Never Tire of The Road 1 Happenstance, phase-wise, need not proposition Melee. Neither need Garden, whose chemistry flirts with her, sleep in Deep Storage. That's as far as I go. No road goes as far a Black Lake. You hop off your humvee and trudge. Portage canoe. Whatever the bi-way to slumber, Melee rattles the hinges of the Keeper of the Door. African Rattle reports an august personage. Deep Storage reaps in a trice the carnage of sacrifice. While Melee sleeps, so does the door-keep. Wrench Boy hitch-hikes with Violet.  Exuberance leaps up like the fumes from the rite. Wrench Boy officiates. There's a fork in Melee's offices and a gorge before you get to Black Lake -- a fork in Melee's humors.  The spirit that Wrench Boy keeps in his crystal returns to Black Lake as Happenstance agitates.  Deep Storage changes for the sacrifice Wrench Boy arranges.  Long River modulates the strangeness which Opal qualifies.  Long River approves her own fork which exaggerates what Deep Storage generates.  No active zealot but has its Nemesis except for Wrench Boy who modulates inversions with silence and passes to Melee his fork with a wink and a smile.  Hammerhead has his way with Obliquity. Wrench Boy looks the other way. Why? Inside his crystal the silence is just like crystal.  While coming to terms with the principle of sacrifice, does Melee have a nemesis? Black snakes return to black lakes.  If there is a fork among Deep Storage's boulevards, and you only see it in slumber, fly over water.  Jaguar's avatars focus all along Long River trafficking in body parts. Why not? Wrench Boy obligates Obliquity. The Debits of Nonentity accrue from Black Lake to Deep Storage, though Black Lake actually has none. No debits.  Melee has no avatars, but her ten-thousand pseudo-pods are better than forks, so then when she manages The Old Hotel Wrench Boy's freed up. He peers in his opal and skries up what melee he can.  Sleep serves Wrench Boy and keeps his secrets promiscuously, for dreams are locked up in Deep Storage. There's plenty of room, and Melee's ritual forks and daggers bring courage.  Wrench Boy's obliquity itself is a fork, at least late at night while Deep Storage shuffles its bins. Never Tire of The Road 2 The Nemesis is mine. I seek consultation with Jacinth. Together we attend Long River whose effluence happens inside her. Jacinth enhances my focus lest it fork in The Rite. Focus is her provenance whatever the happenstance. No time for a melee; no space for a fork in my opal. Violet petals are strewn about Jacinth's cauldron. The point is to focus Happenstance itself and bring courage to the crispness of crystal.  I've been asleep. Jacinth's violets twine about my ghost. Am I Hammerhead or just Blockhead?! My focus is so--bemused. Is happenstance itself configured as my nemesis? I want to say, "enough of this." Enough of this.  Jacinth produces the sacrifice called "The Garden of Nemesis." It takes some courage to perform this: a focal system of finely adjusted crystals to float above Black Lake. Will it lead to victory or is it oneiric distraction merely? Am I Hammerhead enthused by a rite? Eagles and snakes. Nemesis herself riven by forks. The Crone blandishes her opal while the cauldron settles and seethes and Hammerhead's miniature avatars, attending, dance on the rim. What they see comes out of Deep Storage. Their focus is victorious. Boiling bubbles solidify into African Rattles. Jacinth is Mistress of Obliquity. When she sits at The Old Hotel if I am Hammerhead I do well to hold my focus. I cannot control the identity of The Old Hotel. The dreams it harbors pass into the sleep of its borders. How can I keep this from stabbing a fork in my courage?  Stop stalling. Silence keeps the door here. Jacinth sits at her pot holding a fork. Victory as such is established aforethought. You can't escape. Silence is alive through your slumber. Are you Wrench Boy? Then violets wreathe round your wrench. Sleep comes straight to a fork and effects a drastic intensification of your focus. "Shall I speak?" says Wrench Boy.  "In my dream, I'm broke. I do magic on spec. If the working works all is well. If it's a bust I go back to sleep and Master Fork will deliver me into another ontology. But my anxiety is such that I wish to have the Collective consider abrogation of the Market entire. Is not Debt collective delusion? Not quite. How old am I? It is a matter of undoing the focus empowering the shape-shifter, Violet to violate her garden and unsnake Nemesis with its eagle. Jacinth is a gorge. Let Hammerhead hammer back his avatars into Deep Storage. Can you do that? We are sleep but whose sleep-state are we? Jacinth never slumbers. Rather she passes in and out of apparency. Let us join our mind stream to hers and thereby master mere happenstance." Thus spoke Wrench Boy.  Silence fell over The Rite. The working proceeded. Exuberance exuded, released from Deep Storage.  In this sacrifice, the fork itself loses its bite. The Old Hotel returns from Obliquity. Victory is vanquished. Jaguar and the rest of us as well change mind states with Jacinth. Interval Just keep going. Not Alabama, Alambana: the mind stream assumes an identity but belongs to no one. In certain quarters this is quotidian certainty; but if Long River forks or wraps about Tornado Island like an ox-bow or terminates entirely in a golden cloud or a black one, or its tributaries dessicate or Hammerhead big as a god but run by his bank diverts them; and the streaming ceases-- does this spell release or the end of one ontology? The Counsel of Seventy is still out on this inquiry. Never Tire of The Road 3 Obliquitous perenniality obviates crystal's deep storage, but Crystal comes out from under her cloud with what exuberance! Sleep is an opal such that the exuberance Crystal inspires supplants that "nemesis" business for now at least. (I never did indicate whether the grim goddess tested me, or I beset another as it. No matter.) Jacinth sleeps to African Rattle's dreamy white susurrus.  Will Crystal remain in these precincts a timeless promise? Exubeance itself is nemesis to Jaguar. And Hammerhead hammers his crystal in a garden workshop until his mind path forks and he thinks he's hammering out his own crystal of victory. He triumphs in exuberance. He jumps and prances, but nobody knows over what-- a truly zany performance for an archetype whose quality is, in general, grim sobriety. Jaguar watches from an oblique quarter of the labyrinth, and Wrench boy hears his weird, triumphant howls. The sky was low, that afternoon, like a crystal ceiling. It wasn't happenstance, but a complex position in situational phasing influencing the fatal acts of anyone beneath it by instigating characterological opposites or inversions.  Labyrinths don't work on silence, even ones skried up in an opal. Focus is too general. It pervades the whole of it from without and rings out like crystal, unless the labyrinth is an element in a grim ritual and Jaguar creeps along its enigmatic corridors, or mind-ravening Melee lurks around its corners and at its forks. Jaguar is exuberant before the feast. Long River waits to rush in and run along the labyrinthine boulevards. African Rattles, shaken in hidden cabinets, startle the victim trapped in the maze as its noises change with the tricky acoustics.  What is the inversion of an opal? A system of situational phasing. They put you to sleep, then pretend to wake you, and you are there, you think in quotidian life, but it's still the labyrinth.  Crystal is a warrior of happenstance. The crystallinity of her exuberance, even her crystalline obliquity, is the obliquity and ecstasy of a being that arise in whatever occurs; not just as an opalescent phantom but as real-- as if a jaguar spirit appeared in an opal-- the whole cosmos its materium-- the dispensation of Being itself, not just the quotidian somnolence of any of us, but a Vision sourced in The Gorge.  "Don't get me started," said The Old Hotel. "When that crazy jaguar entered an oblique phase, the whole gorge lit up from his ferocious elan. I had to sit down old Jacinth in front of her black pot just to contain the nemesis that took form as his exuberance. To do that I hussled Black Lake into focus, and the doorkeep went ballistic because our set of chambers and corridors bifurcate again an again all the way to the infinite if you let it. And now there were feat-happy Jaguar avatars everywhere, you guessed it, menacing the guests. Fortunately, that afternoon, the guests were volatile spirits, no flesh to be gotten-at at all, so The Crone was able to establish an opal and put the whole cosmos to sleep inside an invisible gorge. Well, it is her world." Interval It is Wrench Boy's itinerary that concerns me-- simply the thought that he has one. Avatars, syzygies, spiders, specters-- which is it that conceived such a notion? Does Being itself sit in a chamber-- a tower loft, a distant, if visible, star? A maiden--Crystal or Melee-- though no maiden, surely, but double-wombed like Chaldean Hekate. I mean "tire of the road" to what? Perhaps that's the point. My point, to unpack it. A pairing down of time-ways to the naked stream itself. Then Black Lake opens where the Doorkeep bows to your token and time is not. Did I say "perhaps"? Image, concept, fable-- absorbed, each through its token, Crystal the distant quiddity to which, in their last distillation (did I say "metonymy"?) they point when they are not. Never Tire of The Road 4 My silence might be your Hammerhead. He forks, old Hammerhead, when he comes to the Keeper of The Black Door-- can't hold his focus. He can't tell how the sounds that fill the place come from African Rattles-- small ones-- stuck in the corners under wooden racks and antique corigendas. Tiny jaguars shake them. It's amazing you can hear them at all. Hammerhead is keen to pick up missives from obliquity. A capacity that will serve him in good stead when his mind state crystallizes finally.  We should make a study of auditory focus among a melee of sonorities. Hammerhead heard the subtle temblor but the doorkeep didn't. It enabled him to enter from obliquity during a phase of The Old hotel not meant for him. There was Wrench Boy disarmed, unwarned. The Old Hotel was full of ghosts as if it had been invaded from out of The Gorge. The African Rattles weren't little now. "The was no silence they could not decapitate."  The violets from irascible racemes strewn about to celebrate victory prematurely, possibly, distracted the Keeper of the Grand Doors so the lounges flew open on the gardens.  Exuberance arises from its own kind of focus-- let's study that too. Let's make The Old hotel an ontological laboratory-- as if it weren't already-- fresh supplies arrive from Black Lake on a daily basis. Black Lake, in this, is both object and source. What do supplies deliver? African Rattles grown as gourds in The Gorge.  