gone by.  The whole tableau brings promise of Transport. A colonnade of Giant Rattles, spic and span, at the front of the generous porches. They start to shake and sound laved by photons of Dawn Light. Universal Ebullience in Embryo. Long River just keeps on rolling from the old cosmological epoch to the new one. Infirmity obliterated by Universal Night suffers ominous possibilities as intra-cosmic darkness comes to its terminus. The Old Hotel is the Form for an instant only of Universal Mind. Only Wrench Boy knows this. Money Has An Enemy 13.3: A My-Song To Crystal O Crystal, no bellows blows beyond you, Long River shimmers beneath you, though you are but a rock. Bank has no access to your order. Consider: a Universal Vocabulary. For every infirmity, shake an African Rattle. Infirmity washes away, down Long River's mighty streams. Rocks do not block it: Long River grows multitudinous divided by mighty rocks. But you, O Crystal, remain where no division of language or bank can abuse you.  It would seem that in your light all things are, by being things, only aberrations. Long River runs after the noise of some flamboyant bugle. But Zero unfascinates rock, releases so rich a conflagration that African Rattles tall on their porches make flame of Infirmity; and the tongs of Zero's industry causes Bellows to blow for you. Deep Storage releases your light that all beings shake their rattles on The Old Hotel's generous porches.  Aberration is celebration. Tongs plucks gems in black Aberration's despite. Conflagration configures The Bank.  Must I go on in this manner? It seems that I must. Embryo seizes the bellows. Conflagration would ravage Deep Storage. Universal Vocabulary travels its capacity o'er rock and flame and high water, as if all things ever bespoken might be divined from the sounds of an African Rattle.  I myself am thrashing about in a Black Box. It is my infirmity, my perennial affinity with Melee, though we are far from each other now . . . my eponymous association with stone, though I am no rock . . . my abstract sympathy with Distant Conflagration . . . Must I go on in this manner?  I must but I won't. I'll keep my own Red Box.  Give me that bugle. . . . . . And with my other hand I'll jiggle African Rattle and call back Old Melee from afar, and once again shout "the hell with infirmity . . ." go for a cruise down Long River arm-in-arm with red-haired Melee.  May Violet be my side-track-- (put that up in there a few lines back-- I'll do it with verse-writer tongs) confession be my infirmity . . .  Stop short here. Even backwards forever. Measure time by so many lined-up rocks, one to-be- or having-been kicked off per instant till Conflagration Come. That guy, Bellows, can't control this. It's raining. Lets take a room in some Old Hotel (too wet to sleep in a tent) quivering with irrelevant history: History--Infirmity; History--Long River. What this story needs is Hammerhead. No. What this story needs is Wrench Boy. A jinx on all aberration. I might just start talking in tongs. Consciousness: poof! Set to Zero. Poof! I stop kicking rocks. Or you do. Conflagration take a back seat? Bebopadoowah. You Bugle. Nothing ill can be uttered about Long River. Transport impossible in rain gear. Zeebopazowee, My Bugle. Nothing derisive 'bout Long River. What this world needs now is more jaguars. Money Has An Enemy 14.3: Talking in Tongs Tongs said: "To use me as such something has to be hot. Cold tongs are nothing but impossibly gigantic--tweezers." "Lets reinvent the universe," yawned Long River. "I see why you're so bored, dear," said Crystal, "It's already been done--In Red Book." "They say animals don't talk," said Jaguar, "But I talk, and I've been dwelling for epochs in a state of absolute transport." "The universe isn't everything," opined Infinity. "Can conflagration at the start or the close cover The Infinite?" Crystal offered, "Red book has the structure of an N-dimensional crystal. N is as big as you please. Red Book knows all about Tongs and also Tweezers. Its pages fly by like jaguars."  All grew silent and listened. They thought they heard the song of a distant African Rattle: an intricate white rustling surrounded by zeros. Red Book whispered, "Everyone come here and look in this Red Book." It instantly took the shape of a big bank ledger with hundreds of columns and rows and hundreds of Red Book ciphers. "If you look too long at such pages," said Wrench Boy, you'll think you see the seeds of Conflagration. I know I do. "  Hammerhead was everywhere. He could find at a glance the exact course of Long River-- from Long River's sources-- fiduciary and geographical-- to where she would run off beyond horizon. He could find the local cost of every sort of rain gear.  Red Book is Black Box inverted-- its infinite contents, exposed. There's one on the night table in every room of The Old Hotel.  The sound of the African Rattle was growing wider, if not quite louder. The bellows controlled its scope and opened, at long last, a somewhat juvenile debate about Infinity. "I can pull a world full of violets right out of Red Book's indices. I have no need for everything. When Conflagration comes I fan it up, then blow it out, from Embryo through Melee, to the embers of a spent Vocabulary. The sounds of the African Rattle are contoured to this pattern. I am quite content with this Red Book."  Deep Storage was a large, morose person, an unkempt person, with peculiar wafting varieties of odors and aromas that emanated from the very center of his being according to the operations of his attention deep within. He had no interest in the information of Red Book. If some smelled Infirmity, others marveled at Infinity. But all he had to do was turn his attention that way, and African Rattle's ebullience obliterated everyone's obsession with Red Book.  