Hammerhead, astonished, had enough. He excluded himself from all this exuberance. He'd aligned so exactly on obliquity. This situational phasing business was generally not for him. He just wanted to understand: how many avatars of Jaguar were there? As if somebody'd emptied out Black Lake and went running through corridors and lounges rattling gourds from African localities.  I remind myself at every moment: find Happenstance. Abandon sleep. Thus Africa perennially rattles my focus.  Out in The Garden several Wrench Boys were wantonly rattling everyone else's Africas if they could find them. Their energies were other than self-arising exuberance. The phase of The Old Hotel and the discomfiture of the Doorkeep had allowed several ghosts to tweak the nose of Hammerhead and manifest as Wrench Boys. This was a phase of ontological slippage-- a sleep-like license without silence, but where the sluices from Deep Storage leaked into the Old Hotel imposing silence but only on the Doorkeep, who by now had become an avatar of Hammerhead.  "It is time," thought Wrench Boy, "to un-manumit my avatars." And that thought itself was a sign the phase was changing, so he sucked his avatars up into his opal and now The Old Hotel was hospitable to the old crone, Jacinth.  Are you ready for sleep? I am. We have an upgraded suite in The Old Hotel. The Doorkeep's an old cronie, name of Jaguar. I met him at Black Lake when time was not. The Old Hotel 's been here forever. They've rooms for everything or can produce one out of nothing at all-- rooms to celebrate victory or orchestrate magic rites. They have Hammerheads to serve you-- they don't even know they are serving-- or for you to serve them when the oblivion's yours. Whatever Long River delivers-- take courage! Black Lake is far better than slumber. They have that too. The real one. if you're up for it-- otherwise, otherwise, whatever your phase is. Wrench Boy can offer compensation, even if you're Hammerhead; even if you're Wrench Boy.  It takes courage to inhabit obliquity or take it as your road. To the world, you are a ghost--Nemesis a furious demoness; you are haunted by Hammerheads, your illegible silences mask your exuberance. But The Old Hotel will accommodate you too. You can focus your African Rattles from an oblique stance and bless with silence. Never Tire of The Road 5 His form might be ghostlike but Wrench Boy's varieties work what is most concrete. Sleep on it. Shadow or spider. Elixir. Specter. Even Wrench Boy's (momentary) syzygy compromises Happenstance. Where is she? As nows go by. Exuberant festivities at the limit point is Melee. Yet Happenstance has long standing concordat with Wrench Boy. They're there in the same instance. They join at the limit of each other across distance across reticence and interpenetrate in silence.  Hammerhead, contrariwise, estranged from Exuberance (where is she?) is equally familiar as Energy's supplement. Abstractions pile up in each Now. Hammerhead exchanges civilities with Jacinth as if she too were a part of him, and, after the decimation of The Bank, will not keep company with Wrench Boy. Yet convergence with Happenstance for him is coherent conceptually. What comes of that? His silence has no magic in it. His magic comes out of the gorge tinctured with angst. He is the one of us most woefully "on the road" and surprisingly most courageous. What can one open for the Doorkeep if The Door is the Door to Long River? Access to everywhere. A berth in The Garden. Long River's allocation of crystal.  Meanwhile, we pedal the immaterial bicycle along Long River's quai. Wrench Boy's autonomous shadow-- scraps and wrappings up-wheeling in our wake or on the wind down alleyways too narrow for trolleys too bleak for the sun nocturnal to the point of hyperbole-- He took out rooms in Deep Storage. Owls, enticed from the grounds of the hospital by raw scraps of beef, focused their parallel eyes from couch backs. No paintings in the galleries are strange enough. How could they be? Nor music, though intricately wrought, sufficiently stimulating regarding ontological attitude. What is the being of what sound portends? Better stay in The Old Hotel than cruise the current ghetto of venues in this manner. "Read books," said the shadow of Wrench Boy. "Dig back down into happenstance. Such an exercise cannot turn tawdry for the Gorge is The Mother of Reversals rife with spirits and jaguars." A pile of stones behind the toiling workmen-- an anarchist baracade. "Now that's an image," said Wrench Boy shaking his African Rattle to suck back his shadow. He gazed into The Gorge and next to him stood Jaguar. He sucked in his avatars. Melee hung on his elbow. The spirits swirled round them expressing exuberant expectation whether their existence in the present tableau were to be terminated or exacerbated. It would depend on Jacinth and her ability to extract herself from the now; that is, what attitude she'd take toward a shadowless Wrench Boy. Would she present as Nemesis or mind her business and focus on The Gorge whose temporality was far too complex for ordinary agonic relations. She called to Scandinavian fastnesses-- "distant fjords and new truths" to trump the world. Her Rite would sacrifice ghostly apparencies and deepen towards Long River-- corpses and rubbish sublimed in The Rite.  Attendance at the performance was a melee. How can we pay back our subscribers when they are the gods themselves? They rush to the website to catch the latest posts, both here, and in illo tempore. To be mentioned is to be. The halls are filled with surveillance drones and paid provocateurs; no one knew what attire would constitute proper disguises, so actually, anything would do. Inquiry improved misdirection. All this provided cover for Black Lake. Cognitive melee, after all, is consummate distraction. "Look at that! His writing is so small!" "What exuberant obliquity! Old tradition! Strange events! Inexplicable facts!" Silence equivalent to melee. A cohort of ghosts released in the theater. Exuberance blackens. Waves of Furies break at the footlights. I think I'll go back to The Old Hotel and take a snooze. In the gorge behind such desperation my spirit shall find respite in its opal. Thank god there's a fork in the venue. Jacinth has essential concordat with Wrench Boy. "We get along fine with or without youth's exuberance." Just violet and Wrench Boy in syzygy biding happenstance. Then take the show on the road. Never Tire of The Road 6 Even at this critical moment: Black Lake. Is Victory our focus or the courage of the road? For the figure of Victory summons its nemesis. The Door Keep bows and bids us enter. What is to come is coming now. Jacinth at her cauldron. Nemesis her intimate. The figure of Victory assailed by ghosts. Wrench Boy's avatars dissolve into distinct singularities. The keepers of the thresholds resign their posts. Crystal hides in a black cloud. She's incommensurate with the Dagda. He has his own universe. His enormous penis, wielded like a rake, his bloated maw-- but his magic is incomparable. Nemesis operates drones and paid operatives, informants and civil armies eager to express new technologies. Art works proliferate to the infinite realizing continuum. Mammoth puppets and masks. Vivid ghosts for the Oligarch's Garden. Twenty avatars of Jaguar --youths in jaguar masks with wrench, rake, and hammer for headgear-- manifest out of the multitude to energize the street mass. Presence is distributed, unanticipatable, ubiquitous. Cyber wars proceed apace-- no sides--just hubs and networks interpenetrating networks-- the mathematics whereof grows in heads and the sad rain falls on dilapidated suburbs the coastal cities submerged underground industries rattle the surfaces microbes and crocodiles civilization is a gorge but its opals appear in street corner kiosks currencies spring up and dissipate mints prolific as gardens. The Old Hotel runs the banks like temporary autonomous currency depots. Rats eat African Rattles.  Advice to both singulars and multiples: Make your opals invisible; seal up your gorge; silence your African Rattle till the right time comes. Courage must grow octopus tentacles. The Old Hotels on the march scramble or vanish into their own "disappearances chambers" each the form of its own ghost, each exuberance its own nemesis. There's no such thing as a garden but that it is linked onto spiders' surveillance outreach: "If you see something, say something" to the nearest operative, every sentient entity an information depot "the people defeated cannot be united" Hammerhead has two heads-- one of courage, one of deceit. Everything reverts to its own special obliquity. Even victory. Everything has two heads. Even a garden.  Some people turn into grackles and eat opals. Jacinth beckons Long River. Her violets flourish on waters from Black Lake. Universal sacrifice reverses the broken garden, certainly, but this method is not preferable to incubation's slumber. Reverse the rite. Jacinth performs this; extracts the fork from our courage. When plan A terminates, plan B; if B fails, C. And so on through the alphabecedarian. Nemesis itself is a spirit. Anyone can fortify on silence. Even courage divides; you go down this street, I'll go back up the other. Nemesis hunts and haunts the revivified garden but we don't want your garden. The Gate Keeper's paid off by the Dagda. Jacinth celebrates intelligential focus. Victory comes with Right Thought and Higher Happenstance. Is Now The Time?  Together we intone this: "Ancient Jacinth, maintain your focus. May Victory permeate your happenstance. Do you have happenstance? Ageless exuberance validates The Gorge. Violets fall from your tresses. Great Mistress of Obliquity, exuberant Jacinth, old lady: will you let us pass through The Door? We put our ghosts in a bottle, squeeze exuberance out of our happenstance. But the armies are razing our cities and sowing salt in our fields. Where shall we live? What will we eat? They have broken our theurgical umbrellas and put spiders in our shoes. What shall we wear? We focus on fading violets-- credit tokens redeemable at the shops in The Old Hotel. There are rooms and suites without limit-- available if you are an avatar, but pawns and peons like us can't get passed the doorkeep. We are ghosts to haunt the Nemesis-- are you The Nemesis? retire to Deep Storage when the dearth grows frightful. At last we made a melee out in the Oligarch's Garden, scrambled the records of The Old Hotel, ate fistfuls of violets and arrived at Black Lake. No doorkeep there! but Crystal and Wrench Boy in syzygy, violet fields on the margins, The Higher Hammerhead was with us, exuberant. No Nemesis anywhere. No Victory." Never Tire of The Road 7 I pondered: "Shall The Rite comprise us as ten thousand voices-- jaguars at the hubs changing places with Exuberance, every jaguar another mind in The People's Cauldron-- obliquity obsolete, happenstance the materium, Crystal herself subject to the Assembly's validation, yet never recast in the forge if approbation be denied. I think I might get used to this if I myself am multiple, farewell to obliquity, Jaguar reborn as himself just as he is in The Old Hotel. Why there? Who can speak for us all and why should he? Courage is openness, the capability of the negative. How broad is happenstance! Hammerhead has no easy time of this-- he never had. There's a jaguar in each of us, and uses remain for tactics of obliquity. Black Lake shivers maturity.  The Great Gorge appears and recedes. Black Lake exceeds its apparency. Rejected, any of us repairs to her opal in spirit, self-collected, a stone without issuance but issuing, appearance in obliquity, pure crystal without respect to nemesis qua impurity exceeding apparency. No two avatars of Jaguar raise the same quality. Each of us repairs in slumber passing The Gate Keeper Guardian of The Veil-- we are together in The Garden passed where the curtain falls. Jaguar, the archetype, dwells in obliquity.  Long River, at this juncture, is truly unanticipatable-- where it rushes, where it turns, ox-bow or slow rocky trickle. Here does the cauldron bubble, here its surface is corrupted by a filmy scum. These events exceed their own ritual and proliferate out of The Gorge, a mere glance at which renders it infinite and invisible, jaguars leaping from rippling folds in the sediment through ten-thousand urban settlements. Invisible, a ceremony of Jacinths, each the being of her nexus at her juncture along Long River-- Wrench Boy and Wrench Girl in syzygy. Even the Door-Keeps participate. There are no barriers, no baffles; the conflagration increases-- Long River, tumultuous out of obliquity, not into it. The thought of Black Lake quite possible for the zealot or the child, rather, indeed, for any of us. It irrigates the People's Garden. We issue African Rattles to everyone. We issue animate crystals. The Door Keep raises a crystal which flashes in the facets of all of us. Happenstance bifurcates daily and rejoins itself at night. Victory is the flux of Long River, whether it rushes on ahead or flows in obliquity. Jaguar never loses his focus when Jaguar holds in his paw a man-sized African Rattle-- a Rattle that scatters seeds out of Africa across the People's Garden; that is, across Being's apparency-- African Rattles whose sounds are like a long river.  Where'd everybody go? Back into the Gorge to get Melee. Asleep in The Gorge? No. She was gathering her jaguars just ahead up Long River, an African Rattle igniting her flaming freckles while Black Lake forever settles and whispers under Happenstance where people come into their own minds. Never Tire Of The Road 8 What can my opal show me? What shall I find in The Old Hotel? Even as I get passed the Doorkeep and The Old Hotel itself maintains a strenuous silence-- my own knowledge is my nemesis. My Hammerhead cannot be silent. His occupancy of this old hotel works its cognitive rituals till a brainstorm of jaguars configures my intelligence in such a manner that I must call it nemesis. My Wrench Boy works things otherwise. His Old Hotel is a hall of generative silences, his rituals modulate Deep Storage and resonate The Gorge. But what does all of this show me? And where is the root and impetus for this perpetual inquiry?  No news from the tree tops. No news from the camps. The hidden inventions, for the moment, stored in their sheaths. Hammerhead at large in his spurious opal; the ghostly avatars preparing their next move. Happenstance, silent. Sleep occupies Jacinth. The opal clears preparing conditions for The Rite. Tamp down exuberance. Staunch Melee. The Old Hotel as The World at least is subject to fierce transformations. The geothermal activities of The Gorge foster courage. Even if The Old Hotel sustains its obliquity, what I think is "The World" is my nemesis. Let silence fascinate The Old Hotel and nothing at all appear in my opal. Let happenstance saturate the present phase of The Rite. Let me look. Let me listen through the strange ministrations of my own quiescent African Rattles into the cabinets and data banks arrayed in Deep Storage with the very zenith of acuity. Let Hammerhead have his opal: my nemesis remains what I make of this.  Each archetype invoked from Deep Storage might as well have arrived in Hammerhead's opal. It is not its obliquity that harasses me, nor does Long River's serenity adequately soothe. Do you discern the course of this inquiry? Your silence will activate Deep Storage. You can always think something up. Anyone, including all varieties of myself, might just as well be Hammerhead off on one of his quests-- so little does any of this finally deliver the adequate opal. All the symbols convene upon one sacrificial garden-- The Garden of Happenstance-- offered to Black Lake-- Deep Storage in its entirety-- on the end of so many stalks so many glowing opals-- that is the Garden of Slumbers. And the gardener is Princess Crystal. She pulls herself out of Deep Storage, and with the image of herself all shiny, declares herself Victory.  Happenstance renews when Deep Storage is silent.  One paragraph cannot be changed for another, but perhaps succession counts. Now we are here, not in some cognitive otherwhere that is Black Lake. And The Old Hotel allows silence to resonate Black Lake. And in The Old Hotel it is possible that Nemesis completes herself in Happenstance-- she herself an idea out of some data file lodged in Deep Storage Melee dissolves.  I cannot read in my opal what cannot occur in The Old Hotel. Change focus and change it again. The cognitive impossibilities are not relieved by archaic attribution as Nemesis. Ontology forks. The Old Hotel gives rise to fresh opals. My Hammerhead may be his own nemesis whose name is Wrench Boy. Never Tire of the Road 9 You might say that African Rattle came out of The Gorge or was born there. This would have nothing at all to do with actual happenstance. The Gorge was, in one sense, in Africa; in another it abided in a universe inhabited only by ghosts. Choose your obliquity. Wrench Boy, contrariwise, produced his own ghosts. For him to countenance The Gorge was to gaze in his opal. He was born in The Old Hotel (or it from him--your choice). Obliquity is no victory but a gorge full of ghosts. Charge up your opal until there's a fork in the garden.  Formally, you are our nemesis. If you have an African Rattle, how can I be Wrench Boy? I admit it. But Happenstance so occasions the rhetoric that for the most part I can ignore you, though not here, not today. Today we meet in The Gorge. There is a ghost in your silence, a huge one. And The Gorge in which we share a berth is not an old hotel, I can tell you that. But I have an opal, whereas you have me. We share a ghostly ontology. This need not seed cognitive melee, but it might. It requires some practice to ward off limitless bifurcation or else to let it build.  Violet is Jacinth. Try to stay focused on that one. I cannot recommend methodology for your managing Jaguar, assuming you want one. On the other hand, all business we conduct here comprises instruction in how to access your opal. Perhaps, now that I think of it, you'll find your spirit jaguar by returning to our gorge.  Who are you? I leave that to you to discern or decide. Have courage. Countenance bifurcation. Your sacrifice gains you entrance to our Rite and The Rite is All.  The Gorge imparts its darkness to the white susurrus of African Rattle. Together their silence renders Obliquity sacred. There is, and here I declare it, a fork in the African Rattle such that it shares affinity (that is an intimacy) with the Secrets of Time. Why? Because sound does.  Jaguar's fork turns sleep towards The Gorge passed the Doorkeep till the opal itself has use for its nemesis and Jacinth at her black pot appears to darken the garden. Look around you. Do you see The Old Hotel?  No? You have yet to identify your opal. Consider me a spirit, a kind of intelligential crystal of such complexity that the quiet smoke of the opal falls out from it in sweet simplicity as a gift from Deep Storage. Surely you have found that. Let Jacinth carry your shadow. Soon the Wrench Boy peculiar to you will conduct you straight to Black Lake, and I will not be your nemesis, but I warn you. and do put my words in your heart, Wrench Boy can switch in minute to A Trickster's obliquity. Keep your focus and be him. I know I am.  As for Hammerhead, he carries a fork among his other accouterments, and you cannot integrate his attitudes with Long River merely. It is not Time that heals his wounds. Contumely keeps him at a distance from your Wrench Boy.  When not in use, keep your African Rattle wrapped in fabric, preferably silk or wool. The point is to constrain its obliquity lest the indomitable courage contained in both sound and silence manipulate Long River without your intent, that is to say, warp time. Never lose sight of your opal as means of keeping intent this side of melee. You must study to discover in just what sense The Rite is All.  Jacinth sits at the lip of The Gorge-- that's her pot. Exuberance flows like a current through Wrench Boy. Obliquity itself is no issue if you manage your focus. Never Tire of The Road 10 You cannot begin with a melee or with a garden. Nemesis must wait for your garden to flourish. Black Lake waits upon silence. Victory dissolves in Black Lake. Garden zombies zoom away in a flourish of African Rattles. Enter: The Gorge. Impossible to anticipate what might come out of it, what you might find there: eternal silence or a forest of jaguars. What arranges Order? A garden. What sources beings and dreams? Black Lake. African Rattles will do for mediation. A good night's sleep down along Long River will bring a world. Focus on the fabulous: an African Rattle as big as an oak. Such was the African Rattle conjured by Jacinth. What mediation mediated that? The Old Hotel. She went to sleep in mediation's chamber and then in a trice she was there at Black Lake.  You cannot misarrange Long River or turn a garden to stone. Why not? There is a limit to inquiry beyond which even order is melee. Then let's put a fork in procedure and stipulate five pointy tines. One points a path through to crystal. This is the way of awakeness. All of the others bring various species of sleep.  Deep Storage suddenly manifested an army of Hammerheads. I don't mean produced one, but that every address in central memory was signed by one of his avatars. Obliquity skewed the entire arrangement. No one could find the particular opal she was looking for. There was an extraordinary uproar as if the susurrus of ten-thousand rattles culled from the whole continent of Africa contributed their sonorities to a mighty melee. Long River was disarranged-- the individual molecules of time broke from their chains. No summoning of courage, no cohort of spirits or ghosts could bring those African Rattles back to their assemblies of crystalline sounds. Nemesis had found its garden-- no arrangement or order at all but transcendence down to an essence of happenstance merely.  