Bugle intervened to prevent a melee. Aberration was furtively insinuating itself everywhere. Red Book looked about anxiously for Crystal. Vocabulary closed ranks with Hammerhead, securing the columns of Red Book.  Everyone was picking up rocks or looking for big ones to sit on. Red Book opened up to blank pages. Only Wrench Boy saw this. African Rattle shook louder. Vocabulary grew broader and from its novel entries Aberration developed exculpatory ideologies. Red Book became uncertain about its commitment to Hammerhead. Jaguar reinvented The World in the form of a jaguar. Money Has An Enemy 15.3: Hammerhead's Emprise Hammerhead owns crystal mines all across Africa and Asia. He manufactures tongs of all materials and sizes. He has and keeps trade secrets. He acquires and tends Deep Storage. As far as the world is concerned, he runs his business like a Black Box. Code name for the entire operation: "Indigo and Violet." Public face of his enterprise: The Federal Bank. Not possible to integrate Wrench Boy with this conspectus. Hammerhead's personal pair of tongs-- attached to his person at all times. This instrument has an archetype in Deep Storage. Tongs and all other manufactured articles have such models there. Deep Storage, however, far exceeds the functions it performs for Hammerhead. In this way, it too is like Black Box.  Contrariwise, he runs the Bank for himself alone, in spite of its public office, as if to mend infirmities. Its mysteries expand and contract according to the rhythms of a bellows. But if African Rattle has anything to do with it, providing random interventions, disrupting cyclic patternings, there is no genuine transport, no cultivation of embryo succeeded by sudden ecstasy. Deep Storage withholds such ecstasy, requiring Wrench Boy for that.  The deep industrial storage Hammerhead makes use of has no recourse to Infinity, though the space available is unlimited. There is, of course, plans to industrialize embryos. No need of Black Box for that. There is an archetype for Crystal not found in mines.  The metaphysical complex involving Long River as Deep Time, Deep Storage as the Country of Archetypes, and Rich Embryo as Being's inceptive fulguration is dissonant except as represented reductively in Red Book. You cannot manufacture Crystal even if you can. You cannot jump-start Embryo even in a bottle in a lab. Hammerhead ignores or denies this.  There may be an archetype for Vocabulary, a lexicon of primitives, a method for developing speech from the susurrations of an African Rattle. This drives wily codger Hammerhead up a tree-- and not the kind from whose upper branches one might contemplate Long River.  Infirmity seeks Crystal. The Old Hotel is built on a rock, beneath which Deep Storage grows deeper still with every moment's vital embryo.  Melee waits beyond the major centers of enterprise expecting transport when Conflagration comes. It comes to The Bank soon enough. A line of workers one hundred thousand long toting huge boxes of rain gear.  Where such aberrancy abounds, Crystal removes herself and seeks a new embryo. Bugle retires to Deep Storage. Embryo makes inquiries requesting protection by Wrench Boy.  Infinity has no need for a general strategy. N-Dimensional Crystal and metaphysical zero ransack Deep Storage for material by which to reinvigorate a somewhat somnolent Wrench Boy.  Jaguar thinks about how to dump Money into Deep Storage. "But what if Thought is Money," worries Embryo. "But what if Money is Me," worries Crystal. Money Has An Enemy 16.3 : Professor Jaguar and Sensei-san Infinity, 1 "It doesn't much matter how many suits of rain gear with tongs in your pockets you carry as you study Calabi-Yau geometries, and wait anxiously for evidence of Higgs' boson," said Hammerhead. "If you think that your body is an avatar of The Old Hotel, your intellect strikes me as strictly Zero." That's our rock-head speaking. Contrariwise, professor Jaguar: "The embryo of a jaguar comprises infinitesimal entities that might as well be hammerheads. Each body is an Old Hotel if it is a 'my-body.' Hammerhead cannot intuit this. The Old Hotel supplies many things besides ceremonial rain gear, though it furnishes also this. Most cogently it generates an enormous quota of amulets whose efficacious qualities look like zeros." He paused. "Now let me introduce Sensei-san Infinity," Jaguar gasho-ed profoundly. "There is no limit to the topics he bugles. Therefore I give you--Infinity." "Good evening, fellow figments. I first must speak of The Bank. I am being remunerated for discussion, by a fist full of violets, which, so far from seeming to me an unjust remuneration, induces me to take its zero as topic to introduce my own eponymous subject, namely, Infinity. What? No plaudits? I expected conflagration. "No matter. What I must do to say what I must say may seem a Long River and inspire a conflagration of quite another character! I am happy with the supposition that every my-body is The Old Hotel and propagates existences as merrily-- quite out of embryo-- as my associate, the Trickster, Wrench Boy." "Excuse me, Sensei-San." It was Crystal, a little bit vexed, or perhaps the speaker was a studious avatar of the same. She was confused about bellows and tongs and couldn't contain her earnestness of inquiry. "I am Crystal. My spirit is as fleet as a jaguar. I have studied you repeatedly in Red Book under the tutelage of Jaguar, this professor here. I am myself the spirit that releases the Trickster in Wrench Boy. My body is The Old Hotel. In every moment I mother