An African Rattle on a cosmic scale. How big is that? As big as an oak tree, surely. But Black Lake renders all scales either at once or severally an n-dimensional crystal of hypersound-- molecules of time n-dimensionally distributed so that Long River comes together again in some fabulous configuration to no one's delight except Wrench Boy's; and it doesn't happen when he sleeps and it doesn't come out of Deep Storage but his better half and his courage is flaming-freckled Melee and when they're together their silence is their jaguar and Happenstance itself transcendent metier.  Jaguar begins in exuberance and proceeds on the prowl through Victory and everybody else's melee to energize The Rite, that sober totality. He comes round the bend in the great stand of oak trees, an ominous presence from obliquity. It takes courage simply to be when you think he's around. Don't think. That's the first thing. Let Black Lake absorb and then stow your exuberance. Let quiet cover your garden. This establishes the ambience. Perhaps it is best that you yourself be the Doorkeep. Keep silence.  If the guests arrive from Black Lake somnambulist bright-eyed or zombie, hand each one an African Rattle the interior of whose gourd bulb is a space that is like Black Lake. Long River dissipates their somnolent, spurious victory. Melee will master their sleep. But because they come from Black lake, the transcendent tenor of its neutralized exuberance as the performance proceeds beyond all denouement will find us all in a phase of awakening. Interval Tongs said: "They are not molecules if Long River diffragilates but loops or knots or nine-dimensional manifolds encompassing the points at the very bottom of the small. Is there a god of the miniscule?-- an avatar of Hammerhead, naturally. And Time is made out of his essential machinations-- Long River's, as you say, "molecules"-- they flash in radical explosion creating conditions imagination itself can happily build on." It was impossible to follow his thought for the tongs he manipulated in his fingers as he talked were themselves diffragilating rapidly and in so interesting a fashion that Dr. Tongs' pedantry had no power to trump his imagery. Everything he touched became infinitely smooth. No resistance anywhere. No counterforce to stop inertial intransigence. No bumps or cracks or crevices to offer vital niches in The Gorge-- all promulgations rescinded, all entities resolved. "Enough of this," cried Hammerhead, and the blue tongs Dr. Tongs wielded snapped shut, and the roughnesses of everything reclaimed their surfaces, and the avatars of Hammerhead captured Dr. Tongs and put him in a barrow and hauled him off. When Tongs was out of sight Wrench Boy popped up on his box, for it was he that had manifested as Dr. Tongs. He said: "'Tongs' is actually 'sTong' as in 'sTong-pa' and an emptiness that is never smooth opened over The Collective. Never Tire of The Road 11 Jacinth sat by Long River erecting a Canopy of Obliquity to manipulate Long River, or coax her into the General Rite. She would require participation from a cohort of ghosts and a jaguar. The Rite was her whole world. If you see her, you are in her. Long River could flow as a melee as it tumbled down chasms and washed away at last The Oligarch's Garden, but what tenacity does it take to sustain the spirit that carries a world?-- as if an old hotel on a hill above Long River were the site of The Rite and its manifold transformations and variously accoutered chambers simulated what cannot change. The world would never die, no matter the melee. She would sustain her power to manage her focus and keep Deep Storage for conjuring all things needful and to serve as a conduit and cache when she needed to hold zombies at bay.  There is a fork beyond the melee managed by focus-- The Higher Happenstance truly that never interferes with The Rite directly, but Long River, however diverted or broken into its granular dispersions cannot be misdirected. It cannot be coaxed-- no more than the Absolute Opal, however smoky or crazed, can be teased from the realms of her silence. But we know about Jaguar. He circumambulates the Rite site as if he were Long River running in circles to sustain it. Circularity brings courage to a focus. And is this not a secret of The Gorge-- that it has a circular rim, and the darkness of its silence focuses The Rite? But the danger comes from Deep Storage that will not be circumscribed. There are secrets in its silence, enscripted with strange characters and hidden away in crystal vaults -- African Rattles with powers yet to be reckoned with, gardens with pharmacologies both deleterious and benign. And there are certain Avatars of Hammerhead imprisoned in a darkness before the foundations of the world unknown even to him -- Oh yes! Avatars preceding their archetypes-- unholy melee of ontogeny-- nemesis to all cognitive order as a fork in Being itself, impossible ontology. The place is called "Tornado Island" because it runs all circles awry and beggars your focus if its phase in your time comes over you. Such a phase would come over Jaguar and her name and soul henceforth be called Melee.  Meanwhile the African Rattles were doled out by doorkeeps and the vibes of The Gorge lent character to The Old Hotel. Melee retired to Black Lake, and Black Lake's cohorts of spirits, though always on call, were gathered in deep supernal slumber.  Hammerhead is the Guardian of Focus or can be -- should be -- when perennial bifurcation all but unmans Wrench Boy, and the zombies of exuberance threaten even Melee. Crystal has, form the beginning, mastered her slumber. That is both her nature and her style. And Jaguar drags Long River in an oxbow about Tornado Island-- this world's Tornado Island-- on commission from Black Lake. Never Tire of The Road 12 The Philosophers' Zombies live on Tornado Island trapped in cages of crystal as if in Deep Storage. Their absence of sentience is deeper than silence. Their repertoire of behaviors Deep Storage maintains. What of the Zombie's Opal? He has none. What of Black Lake? The Zombie's drama unfolds in The Old Hotel. Each archetype realizes one Zombie, or so we stipulate. We consult with high solemnity our Opal.  As long as she manages Deep Storage, Jacinth maintains her estate. Long River runs round her and through her. Black Lake animates her gorge. The discrepancies in Deep Storage that, were she cognizant of them, might agitate her opal, Jacinth mistakes for a stimulus to eccentric exuberance and quells them, and this in itself is cause for a fork in her fate. No doorkeep steps in Jacinth's doorway. Not even Hammerhead. Not even Sleep. What if The Old Hotel as in her fantasy were The World? : Civilization "as we know it"; Deep Storage its history; sacrifice its cover story; melee perennially its predicament. The Great Gorge is a monstrance, a pit of non-forgivingness, margins and hollows forever diminishing-- better be a zombie than a citizen or other inhabitant. But that world is no old hotel.  Wrench Boy's enlightened perfect dispossession is perfectly zomboid in this: its essence betrays no evidence. Not even Jacinth is like this. Her attachment to the world as a rite perfectly occupies Jacinth, though only Melee can see this. To the rest of the collective her proximity to The Gorge is as dark as Deep Storage. When she peers in her opal in a ceremony -- a sacrifice to elevate cognizance -- when she performs with elegant hand-passes and a cackle, it appears that the somber office of her ritual consumes existence itself and possesses the absolute dignity (including the harmonic of darkness) that manifests only for a being intimate with Black Lake, as, indeed, when Jacinth peers in her opal her dignified exuberance shows that she is.  Tornado Island is an archetypal garden. It can happen pretty much anywhere. Its pattern is kept in Deep Storage, not at all under lock and key. Jaguars, as we know, trot round it with feline exuberance; that is, as if chasing their prey, which, depending upon focus, might be flesh or intellect -- the Philosophers' Object under current discussion at some think tank or general assembly in The Old Hotel -- quite ferocious.  At the eye of the tornado is a crystal. Its waters sucked up from Black Lake are churned till they smell of The Gorge -- particles of concepts and mythemes from anywhere. African Rattle himself is at home there-- home away from home. His spirit has passed through Deep Storage and come out strangely refreshed, so his susurrus is changed and charged with a peculiarly intelligent sonority.  Wrench Boy's dispossession is strangely without an object, without a quality. Wrench Boy himself would prefer to treat it as some sort of rite, but what rite? It is not identical to perfection of focus, though his opal is pure and his fate indistinct from the higher regions of Happenstance. And exactly that which is extracted from the Zombie, he is essentially. No rite effects that. Black Lake returns to its perfect containment because of him. Even exuberance is superfluous and needs neither to be suppressed nor assumed. Wrench Boy finds Deep Storage as a structure interior to an instant; that is to say, no more anything at all than any other effulgence or contrivance. Nemesis is everything and nothing. All thoughts are ghosts. Beyond sleep, beyond nature, beyond Deep Storage and its Opal, the exuberance is ours to be close to him. Crystal is not only his syzygy; her focus is his act that empties Deep Storage. The whole complexus of these elite propositions reconstitute his obliquity. With that comes The Gorge and its dark exuberance-- all perfectly serviceable. Black Lake is the sleep of Wrench Boy with or without exuberance or focus. Being's victory, if you insist on it, is always anterior to the foundations of any world. Never Tire of The Road 13 The philosophical zombies with few exceptions were the philosophers themselves. How many anywhere prepared themselves in scrying? Precious few, I tell you.  