many embryos. But Bellows and Tongs appear to intervene everywhere and occlude our awareness of Infinity's ubiquity. They render our vocabulary infirm as if our words were merely plucked by tongs. I honor your fist full of violets, dear Sensei-san, but think that that Hammerhead had better be dumped in Deep Storage-- no offense to the latter-- better that we all be be-sprinkled with N-dimensional violets than be blown about by the Great Cosmic Pattern of Bellows. I'd rather smother my twinkling in a grim gray suit of blear rain gear." Before our Sensei found the moment to respond, a red-haired filly with an African rattle filled up The Old Hotel with her own phonogogical expostulation and it felt like a grand aberration was about to rattle apart the lounge in The Old Hotel if not the whole of it and bring the entire confabulation to terminal infirmity. Her name, of course, was Melee. She had popped in the midst of the more or less decorous proceedings right out of Black Box . . . But there seemed to be a certain nervous anticipation of Transport that, even the quiet ministrations of Jaguar-- his adherence to procedures in Red Book-- could not prevent from heading towards Conflagration. Jaguar instantly multiplied his avatars and caused, behind the events, a pumping of Bellows. Money Has An Enemy 17.3: Sensei-san, 2 Nobody noticed his secret manipulation, but a bugle blasted and Hammerhead distributed rain gear and a sense of infirmity pervaded the lounge-- Aberration was generally acknowledged. The political climate shifted precipitately towards obedience to the canons of order listed in Red Book. Black Box fell under a certain interpretation such that Bellows looked like it covered sensibly enough the mysterious operations internal to Black Box-- They all were willing to don the distributed rain gear. Infirmity's symptomatology vanished. Rain gear did that. Infirmity, transmuted, silenced the bugle; though some in silence considered the entire episode aberration.  Conditions were ripe for assumption of sovereignty by The Bank. Hammerhead had positioned himself ideally to take advantage of the latest conflagration, Infirmity, his bailywick, though deep below Old River kept on rolling. Infirmity would not silence Infinity forever.  Divided in spirit, the avatars of Jaguar trended towards opposition. Vocabulary itself fell under a kind of random scramble. Some items recurred to Black Box and no one knew what they were saying. Others were under the vicious, officious, hammers and thumbs of The Bank. Transport was possible only covered by a desperate secrecy. Jaguar regretted his concordat with Hammerhead. Melee retired to the side lines. Her red hair colored the sundown.  Sensei-san Infinity resumed. "Case in point: Infirmity. The pumping of Bellows, the plucking of Tongs behind the Visible manipulates history quite generally. The appearance of Infirmity unmans the willing. Long River keeps on rolling. It is a capital mistake to interpret Black Box. We must take every fresh moment as Embryo. Have patience with Infirmity, not dispute or transmute it."  Crystal stood up in the lounge and blew a kiss toward Wrench Boy. He smiled and sat down on a rock. Life was alive in embryo. Dissolve Infirmity.  The my-body is The Old Hotel. Hammerhead will not intuit this. You can see Long River directly and also reflected in the picture windows engulfing the lounge. In every window a raceme of violets, their colors in water and window multiply reflected. . The my-body inflected with picture windows opens onto Black Box and its inner worlds of Deep Storage. In every cubicle and chamber an avatar of Wrench Boy. Being itself uninterpreted except as Black Box. Long River keeps on rolling. Deep in my body a chorus of African Rattles, susurration waxing, interpreted as Melee or received as N-dimensional Zeros. Life itself, its own infirmity. Its course of unfoldment follows Long River. Hammerhead will not intuit this. Money Has An Enemy 18.3: Sensei-san Speaks, 3 An enormous blackboard on which Vocabulary--the complete lexicon-- from every language, actual and possible, is given. This in no way demurs from a closet full of parti-colored rain gear and, in an analogous fashion, a functionally catatonic bugle blower, namely myself in the mode of Sensei-san, also analogically, moonlighting as an expert on Infinity. All this under the solicitous supervision of red-haired Melee. I put my intellect in Deep storage and started to contemplate large ceramic zeros arranged in a curious pattern on the lawn along Long River. Among the zeros--a bugle ten feet tall.  Sensei-san Infinity faced the blackboard, blew the bugle, and continued: "I have not yet commenced with my subject. We introduce requisite vocabulary. First item: Melee. Everything I say must be cleared by Black Box, whether it pertain to rapturous states of transport or the modification of every item that appears as in existence by its intersection with large ceramic zeros in abstracto. I once was hamstrung by jaguars. Please don't broadcast that. My eponymous theory in its outcome must effectuate an inundation by violets, so I have essential use of such beasts for us here in this place, (Black Box willing). In the end we will all dance in parti-colored rain gear in the midst of inundation and what have you. I can perhaps speak more transparently of Zero. Zero resounds with Crystal at every formal vertex. No, I shan't be inhibited by the Bank. That aspect of the matter is being taken care of. Much ink has been spilled over the theory of the continuum, but not regarding how it pertains to the proposition absent throughout academe: "In spite of everything, Money Has An Enemy." You'll not find this writ in Red Book unless in cipher. I am not a bugle whatever my infirmities. Here's a dilemma for you: Red Book is: A. Money B. Its Enemy C. Your choice. Here's another: What is the difference twixt A Bugle and a Red Book? Answer: A Pair of Cosmic Bellows."  