Hammerhead himself repaired to Tornado Island. His journey came at a fork in his philosophical itinerary. He had become curious about ghosts following the advent of his embryo, you remember. To counteract or compensate any errancy associated to this journey, he supplied himself with a five-tined fork and a hefty African Rattle. He performed a somewhat perfunctory sacrifice of one of his less versatile mallet-like hammers-- it was merely an ornament made of soft wood and he heaved it or made a show of heaving it, though it weighed scarcely enough to sink it against the fetid wind as it fell into the gorge. The African Rattle and fork, he thought, would prove necessary instruments as events at Tornado Island began to unfold. There was a brilliant crystal in the black cloud directly above the perpetual tornado that marked the place. Beneath the surface safe from the weather a vault for deep storage. The zombies perpetually performed a certain intellectual ritual: They sat themselves in a garden and discoursed with each other on the matter of whether consciousness were possible or impossible or did it exist off somewhere far away from Tornado Island or were they themselves somehow possessed of it unbeknownst. Nuances of the discussion branched in many bifurcations, some zombies asserting the conscious mind would make a sound just like an African Rattle, others averring it needs must take visual form like the radiant crystal that hovered so mysteriously above their native island. There was a gate to the garden, and no one knew if its keeper in fact were conscious or not. He was no philosophical zombie, but kept an uncanny focus in his eye and almost never moved except to open the gate or keep some intruder forcibly away.  Hammerhead, of course, was conscious enough, but he had his doubts. That's why he carried a fork. Perhaps he was asleep. The fork might puncture his dream. The fact that he wore an opal on a chain and that the opal itself betokened his consciousness -- well, he had not yet been initiate to that. Meanwhile he saw that the gate keeper was standing perfectly still, an African Rattle poised at his side like a scepter. No doubt this fellow would prove to be his nemesis conscious or no.  Thank God for Happenstance. As if the coming war were defeated before retaliatory ambuscades were set within the crystals.  Wrench Boy's consciousness though supernal and manifest truly in his illimitable exuberance was as such perfectly imperceptible. He was there fully awake at the rim of The Gorge, but none of the philosophers saw or heard or in any other manner took cognizance of him. The fork of dialectics could not stab the opal, for the fork itself misses obliquity in the very gesture that necessitates it.  On Tornado Island even sleep forked. Jacinth cannily would never go there. Her rite excised every simulacrum of consciousness beforehand burning the zombies off in the vigorous crystal gorges of her cauldron. She had tried to speak to Hammerhead about all this, and it was she who had blessed him with his ornamental opal but to little avail. His attention was fixed on that celestial crystal above the immoveable super-cell visible from everywhere. At the very thought of Tornado Island his rather stupid exuberance, his fool-hardy, moody courage took birth from his gorge and soon would produce a melee in his mind. This phase was with him habitual.  Black Lake covers Being itself and shines in its blackness with a consciousness perfectly pure and perfectly empty. To the Zombies, that lake is but a word, and their philosophers superciliously dismiss it from existence into the Philosophers' Gorge along with archaic rites that they treat with contempt and do not even accord the dignity of nemesis, unaware that these rites themselves both prepared them and were prepared to undo them.  The Zombies show exuberance but there really is something peculiar and stale about it. Not that the rest of us might not show such staleness as well, but still -- if you know they are Zombies . . .  The Doorkeep is another case. Is he actually asleep? Does his stare signify a modicum of sentience acquired by consummate effort? Or is he Zombie too? Just an odd specimen.  Jaguar is an ordinary, well-endowed, intelligent human, with a big cat's head and an over-plus of energy -- enough to equip The Old Hotel with a different sort of doorkeep. And Long River -- give it but a proper context and it comes alive, surely, but consciousness? Nymphs, possibly. A god to direct or divert it. But the fluent thing itself?  Black Lake requires no doorkeep. African Rattles ring its shores with appropriate sonorities, but truly its qualities reflect only those who approach it, and like the deepest sense of Deep Storage itself all forks submit before it and its sentient mind is most itself in Silence. Never Tire of The Road 14 Wench Boy's Zombies were out of focus, confused among his avatars. They pervaded The Rite as gurus, pundits, politicos, and magnates in every worldly and other-worldly endeavor. They were not distinguished by absence of focus, but if you looked in your opal you found they were not there. Zombies only rarely instigated Melee -- she herself, of course, was adorned with a radiant opal. But the garden on Tornado Island where the Zombies held assembly was a place that Melee visited frequently to exercise and put to work her focus.  Hammerhead's self-doubt generates a bifurcation among his avatars. Some possess opals, some not, with the consequences one might read about in Red Book.  Deep-streamed and essentially lazy, Long River is its own Zombie. Its avatars, if tributaries, are like itself. They are rivers of Living Time. They can flow in a torrent of watery focus, dry out down to a bed of rocks, or rush in a melee; but as water, rock, and melee, they may in time prove sentient -- well, just so.  Melee wishes to awaken Hammerhead, and in as much as she can engineer Happenstance, she can, from time to time, interfere with his slumber. But the nemesis of Hammerhead is neither lassitude nor lack of courage. It is doubt that stands a doorkeep before the garden of his consciousness.  Focus is a curious case. It can organize your African Rattle, set your exuberance to good account. But if, say, Hammerhead sets his mind on Wrench Boy, all his African Rattles shake up a rumpus, and if there is too sharp a focus, consciousness itself grows deleterious.  Jacinth at her Rite has excellent focus, approaching that of Wrench Boy's. But neither his focus nor his exuberance is essential to the final dispossession of his consciousness. If African Rattle, in his case, betokens an intentional effect, it is no bifurcation in our depiction of his nature to say that its music is absolute and uncaused. There is no chain of command between will and event.  Jaguar thinks about Zombies, not because of "doubt" like Hammerhead, but to explore with his intelligence the ontology of spirit. His focus glows in silence. His focus can countenance melee. His exuberance is food for his garden. When the Zombies toy with their Rattles out of Africa, he tries to focus on the spirit with which they carry on such activity. And here he errs, perhaps as much as Hammerhead. Cognitive melee intervenes-- because with Zombies it is impossible to positively form an image of their lack.  Jaguar is also enthralled with Tornado Island. He sees it in his sleep, for Jaguar's obliquity is a ferocious spirit, when he sleeps. Not melee merely, but for him Tornado Island is like an old hotel-- its ambient gorge and sacrificial severity, its rage of African Rattles, ceremonial drums, drums of tornado-like fury-- he sees all this in his opal with crystalline clarity and associates it to the Zombies locked in their rings.  Sacrifice is not in the repertoire of Wrench Boy. When it occurs, its account, cannot, it seems to him, be properly balanced, because Being itself is not on account. The world is asleep and its garden might was well be attended by philosophical Zombies as contemplate African Rattles, in or out of focus.  Wrench Boy attends his Zombies like a mind intent upon errant possibilities in a world where errancy itself were not possible. But Deep Storage is beyond The Possible-- hence the depths depictable in the figure of The Garden. Thus does Wrench Boy manage his focus and his focus consorts with his Melee. Interval Double Tornado. As if in phyllotaxis-- pine-cone or sunflower-- two funnels spiraling against each other around an immobile "conical meristem"-- impossible in nature but in the mind of Hammerhead-- insanity itself. Or the magic of contrary forces-- neutralization in meteorological analogy when the cosmos falls into itself and the rigid ontologies of everyone return to the single crystal (say) above the double funnel-- Hammerhead drove himself crazy thinking this while Wrench Boy (or was it Jaguar?) saw the system of possible morphologies as algorithm with parameters-- he stood on the porch of The Old Hotel-- overlooking the enormous chasm across to Tornado Island-- double funnel and cloud black canopy with radiant crystal above it and Jaguars running around it both ways at the base as if it were no tornado but its inversion as a fountain and Zombies sitting thinking thinking thinking without an opal to hold their thinking in . . . Never Tire of the Road 15 (Occupy Poughkeepsie 12-1-11, 1: AM, waiting for the police to arrive) Victory sleeps in sacrifice. The energies align on the wrong sides. Whose sleep are you in? If you hold a fist full of violets while African Rattles tighten their tinnitus, your quiet trip down Long River may almost be at an end. Jacinth sleeps to instigate Wrench Boy's focus. What's on her mind? Long River narrows then takes a plunge. Deep where memories of sudden denouement come out of storage. But the event? Sleep does not predictably terminate. Jacinth bides her Wrench Boy. Is Nemesis imminent or not? We make a patch-work of exuberance. Sacrifice is not generally the work of Long River unless its moments give, each, over to its fellow in the flow. But a cohort of doorkeeps with their African Rattles?  