Solicitous Melee's hair caught fire. She said: "I am already talking, can't you tell?  Consult Black Box. It is like an embryo. Sudden explosion in The Mind: Old Hotel appears in a moment of transport. Sensei-san Infinity continues: "Is The Undifferentiated Continuum like a Black Box? Perhaps. Certainly if one is garbed in the appropriate ceremonial rain gear. Certainly if one quivers madly and happily shaking an African Rattle under some tree. But under a regime manipulated by great iron tongs or the tyranny of fully-maturated industrial embryos? Put it in Red Book. In the agile hands and quick-silver intelligence of Wrench Boy, Infinity runs all the way to absolute crystal. Look at it this way: There goes Long River! Or rather: Apply to every item of Vocabulary the Zero Function: take it to Zero. Every gaudy thralldom that a verbal item offers resolves to naught. Happy bugle blow for that? Call it liberation? Chalk it up--somewhere--but not in Red Book! Where Hammerhead holds a problem, every solution looks like a nail. Each word: thralldom in embryo. Problem: transport it to Zero. Not necessarily by means of a bellows. Infinity's the function. It guaranties solution. No need for the bank. Conflagration beggars resolution. Deep Storage might provide some historical perspective, but if enthralledness is acute and the circumstances singular neither this nor Red Book furthers. Unless, that is, a jaguar leaps out of Deep Storage. He might look like some wild aberration (I myself thought this) but truly he is news from Infinity. Similarly, Crystal ever abides to animate thralldom so spiffily, you'll never have recourse to rain gear." Money Has An Enemy 19.3: All Power to The Grand Aberration They transported me on the sound of a bugle to the Country of Vocabulary, but my journey was aborted by the Bank. Shake my African Rattle as well I could, take out a room in The Old Hotel as I might, the aberration in my crystal proved to be an aberration in vocabulary and the Bank had bought vocabulary; therefore, the Bank held sovereignty over Transport-- no jurisdiction at all for African Rattle.  The situation itself, dammit, was an aberration. It was, for instance, actually forbidden to speak about Infinity, poor fellow. That's why that queer old Sensei seemed like some cracked salesman of laundry tongs. What they call "Deep Storage" was a big bin in the form of a black box in which they tossed your belongings after making you think it aberration to possess any vocabulary at all! And a doctor, whose actual name was Tongs (talk about aberration) referred to Long River as if Long River was where they sent you, belly up and sprouting violets, once they'd stripped you bare and you'd nothing left in the Bank.  Once I knew an embryo who blew a bugle with tunes so bracing and eremitical, if life to her were but a Black Box, you'd never know it; if an aberration, she'd never show it. But it truly was Life Degree Zero: the Bellows was full and everything springing up violets. In the mind of the jaundiced it was an aberration. The constabulary, one day, came clopping in on their fat mules wielding tongs and plopped her in the bin as if she were raving and waving African Rattles.  I stood upon a rock proclaiming Vocabulary just like she was a bugle. Along came Wrench Boy at last. He'd just invented Red Book in which every aberration found its page, Bellows a fresh vocabulary, and Jaguar could leap from Deep Storage to his savage heart's content. He himself had a certain air about him as if his very being were Black Box and his bank were full of jaguars.  Suddenly Hammerhead popped up solemnly comporting himself as Keeper of The Bellows, out of whose nozzle emerged a flag with the slogan: "You can bank on The Bank" and then a steep hillside appeared at the bottom of which a rushing torrent and a hand came out of a bush and started zapping violets and plucking them moribund one by one with fiery tongs.  Sweet red-haired Melee now came skipping along on her short stubby legs with a flag that said: "All Power to Aberration." She wore rain gear the color of rain gear that she'd fetched from Deep Storage, and now she was working as Gadget Girl extracting fresh vocabulary each time she encountered Infirmity.  The brick bank was proof against Conflagration. Long River was brown and grim. Dr. Tongs took a dim view of all aberration but his own. His surgery was a black hat box set up along Long River next to the Bank. He had one primary object in his practice: to make the whole world safe from jaguars. Money Has An Enemy 20.3: Analysis of Transport Violet to begin with is in denial about Vocabulary. To speak at all (for her) is a species of Transport. When she addresses Jaguar he grins and concurs. They both take Conflagration in stride. What infirmity follows, what Melee-- let them that squeeze the tongs trouble themselves about it. Does Melee herself share this attitude toward Transport? When she speaks to Jaguar, he grins sympathetically and growls. "Transport," apparently, requires a more perspicuous analysis. Perhaps Jaguar and Violet should peremptorily be taken out of the investigation. Await Conflagration.  Bugling is a limited, if an articulate species of discourse, of little interest to Jaguar. Hammerhead's philological comprehension turns in another direction than Jaguar's, and, as we are perfectly cognizant, has no sympathy at all with Violet's "thimble-headed heresies." Bugle himself admires his own limitations; has chosen, from the beginning, relevance and power, even a kind of brilliance, over comprehensiveness of reference or any degree of subtlety. Except at eventide, when, as he poetically has it, "God is Nigh."  Crystal brings all of being to her epiphanies, even her moment-by-moment unremarked-upon sparklings, her events within vocabulary. Her proximity in structure to, and remoteness in spirit from Hammerhead, will one day come to a head in some assembly room in The Old Hotel.  Rock does not speak (though Stone does) while African Rattle is at ease with whatever expressive capacities.  Aberration broke in and addressed me: "I close my eyes and feel Long River heal me." "How." "Infinity laves me through her ancient waters. I am a rock that enhances her, dividing her. The Old Hotel welcomes me and fosters my feral form of Transport. I am Infinity."  "Even I can speak," said Dr. Tongs. "And not only about rain gear. I move long rivers. I confound jaguars by hypnosis. Jaguars and African Rattles, but particularly jaguars."  Every analysis divides by Zero. How and why? To amplify vocabularies. This is a method of Transport unknown to The Bank. Vocabulary covers analysis as it is stimulated by it and obviates the reduction to Long River of Transport's trivial availabilities. No need for Black Box.  Try this: Violet's vocabulary is a bellows to Jaguar. If Aberration is a Rock, Melee divides by Zero. On some pages of Red Book, that's an aberration. On some it's Vocabulary. Wrench Boy knows that.  In Deep Storage, even Melee's an Embryo. Money Has An Enemy 21.3: The Days of The Dead This is The Day of The Dead. History breaks in on The Rock of Time--that transport: Violets are strewn on the path between existences. Death's Black Box springs open. Wrench Boy / Wrench Girl, Basileus and Basilinna, Prince of the Living and Queen of The Under-Chasm. Infinity infects the settled course of existence in celebratory, cacophonic ecstasy. African Rattle springs loose out of Ancient Lybia. All human being sprung out of ancient Lybia. Hammerhead, enthroned in the night, invisible, hidden, shakes the biggest African Rattle yet, intense though in a whisper. An eerie incandescence about strewn violets. Each soul possesses and is its own Black Box, with one face sprung open in an explosion of violets. Black Box is the Zone of The Dead-- The Rock of Time exposed in an eerie incandescence. Wrench Boy faces off against  Hammerhead. They celebrate solemnities in a nocturnal exchange of vocabularies, both garbed in the Rain Gear of Night, crystal walls and shadows tinctured with violet.  The de Medici Bank Vault is transfigured. Money itself: the ghost of material substance, all actual exchanges between humans, ghosted, flame of conflagration flickering about a transport of Violet, herself enthroned on a Car. Everywhere ever-louder, the whistle of African Rattle.  Jaguar regales himself in the rain gear of the underworld. With a flex of his ornamental saber he banishes each infirmity embraces each aberration; with a flex of his Rattle out of Africa with a toss of incandescent violets-- Ceremonial Rain Gear inscribed with the language of the rattles out of Africa in ruins-- Dr. Tongs talking in tongs.  Melee, her red hair on fire laughs on top of a red box. African Rattle conjures the ghosts that inhabit his loud sussuration. Aberration, personified, flowing into and flowing from her black abbey in Deep Storage.  At every ceramic outpost on the lawn, a shining clay bugle. For every bugle, a crystal. The interior of Black Box, exposed. And what is revealed there? Black Box. Generatrix of incandescent violets.  Jaguar prowls about a Red Box. A Black Box for every embryo.  The Old Hotel: a ghost in every chamber equipped with an African Rattle with which to conjure The Living in full crescendo.  The Bank, its vast doors flung open, the house of the bankrupt now; all the money blown on the wind in crystal fragments.  Rattles planted in ceremonial lawn work long out of Africa in ruins-- Uninhabited rain gear dance in the lawn light.  For every two entities an exchange of vocabulary, a bantering, then a bartering of rain gear. Transport the rule of the season. Bellows a-pumping to keep the spirits flowing. All this allotted its pages in Red Book, kept under the foot of an invisible, invidious avatar of Hammerhead.  Infinity proclaims itself and is the possibility of incandescent violets. Long River sings the Song of Infinity. With Zero the Infinite knows a category of Transport whose Art is as crystal. Only on The Day Of The Dead can Hammerhead, invisible, yet crowned in the open abyss, be the one to impart this. Money Has An Enemy 22.3: The Nexus "These people pay me no respect for my handsome cover cloth, my careful spine and painfully crafted binding; the costly tooth, rag content, ample poundage of the paper for my pages . . . And what nonsense and puerile anxieties they commit to these pages! I am Red Book, as metaphysically consequential as Violet, certainly, as stable as Rock, as unattached and reliable a witness as mind reset to zero; as well-stocked with potential as any embryo. I manage the Bank, chronical conflagration. I can very well be my own rain gear, proof against conflagration. And let me tell you about Rock . . ." "Enough of this self-promotion," interrupted Zero. "The Rock is the project of Zero. This ruddy tome is no embryo."  Hammerhead laughed,: "Metaphysically as consequential as Violet? A dumpster full of violets, consequential indeed! I am Hammerhead! I own The Bank!"  