Wrench Boy cultivates his violets in silence, for he cannot even if he wills it absent him from Black Lake. Ominously the chassis bucks as if the parked sedan wants to be up and moving. "But no," thinks Jacinth. "We'll keep biding our Wrench Boy as the night wanes, take courage in how the fork hovers. Crystal, though she makes herself scare, is never irrelevant. See how here, in this opal, the time of Long River is an impertinent sleep. The rattles may start up at any moment and all Africa break loose-- no more reticence or slumber. The spirit is certain and committed, but does its vehicle truly understand its charge? We all await the event, I attending my opal. For the purpose of our vigil, Happenstance is All. This sleep paints violets as Nemesis, Victory is not on the agenda of the imaginable-- but a regimen of beings formally doorkeeps sleepy no more but like jaguars-- the lost sleep of jaguars-- to get a rise out of Wrench Boy. If I am Jacinth it is to keep Long River in play through however intricate our collective slumber, do we wake? Can we saturate the melee that almost in every moment threatens to pronounce itself? Melee, do you think it sufficient to zoom through The Old Hotel agitating the random night guests from their slumber as you well have power to do, but then to let them sleep again having put an inter- pretation on that agitation such that nothing of final pertinence will seem to them ever to come of it? Hammerhead himself makes a cameo appearance and Melee makes a nod to Black Lake." "I don't expect this to end prematurely," says Wrench Boy. "Jacinth's preternaturally full of the juice of The Gorge. And whose garden is it, anyway? That our Nemesis seems wont to have it, to have us out of it so peremptorily, that the Doorkeep has to be subverted, Long River diverted, our own courage vehemently tested? But do we really want to say the world is OURS? We are well-prepared now, some of us having looked long and deep in Deep Storage and plucked Obliquity out from its maw like a pearl. Let Discussion proceed apace as the night wanes." Thus spoke Wrench Boy. And Wrench Boy found Jaguar filing his teeth with a big rake. Never Tire of the Road 16 Jaguar Exuberance might well be lethal. It fills one's opal (such exuberance does) with shooting hot crystal spicules, a melee of furious forces and interesting figures out of abstract Deep Storage. You can collect these crystal spicules later, if you survive them, if your exuberance wants them, or if your courage to document ferocious phenomena gets the better of your will. It can happen while you sleep. Melee puts a fork in your own exuberance; Crystal infects your courage with her own imperative obliquities and knocks down your personal doorkeep so that a long river of cognitive obliquity skews your focus and you listen to African Rattles to get the news. Not that the obliquity of Crystal is her aberration or errant exuberance merely, or the fruit of your particular errancy. You might be skewed jump from your being sprung out of Black Lake, how do I know? Damn, it is difficult to find a crack in this singular music. African Rattle might as well be my nemesis. I have no enthusiasm at all for spicules of crystal shooting from obliquity, and Jaguar himself has purified Happenstance of my exogenous exuberance. Jacinth! Do come here. I need your Wrench Boy. I need his vigilance vis a vis Deep Storage and your deep bubbling cauldron. My issue is this: That the intimate exodus from thought and its presentations does not land one plump in the midst of exogenous Happenstance purely. One cannot just dive with zest or with cunning lassitude into a sonorous forest of African Rattles or into a gorge to dissuade oneself in a virulent gesture of whatever presentational exuberance, O Jacinth, happenstance or habitude inflicts upon the culture of your thought so that the Ideality of your crystal switches its mode and comes Real. The Spirit that regulates this business, if it is spirit or business, Old Jacinth, is a veritable melee of obliquity. My point is not at all that I find it problematic, not at all. I use The Gorge. I do The Rite. I find Exuberance foaming out of the Gorge of my Mentor. Her Gorge is my very Garden, and so forth. Jaguar is my Victory, and so forth. There is no breach twixt Happenstance and Garden . . .  Jacinth was breathing in deep and stertorous in- and exhalations as if she were sucking some force out of Deep Storage to charge each chamber of The Old Hotel with its own spectacular Wrench Boy, to switch the modality of exuberance into the taut regime of bright Crystal; obliquity to compensate melee, communion with Deep Storage to obviate the distress that obviously possessed me whether I confessed it or no. She issued to me an African Rattle to shake out what spurious, non-adaptive exuberance in fact I had not owned up to. The night broke in two. Where did I go? The courage of one of my Others transmuted my Nemesis. I became aware of The Gorge in a new way-- neither Representation of the Depths nor Access-Key to the contents of Deep Storage. For an instant I was Hammerhead. In an instant I was not. Rather than grab onto so transient an identity, I kept shaking that African Rattle with its innumerable cowrie mouths, all a-chatter. What they said-- no matter if the text of it were prepared in Deep Storage, or whether Deep Storage itself, formless, non-coercive, without message, confusing or clear: One Thought sprang out like a violet, imbued with a Tree of Silence-- leaf, flower, nut, branch, trunk, root-- all of equal exuberance, O Jacinth, like a melee's tremulous song . . . Never Tire of the Road 17 The Old Hotel hired a new Doorkeep. This one eschewed deployment of any African Rattle, whether cowrie-mouthed or plain brown charred gourd skin for the rattle's surface. No magic. Inexperienced as he was, the freshman Doorkeep formed a liaison with Hammerhead. Jacinth, seated at her cauldron construing the whole world, was definitely out. There had been complaints. Not everyone liked her world or their position in it. A fork in the time line was called for. Hammerhead, for all the checkered variety of his avatars, had never manifested as Doorkeep. Jaguar, in general, kept him at a distance so that the exuberance of each never compromised either. Jacinth's world was shunted into just one chamber. She could keep her focus at her cauldron to amuse the guests. The Doorkeep would see to it that the more exotic features of her ontology would remain-- exotic. Snakes and eagles. Hammerhead was happy to play the enforcer, while Jaguar was free to prowl about in silence or otherwise explore Happenstance as he saw fit. How would the new Doorkeep orient Crystal? Natural Nemesis or instrument of focus? Would the Doorkeep make use of his opal? A sentinel, after all, responds to Happenstance. Happenstance addresses the Doorkeep without reference to forethought or courage. If there's good order in the garden, if the Jaguar and his avatars remain in colloquy with Black Lake; if the fumes of The Gorge keep inside it; the Doorkeep at the big black door of The Old Hotel could busy himself watering the violets, if the Gorge is silent and the world at large advertises no amazement and behaves just as if it were asleep.  Forks in general were his nemesis. You would find none at all in the closets and hefty wooden cabinets of The Old Hotel. The Doorkeep's personal ritual and the extent of his personal courage was to keep things perfectly linear, if not exactly lineal. It was not always possible. If the sentinel acquired the form of an avatar of Hammerhead, "Forking" was one process by which avatars became proliferate. And the Doorkeep himself would generate avatars. When The Old Hotel multiplied entrances or chambers or unaccountably welcomed avatars of its own nemesis, the sentinels would have to invent tactics to manage such Happenstance, and Happenstance itself from time to time manifest jaguars-- avatars or multiple jaguars-- and how would one tell? Call on Hammerhead-- the Archetype Himself-- if you can attract Him, because you had equipped yourself with his form. But that would be Magic, wouldn't it!  It seemed this job might prove to be a long river. The Doorkeep might even need a Doorkeep. Even have to pluck up a Doorkeep's courage, perform a Doorkeep's magic lest Melee come out of Obliquity, ratchet up in one's habitude The Doorkeep's Revenge and open the door to unmanageable Hammerheads.  And there are many kinds of silence that at times pervade The Old Hotel, not all of them restful. One is The Nemesis of The Doorkeep, for Deep Storage under the floorboards collects a tariff of silence, and payment is not voluntary. He who is remiss and tries to keep all his tranquil commodities suffers sleep that is a melee. Its silence is broken by ten-thousand Hammerheads, every one a purveyor of obliquity. And Jaguars lurk in the garden and the garden is hospitable to jaguars. You had best work out an arrangement with Wrench Boy, for he has an arrangement with Melee. And then there is Black Lake, whose silence echoes through The Gorge. And a silence that is pure and spiritual, and as Doorkeep you must know how to seek it-- even from The Gorge-- a true, if unlikely source for it. And remember for a Doorkeep of The Old Hotel superficial dignity is your bulwark, your refuge, . . . that and a fist full of violets . . . Interval My opal goes Kantian. No sooner had Objective Numinon taken possession of my opal, than Subjective Numinon projected itself upon it. A Dark Excess of Happenstance obsesses us and all the members of The Collective examine each other to find the Absent Ineffable. Meanwhile Instrumentality performs an act and Action discovers itself to be irreducible and infinitely simple simply. Never Tire of the Road 18 The Gorge subtending Happenstance elevates Melee, for Happenstance rightly is Wrench Boy's mount. (Giddyup.) Crystal lends focus to Wrench Boy whatever the happenstance, and The Old Hotel, no matter who's the Doorkeep, proves hospitable to Crystal. Even Sleep is never impervious to Happenstance. One Wrench Boy to each chamber in The Old Hotel--a spirit countervening anyone's nemesis. So we're free. Even Hammerhead free to conspire with amenable confederates and convene a world. We all are. Jacinth comes back from her absence-- she did time in triviality but survived. Even Silence survived her absence. Crystal recovers her influence, never mind her dominance. But it is not any such mutually confederated world that is at stake here. Happenstance has a remainder that will not be configured away. The Gorge portends that too. Nemesis, too, survives-- no symbolic snake and eagle merely, though what beyond your world these figures indicate are truly worthy of your focus. Analysis neither subjugates that matter of The Gorge nor exhausts it through exuberance. We need a more universal focus for it is not this garden that is subject to some threat but what that locus of sweet delight invisibly rests upon. Jaguar does not deny it. He sees it. He stands on that endogenous aspect of Happenstance that does become in our world. Wrench Boy does not deny it. His secret sorrow provokes what it can. Neither affect nor demeanor rings the whole truth of it. Melee waits in the wings but this matter obviates all theatricality. Truly no human focus is sufficient unto this. What then? In The Old Hotel Jacinth, at long last, goes eye-to-eye with Hammerhead. Hammerhead sees Jacinth as calamitous silence-- there's nothing there-- no gat-toothed crone maw, no cauldron. Just a fork in what ought to be ontology. Two paths: Is and Is Not. And Jacinth is Is Not. She sees him as exuberance where a vast ghost vaults ready to dismantle the topology requisite any world. Crystal minds the gap between their fraught adjacency. Happenstance in Excess. Nemesis.  African Rattle is, for the most part, instrument and medium only. It doesn't act. And yet when even The Old Hotel takes thought, instrumentality might well initiate the terms, the conditions, and provide adjoint matériel wherewith even a nation of Wrench Boys might not steer clear of commerce.  