Red Book withdrew in chagrin to practically zero. In his heart he was Hammerhead. Conflagration flamed all around us. All longed to be delivered by Transport. All but The Bank, which gathered its portfolios of embryos and wrapped them in asbestos rain gear. Infinity put in: "I myself have little use for such narratives. Melee, Conflagration, deep storage . . . It's all Deep Storage to me. Whatever the finite measure, I am my own embryo."  "It's high time I realized my system," thought Zero. "It must be based on a rock and able to proliferate violets, minimize the function of Tongs, give plenty of play to Jaguar, and at last restrain The Bank. Just give me time to work out the code."  Transport was not particularly concerned to have his say. Like Violet, he had no impulse to bugle.  Hammerhead grew impatient with this catalogue. He said: "Lets all have recourse to Black Box." A questionable imprecation, coming from him. The next thing we know he'll be singing about violets. However, to satisfy him we'll bring forth Deep Storage. No doubt he'll hammer out a pretty spring greeting card framed with conventional violets.  The highest contemplation resonates Crystal and emanates a tincture of violets. Melee resolves to the random play of particulates reassembled in a luminous array. Conflagration rages.  The Rattle out of African in ruins ruminates at the center of his music different thoughts for different rhythmic textures, different pulses. "What I whisper washes the world," he willed with his breath.  Dr. Tongs cannot keep his own counsel but interferes in other beings' businesses by rearranging their elements. Even Deep Storage is not exempt from his arts.  Conflagration's wildest thoughts-- a form of self-conflagration followed by the Bugel Sentinel's attempt to put such thoughts to rest. The fire between the worlds, followed by a new world in embryo.  Zero thought: "I'll work my practice in secret; to penetrate Bellows with my null intent; Zeros will subtly improve the vacuous formulations of Red Book bringing its every entity to its own modality of Transport. But what about Hammerhead? We'll integrate a thousand aberrations, know pretty well how to put Violet to use, as well as the laughter of Melee. But Hammerhead? Perhaps it will be like this: A necessary modicum of harsh discipline! Throughout, I'll interfuse null thoughts quietly with Violet. But regarding all of this, avoid that bloody Bugle!"  A shadow passed over The Nexus. Zero continued: "I'll subtlize possibilities of vocabulary, eliminating the plucking function of tongs. Infinity? Ground and consequence; fruits, methodology, result. I'll have, of course, to work on the zero that is myself. Hammerhead will have nothing of that. But in the end I'll transmute all Deep Storage and strangely, put a terminus to the egregious tyranny of Embryo."  I cleared the Nexus. Everything everyone thinks passes along Long River. Everything everyone rages composes Conflagration. For armor and defense, there will always be Rain Gear. For ambition, anxiety for safety, and the means by which to colonize the future-- that's why we have The Bank. Even Zero's plots and plans, except in the exactions of their actual execution, are subject to cooptation by many functions including Rain Gear. Infirmities proliferate at the ends of the epochs just prior to Conflagration. The Mighty Jaguar of the Furnaces masters the iron tongs. His conflagration inhabits a thousand bugles.  "Profoundly serviceable will be Wrench Boy," continues Zero. "He and his doublet always know when to blow the bugle and when to make the world sweat sweet with violets." Money Has An Enemy 23.3 No more stories. What comes out of Deep Storage never ends. Throws rocks at all protagonists. Pour scouring acids on all but the blank pages of Red Book. In every element discover an aberration. Bellows shall nevertheless keep on pumping when jaguars return to the hills. Nevertheless, Wrench Boy silently existing. He has his own Red Book. It is a pocket note thing with a plastic cover and a spiral binder. I does not exist yet I am Wrench Boy, because I live in a Red Book. Wrench Boy thinks about N-dimensional structures. "N" means "no"--No Dimension. Red Book writes Itself. Wrench Boy is astonished and manipulates his attitude. "This Red Book is no recording device," Wrench Boy ponders. Deep storage hovers in an alcove. Look out the windows on a stormy night and imagine the Ancient Bellows structuring history.  A bugle in rain gear is as tuneless as a rock. Vocabulary is irrelevant to Bank. Today at least. Tomorrow who knows but some elemental aberration might detonate a bugle.  I hope, O my students, you'll not think Conflagration when Hammerhead sinks into Black Box and The Old Hotel is abandoned and our theorists think only the Theory of Aberration.  If Crystal were here there'd be no treason in Vocabulary. Aberrration is only on a word in some Red Book. Try if you like to shake the African Rattle. See if it summons that Jaguar. If only Crystal would appear above the Rock Inalienable to transfigure Vocabulary and ward off Impersonal Melee. If only Zero would wash across this Rock and release the quivering, over-bearing presence of my own vocabulary . . .  Then what? Certainly not Transport. Not tonight. Hammerhead is behind all this somber, indifferent, attitudinal distress. The Bank is watching with a set of black tongs, poised to judge Aberration and take action through exaction of exaggerated vocabulary. The Bank is sitting on Red Book and is no Black Box. Infinity sits behind every configuration and has no need to counter-mind the delusions of Hammerhead. For Melee it is not Black Box but Aberration. Aberrations flow away like leaves down Long River. Wrench Boy finds an African Rattle and opens a fresh box of rain gear. The Bank goes on permanent holiday. Nothing is built on a rock. Nothing is writ in Red Book. Nothing is part of this story. Conflagration consumes itself. Old Hotel, you Dog-Bug! Wrench Boy spends all day in a factory of wrenches. A thousand African Rattles spill their seeds. Infirmity? Whose infirmity? Violet herself-- a phrase without a verb. Dog-Bug, you live under a rock. Hammerhead on holiday has no interest in "stories." Where there are none. Only a cache of random vocabularies.  