Unqualified Action without mediation seems the provenance of Crystal. Sleep has nothing to do with it. Neither does the scope of The Rite. But how Happenstance--its worldless excess and remainder-- intersects with such Action-- I doubt that a glance in my opal will be sufficient to specify. So I study Obliquity. The smallest Act. The most intimate region of Happenstance. Can Hammerhead exist with this? Can Hammerhead intensify or penetrate events without Complexity?  In a way, we have waited all these pages to see that exactly Jaguar inhabits the essentials of all this: He leaps and prowls, he haunts and he devours. He inhabits without remainder the very center of his own Act. Golden energies flash from his fir punctuate by black dots. In this manner Wrench Boy bears fair witness. He puts his wrenches by and bows to behold it. The Old Hotel is the site for it. Melee provides an ambient setting of breezes. But does this resolve the matter of Dark Excess? The Old Hotel must surely partake of it. Into what does she dissolve in the interspace between her transformations? From what does she withdraw her infinite catalogue of chambers? Deep Storage digs down into the substance of Happenstance. Hammerhead is made out of hammers prior to Act--nothing immediate, little direct. Long River is entirely without Act and yet no part of it wreaks of a world. When Old Hotel demonstrates Obliquity, what's left gets offered to Jacinth, who is one part Demiurge, one part invisible to Hammerhead, for Jacinth belongs to The Gorge, thus the courage of Jacinth is ghostlike and does not diminish because she foments her world. Why does she do it? Long River is part of it. It makes a Demiurge of us all. Our focus neutralizes Doorkeep, for Focus extracts Happenstance from Nemesis. Then Silence.  Wrench Boy eases off from Happenstance. Happenstance resumes Black Lake-- remedy for every excess--even Happenstance. Otherwise-- Hammerhead. Never Tire of The Road 19 Your garden wall may very well be my nemesis-- that you have one while my violets wither rather I suppose than the withering itself. Nemesis, I guess comes in many guises. My courage may be your Hammerhead. Or you fall asleep and stay there straight through victory. Your nemesis might be a gorge that happenstance opened in your path and there was Hammerhead putting his hammer night after night to your pretty attempts at exuberance. What is this? Words themselves-- Nemesis. No victory for you but a gorge where Black Lake ought to be. Black Revelation. Exposé. Existence flattened by obliquity. The wrong foot. Moral psychology a blear gorge. The spirit of muck and a sort of Deep Storage soaked through. Leaky cabinets. Foul weather. troubled sleep. Shall I go on or let our Jaguar mutate the mood? Let him call on Crystal to penetrate gray sleep with her luminous spicules-- though spectacularly dangerous, you can see they're of some use--to chase off these Hammerheads, for instance, when black resin once again degrades the opal. No rain gear.  Well, blame it on the doorkeep. He was supposed to keep out everyone but Crystal but fell asleep. The idea that some sort of thaumaturgy, some ritual could exorcise this nemesis was the kind of thinking that thorough scoundrel Wrench Boy's always trying to get us going on. You can't banish Nemesis by shaking an African Rattle . . . can you? Yes, if you pluck one from the gorge. I'll try it! Huh! VICTORY! Now silence. Now sleep. Wrench Boy has no nemesis. Not even me. Who am I? A pretty question. He alone courts Melee. Victory would be his nemesis. That's why he's so solicitous never to have one. His garden might seem like silence, but exuberance of spirit transforms The Gorge. His inexhaustible luminosity just cleared our opal.  Refocus everything. Her comes Crystal-- not spiculate but bristling with clarity, Wrench Boy transfigured, Hammerhead happy to see Wrench Boy, even The Gorge aglow as Long River floods everybody's nemesis, Wrench Boy and Wrench Wench, like two festive bumpkins, crack open their kegs out of storage, not deep, but easy, Nemesis its own nemesis, old hotels so full of joy they open fifty branches, one at every bend along Long River, Absurdity, Ecstasy, Morbidity, solemnity-- a pack of cards comprising all psychology-- Crystal instinct with vast silence-- Eternity at The Sign of The Fork. u Never Tire of The Road 20 Long River guarantees compensation for its own obliquity. How much? Crystal's obliquity opens the Jaguar Road around Tornado Island. Who knows what happens now? Wrench Boy harasses the weather. The exuberance of his mind stream merges with Jaguar's. An ever-growing wave-field powers up for obliquity: VAROOM! And the garden stands up to Nemesis. The Mayor can't stand his ground. Peculiar, absurd, transparently mendacious stipulations of the Fire Chief, devised to freeze us out with cold regulation. . . When sweet morning comes Wrench Boy's still there in the straw- bestrewn bed tents, wise-assing the municipal doorkeep, Jaguar, dancing an oblique, jig-like, dance . . . Personality recedes, then returns, refreshed.  This is a list. Knots in the garden, to get things started, won't. Because of this, sacrifice silence. We're young. We'll outlast the fire chief. Happenstance is a standing wave called in The Great Rite. Street leeches pester Hammerhead in his grand white cloak. Jaguar slinks behind a red tree. He sacrifices his tea break and thinks to have a look down along Long River. It will take some work by Wrench Boy to tease the plot back on track. So much obliquity spoils the pot. Obliquity nevertheless brings its own sort of victory.  What's really happening? I understand why one would ask that question. Still, it is the wrong one. The point is we are sitting in a garden though the weather is atrocious. Rainy night. Featherbed Lane and the cars drive by. Another flavor of Black Lake. A fork once again-- this time not only in the time line but in the way exuberance plays itself out.  To be young and swept away by people that actually make sense after a childhood of public absurdities-- To be old and swept away by the young who actually make sense, after a lifetime of universal absurdities-- one hundred fire chiefs in the night rain one hundred Wrench Boys, Wrench Girls with signs in front of the beer halls in front of the bank and now an old hotel without creature-comforts, certainly, with no incentives for pointless heroics when the fire chiefs ride over the rooftops on their nosey red engines leading a cadre of Hammerheads in various phases of potentially lethal exuberance . I understand very well how you all would form a chain of magnetic wrenches, form congo lines and shake those African Rattles-- only absurdity answers absurdity, that's a certainty. Existence itself can seem one's nemesis. You want to find out just who has a jaguar, who not. But unheroic difficulties take place obliquely to their imageries. You can't just chase them back. Obliquity once engaged even in an opal remains obliquity. What tricky business that solicits your allegiance if any do you follow? Sign here. You cogitate and dance and plan a path strewn with petals of violets. Little likelihood they lead to a garden. Jaguar comes into focus . . .  3:00 A.M. Red Engines head toward the battlements. Mechanical crocodiles loom and swoop. The plot resumes. The pot boils. Bubbling fluids or freezing scour the parks. The Great Wave trembles. The chain of magnetic wrenches holds for a moment. Ten-thousand spirits occupy the garden then in a flash disperse. Deep Storage empties. Nemesis is an army of mechanical crocodiles; Nemesis is the spooks of the fire chief devouring the tents in the garden. The people scatter to their caves and elevators; their lacoliths and basoliths inside Broken Mountain. Jaguar and Wrench Girl in the van guard. Nemesis is not that Melee abandons Wrench Boy or Jaguar demands great sacrifice or that ghosts exhaust the attitudes of Wrench Boy. We'll sleep, then do the Rite of public assembly at whatever locus remains possible, let Happenstance and the wrong side of Hammerhead turn Process into Sacrifice as it may. Jaguars cogitate and Jaguars circulate the gorge and watch the quincunx of tornadoes at Tornado Island as if it were as it were a garden of violets and Nemesis meets its Jaguar and the Country of Courage never tires of the road Never Tire of The Road 21 Deep Storage in the Night Room. Silence uncontaminated by Hammerhead. Silence tops activities sponsored in old hotel rooms. Just to go in there takes courage. The Doorkeep of The Old Hotel is sworn to silence. He cannot tell what he hears or what he sees. Long River need not be besworn: Obliquity befits him. If he is an old man, he holds his tongue and never thinks about victory. Happenstance is inured to silence: What is there to say but what occurs already? If The Old Hotel is The World--our world-- then (but who are we?) Long River is the Time in it-- each world has one conjured in an opal-- the machinations of some spirit . . .  Black Lake: relief. You don't have to float away. Long River isn't something you check out against a catalogue of entities registered in Deep Storage. The exuberance of Wrench Boy isn't logged in as a qualification of some room in The Old Hotel. Silence has a ghost in it. One by one let us evacuate the spontaneous posits of the ontology that suggests itself, shall we? Even The Gorge devours its own growths. Wrench Boy exceeds his "person." You can't catch an opal on the fly. Focus is not useless, but the task at hand gets passed the Doorkeep of your consciousness. It doesn't matter if you're young or old in this work there is no anticipation of victory, no exaggeration in the advent of Melee. I'm trying to tell everything, tell myself everything--Silence is corrosive sublimate; you don't just keep it, you apply it. Violet might be the goddess Venus. What of it? She undrapes Nature in your opal-- an old conceit -- anybody's nemesis. Nemesis is anybody's silence. It keeps The Old Hotel from revealing some species of Everything in your inviolate opal.  Shall we declare victory or not? Even if we have one? Even if the Doorkeep -- the whole genus of watchmen, of sentinels absorbs the complementary misery of our loss for us? Even if long River flows Deep Storage away? The enemy attacks from the north from the east in a squadron of zeppelins; from the barracks inhabited only by fire chiefs-- what world is this? WHAM! VAROOM!  The evacuation of ontology is no sacrifice though it might be. An opal is no entity. The Old Hotel takes out rooms in an old hotel. Is there only one opal? Possibly. But why? Because Black Lake and Sleep are one Jaguar and Africa has not exhausted its germination of rattles . . .  