Embryo? Its own embryo. Money Has An Enemy wields its own Aberration. Vocabulary only a cache of blue rocks. Money Has An Enemy: 24.3 My Body is an Old Hotel. May it be made new by methods culled through Red Book's informations or else consigned to Deep Storage a veritable melee of biology. O set it free to cruise forever down Long River, for life is a great Black Box, existence forever in embryo. The magic might be just to scramble the head of Vocabulary, each word, a fresh embryo, to draw a new future out of Deep Storage. Mulch Melee. Let Deep Storage be inverted, Melee a harvest of energies, make new my my-body, this Old Hotel, live long along Long River whose waves flow both ways.  But somebody seemed to be telling me: "Let Old Hotel burn down in the moonlight. Stop counting embryos. Shoot every aberration in the ectoplasm with blue zeros. Ride a blue jaguar across the raging plain. Stop trying to induce conflagration."  "Hello, Wrench Boy. What curious rain gear you're sporting! Have you recently deployed it to conduct a tour of transport across the compartments of Deep Storage? The people are so friendly at The Bank. When you come in from the storm they say, "Would you like to stash your rain gear in our own Vocabulary?" If you're deaf, they blow a bugle--no harm in that! Wrench Boy tried to make himself useful. "I found that Red Book was a catalogue of African Rattles. You can get them cheap some distance up Long River." "Wrench Boy, Wrench Boy! Don't you Red Book me! The only Red Book I know opens on Infinity." "Wrench Boy was taken aback. "Excuse me," he began quietly, "My Red Book has pages of crystal. The glue of its binding has an aroma of violets; and the rain gear its catalogue proffers protects us all from feral jaguars and every imaginable context of conflagration, if protection is what you require. As for infinity, as you well know, that is no infirmity, but precisely the quality that in the end will find you your eternal cruise along Long River." "Good enough," I almost apologized, "so long as I don't have to wield hot iron tongs. I am myself searching for my own embryo and have been at it so long I sometimes am tempted to make inquiry of Hammerhead; and, by the way, may I ask, how can I find red-haired Melee?" "Stand on this rock, and Melee will be here." And he pulled from the space in back of his wrench a small Red Book on the very first of whose pages was an image of a small black rock; and, as if the image itself was the victim of some infirmity, he made passes with the end of his wrench, and the thing came off the page and enlarged itself erratically and dropped to the ground; and when the operation was accomplished, I stepped onto that black slab, and there in front of me was red-haired Melee. "I've been here all along," she said, "but I thought you didn't require any more stories." Money Has An Enemy 25.3 The lights went on in the Red Lounge. Infirmity sank into the white divan. She was thinking about Deep Storage and whether The Old Hotel was old enough. African Rattle stood up in its canister. Crystal commanded the whole decor. Each piece reduced to near zero. Bellows lay at the brass fender next to the fireplace. The pleasant, domestic, evening tranquility scene-- What transport! When the fire seems to be failing, apply the bellows. The Old Hotel required no proprietor. African Rattle was happy about that in his quiet, proximate absence. We all were quiet and each was able to feel how much in body and spirit we were The Old Hotel. Even African Rattle felt that. Even Infirmity. Even Crystal.  Infinity had one thought only, and that included everything in Deep Storage. The bugle, hung on its nail, suppressed an impulse to call attention to itself. Dawn light spread through the lounge, all beings in The Old Hotel, quietly luminescing. Aberrations in decor-- the tarnish on the brass fender, the crack in one of the pods of the African Rattle-- made the red lounge seem to glow all the more.  The grand rock outside the picture window was a picture of impassivity. The bugle, resisting no longer, uttered a long, low, subtly modulated, bugle tone, pianissississimo as if to indicate by its proximity to silence, the existence of Black Box.  The rattle, while still settled in its canister felt the silence as the settled state of the seeds inside its pods-- an emptiness replete with vocabulary.  "That's my department," thought Red Book, breaking the general mental tranquility, and Violet let her petals tremble to a tremor passing on the mind-breeze. The calmness itself had released a current of mentality available to everyone, for the waters on which it rippled were a pool whose bottom reached the ever-living liquids of Deep Storage.  No light and hence no shadow passed along Deep Storage corridors. No work for tongs. Weakness in that place, one with Black Box, were no Infirmity. Black Box--interior to its own secret. No trace or hint of the labor of tongs. An invisible lattice placed infinitesimal crystals across an improbable surface, but there was no light to ignite them.  In a rack in a kitchen where no kettle boils, a pair of wooden salad tongs dreams of its cousins, iron ones and diminutive, the shadow archetype of them all, hidden in Black Box.  Infirmity sat released in its own sadness, in a Black Box of her own, and on an incandescent panel there, suddenly there hung a set of blue tongs.  How to settle Conflagration: 1. Put a Black Box about it. 2. Fit out the whole world in asbestos rain gear. 3. Turn a bellows inside out. 4. Let the whole world revert to The Old Hotel.  Be quiet, Hammerhead. Your systems resolve to violets after all. You will not believe this, of course, until rattles out of Africa in ruins cause your heart to drift to The Old Hotel conducted by Wrench Boy through corridors of zeros at the end of which you acquire a fresh embryo out of Deep Storage and develop into a marvelous species of crystal unknown till now.  One embryo in an infinite multiverse. One bellows beyond the worlds. Wrench Boy stands still as a statue. No business for The Bank.  Melee The Mother of The Multiverse, bows to Jaguar, its progenitor, zips up her satchel and allows Deep Storage to stay still in its darkness. Indigo attitudes defer to violet, violet to the apparent absence of visible photons.  Long River runs without a sound. Black Box abides in secret. Red Book--Blank Book. Transport between null depots. Jaguar gets it. He lets the bellows blow. Aberrations break the symmetrical attitudes of Mysterium as Bugle reports the dawn. But the exhalations of the bellows never disallows the tincture of violet. Money Has An Enemy 26.3 Sensei-san Infinity resumed the podium in the Red Assembly Hall that manifested at breakfast time in The Old Hotel. He had a fetching infirmity due to his personal presence at a previous conflagration in his city during which the entire population saw thousands of blue and silver tongs falling from the apex of the skydome whose pure blue spherical geometry exhibited a momentary aberration: a crack through which a supra-cosmic rushing of Long River-- the flux was both water and fire-- seemed to surround the world. The city was permeated for that moment by an odor of violets; and the rich susurration of the running of Long River seemed to carry all other sounds. Subsequently, an infirmity developed among the more sensitive-- a recurrent ineradicable memory of the conflagration together with an overwhelming sense of the infinite character of that conflagration and an equally ineradicable intuition that this world is composed of an indenumerably infinite set of tiny tongs.  Sensei-san in his previous discussions had not alluded to Long River in this manner. It was as if his obsession had repaired to Deep Storage. But today he himself was resolved to speak of conflagration, confronting directly, if need be, any expostulations from an objecting Hammerhead.  "Welcome guests and tenants of this Old Hotel. The Gleat Berrows has blought us together again. Today I will tly to speak dilectly of Brack Box and the mystelious confraglation that one day overwhelmed my city. We all returned in spilit to mental emblyo and expelienced a state of tellifying transport."  The Red Lounge was packed. Among those present was Violet, a squadron of geometers interested in Zeros; and several officers of The Bank. Arriving late was a boy with a ceremonial bugle the bell of which was decked out with dark flags-- all to hear Sensei-san speak of his conflagration and see this famous survivor whose being was like a rock.  Violet noticed that Sense-san was hiding a little red book in the palm of his left hand and that he was able by a sort of legerdemain to bring it into view for furtive glances. "Vocabulary," she surmised, and she stole a furtive glance out the picture window hoping to find Long River.  Sensei-san resumed amiably: "I see we have our tlickster Wlench Boy-san together with his syzygetical doublet. I hope he won't make a tlick on me. Particulaly because I am alleady vely tlicky myself--ha ha ha. This led book I keep hidden in my palm, is reery a magic rlock. It controls Memory itself and has its own agenda." The officers squirmed noticeably. "Fol instance. It knows the vely thoughts of This Old Hotel and commutes them to me."  "Infirmity!" shouted African Rattle in the form of four short rattle blasts. Nobody in the audience took note, though the bank people crained their necks, but Sensei said: "Please do not think my words show some debirity on my part. This object comes from the Rong Liver that sullounds the world and was thlown there in the middle of a meree at the vely moment of my city's consternation.'  Violet was amazed as he spoke and exuded her scent quite markedly. Sensei-san continued: "Evlything is made out of vely vely vely tiny tongs-- even infinitesimal clystals are formed flom them. These tongs are pluckers and choosers. They make our smallest thoughts. What they pruck and choose results in Meree, Confragalation, or happy Tlansport. And yet their activities evlywhere seem like zelo."  Unseen by anyone, far beyond the Red Lounge picture windows, Long River glowed. The officers of the bank had had enough and made an obstreperous exit.  "Infinity!" sang out Sensei-san. "The tluth about Rong Liver! My magic rlock is like that too! Your sleepy Jaguar knows this. Confraglation is its costume and its habitat. Lench-Boy-Lench-Girl-san hides in its pocket! The Bank exists at all only by supplessing it. And what it reery is is an indenumelable correction of impossibry miniscule magical blue and silver tongs."  Sensei-san gashoed and bowed deeply, and the ceremonial rain gear on his shoulders became the exact shade of red with which the walls and furniture of the assembly hall happened to be decorated.  Long River was very happy but just kept on rolling. Violet manifested suddenly in everybody's button hole.