This silence is a pause . . . so that a garden where Tornado Island at that oxbow Zombie locus of Long River puts a hesitation in our focus and a world gets by the doorkeep and the five tornadoes of our Consciousness and Deep Storage puts up another Jaguar . . . Never Tire of The Road 22 A fork in the general spirit. Wrench Boy on the fence. Not just a ghost from The Gorge. Not this time. Jaguar preternaturally quiet. Happenstance without a clue. A rift--unfathomable. When we gaze in The Gorge, a dark spirit flashes, then nothing. Deep Storage evacuated. Eviscerated. [I shot up to the top of the sky then zoomed down and looked at my shoes. Rubber galoshes in the stairwell, basement fixed up with wooden panels. Rain clothes, snow clothes, hanging on hooks. A green woolen overjacket. Little bowling pins. What did it smell like? Shoe polish? The convertible couch. The smell of its rough brown cover. What Hortense smelled like. And they say I had weak olfactories. Deep Storage crowded, dense, one time laid out on another. No space. No totality. Printer's ink. Dektol.] What is the sense of this silence? Jaguar thinks at last he understands. We've been asking "all the wrong questions." Nemesis imposed upon intelligence. The spirit of The Gorge has not exhausted Deep Storage. It's still there gestating what The Old Ones euphemistically refer to even now as their "African Rattles." All is in question, but not the right question. What's happened to Black Lake? Not a ripple. Undone by futile inquisition. What if it weren't courage that impelled the inquiry? Bifurcation even in silence. Look the other way. African Rattles over the hill. Jaguar collects a lexicon and intends to submit the entries to a jury of cognitive incendiaries. The idea is to cozen one's nemesis. Take tea in Inquiry's Garden.  Suddenly it seems there are lawyers everywhere-- forensic technicians, laboratory specialists, personnel from the institute whose business it is to elaborate questions with professional efficiency and an astringent lack of courtesy, not gardens of private inquiry but agribusiness -- thousands of acres dedicated to exhausting the industrial field. The product: inquiry itself brought to a terrible focus. Is this the right question? Can one, alone, correct this in a night with that single African Rattle essential to one's self as if it were an opal planted in sleep, holy incubation, a temple equipped with precisely that question from the very beginning formulated just for you, there was a committee among Authority; they planted a ghost in a crystal, the nemesis in it suppressed, a time set aside for you to sit in your lair alone with your African Rattle prepared for a private victory: you rented a chamber in The Old Hotel; you conjured your personal jaguar; you balanced his perspicacity, his intensity with your prescient obliquity; you deployed your African Rattle and its propensity for Melee to hold her spirit at bay-- you hired an adequate doorkeep; you could smell the proximity of victory.  The Old Hotel was rife with precisely the wrong questions, your jaguar poised to ask them, African Rattles set to stun with interrogatives; The Old Hotel, the whole ancient edifice, the Old Ones who orchestrate its schedule, all in the interrogative mood, exuberance for inquiry permeates happenstance.  There is a fork in obliquity, a victory garden to commemorate the inquiry.  Density is superceded by Continuum, whose points are all the questions you bring to The Old Hotel -- all the right and the wrong ones. Jaguar, dislodged from happenstance, bestirs himself to think this: It's a trick! I don't believe it! He sits in the Temple of Continuity that was never built out of Points-- neither is it a garden. A fork in the being of inquiry. What possessed me? I am the grim incendiary. I bring conflagration to consciousness. I take out rooms in The Old Hotel just as you do. I am He-Who-Has Mastered all the ghosts. I come to eviscerate courage, exhaust the life of the road. Long River is your nemesis for it delivers all the wrong propositions and what is a ghost but a question, an absence brought to a focus? Happenstance can never correct this, even if The Old Hotel were, every room of it, full of jaguars, come to make a sacrifice to happenstance, get straight to the point, no questions.  African Rattles came over the hill. You are sleeping The Sleep of Violets entwined around the handsome handles of Hammerhead-- African Rattles come over the hill to purge The Old Hotel. Interval The army of Hammerheads organized the thought of Wrench Boy, securing just such universal concepts, metaphors, and values as were capable of institutional development into means of general control. Thought is power; ontology is magic. Being itself has turned into a hammer-- love into fiduciary instruments, commity into The Bank. This was a once and future narrative; narratology once cognized, become instrument to curtail critique. Wrench Boy turned against his own thought. . . he built Tornado Island out of human bewilderment; he broke the Holy Mountain; he caused Black Lake to cease to ripple it vanished into a dispersement of opals -- human beings with internal consciousness almost inaccessible to themselves -- awakening only possible in slumber -- thought its own surcease. By 511 there were decrees condemning monks for diverting grain that was supposed to be used for charitable purposes to high-interest loans . . . major campaigns of government repression 845 A.D. 4600 monasteries razed along with their shops and mills 260,000 monks and nuns forcibly defrocked and returned to their families . . . 150,000 temple serfs released from bondage . . . well possibly. Official reason: the need to restore the money supply. China was running out of metal. Wrench Boy said let's build our own bank, throw out the Hammerheads -- change the very attitude towards the institution of reality . . . Never Tire of The Road 23 Plotinus exacerbates focus so that out of Black Lake all beauty takes a berth. ("Berth" with an "e".) Beauty thus must receive a fire storm from beyond all adamantine hierarchy. Take courage. Pace Plotinus, Black Lake is ubiquitous. And yet we must have a garden on the side of the road that Beauty's Rose might bring us peace in our feckless wanderings even -- evenings at the old hotel, cocktails in the lounges -- you don't have to conform to the dress code but you want to after a swim in the clear lagoon then a shower in the trendy bath to scrub the salt off. You don't have to conform to the dress code. Nemesis: The Black Hand of Obstruction chokes off the green fuse in the garden where Black Lake might have provisioned restorative waters. If I am a fork in the spirit, let Old Hotel provide invariant medicine in cream colored tins for a nickel at the pharmacy to rigorize obliquity--to make it stick. Everyone talking out of the side of their mouths. And they HAVE Black Lake compressed into Jellies in cream colored tins. The garden is huge. It has forking paths and labyrinths to lead us through fascination's melee into the heart of The Rite. Steel drums and naked dancers. Black Lake between the pulse crests at the troughs of rhythm's conjuring where Hammerhead's anxiety reads only dangerous melee -- Beauty's opal's lustre from Black Lake -- the garden of African Rattles' secret melee -- white fire in a rush of sonority--dangerous to perpetual celebration at the old hotel -- festival mahem 100 days per year or more all the doors open at the Old Hotel to sustain the appetite -- beauty tuneful yet timeless, time-shape and time-beat sustained from there where time is not -- impossible possible because Black Lake vanishes into its own menagerie which is a gorge where jaguars cogitate so handsome! and they prowl-- prowl then charge, then sit down weighed down suddenly by eternal lassitude--yes eternal-- the shadow of lassitude is a place and they pass into it and sit down and there is the sound of African Rattles.  Nemesis stops Long River. Do you like my confessional poetry? Jaguar is astonished. Which side of Nemesis are you on? The Old Hotel is a dottering old god. It poses no question worth pondering. So we pulled up and flew off away to Tornado Island, risks to be taken at each twist of the trip. Your worth is marked by the risk you've taken, or should be. I carried a fork made of five special woods plus ivory. Won't tell where I acquired that ivory. But I know a man among the Newburgh Druids who fashions magnificent pool cues out of five woods plus ivory balanced preternaturally for billiards. Incongruous Druids.  Jaguars pour over the gorge. Said Jaguar: "I wish I could stay put with my opal, take obliquity for man-goad and fork. How can one fix an attitude out of Deep Storage? One cannot remain at Black Lake. I am either aflame or inert or both in some algorithm that controls their alternation. The Gorge surrounds us with intolerable silences, neat little gardens where the crones pretend senility and innocence while stabbing their forks in the sod. Has Wrench Boy abandoned The Old Hotel -- taken his stance in obliquity out of Deep Storage deep under some decorative garden?  Actually, I like forks. They look like courage to me. I am anybody's nemesis. It takes sacrifice and consultations with crone Jacinth and access to Black Lake to master my obliquity. Even I must muster extravagant focus. And I like The Gorge. I let my Jaguar avatars escape from my opal. My obliquity jazzes The Old Hotel. It is a matter of aesthetics. The point is to obviate narcolepsy and gain access to Black Lake for all beneath whom Black Lake works a natural fatality. Happenstances serves Black Lake according to me. Whom do I serve? Exuberance. Exuberance itself, my sparkling diadem, my crystal." Never Tire of The Road 24 Narcolepsy has ritual properties, but Jaguar charge The Rite by loosing Long River from its bound-up dragon gorge. Henceforth obliquity'twists the river in elegant rhythmic pulses around Tornado Island. All our rituals reflect this. We focus properly and touch Black Lake quite naturally. The Gorge remains there, its dragon roiling -- the quality of life itself according, that is, to The Living; but The Dead need silence too and in the new dispensation, the lion-dragon gleams from The Dead. The Rites of Long River are majestic: all beings bestow their focus on their Druids. They can do this, being instructed, each affined to her Jacinth and assigned her perfect opal. I say narcolepsy tips the aesthetic and jostles Jacinth and rushes Long river and stimulates the African Rattles that tand as sentinels in a ring on Tornado Island. Focus in that place is non-ordinary. Even the doorkeeps are startled.  There is a sort of sacrifice at the fork where Being splits into its missing garden and the propagation of Hammerheads: white sharks and bald bankers. Deep Storage lies beneath Tornado Island in the form of an Old hotel buried long ago and consigned to obliquity's gorges, so that The Rite alone of torqued weather marks reference to it. All things are loosed in a mind whose winds are formed like twisters organized and savage. But the Collective has lost its focus, predictably. Long River fluctuates back and forth from its work with ghosts. Jacinth stirs in her slumber's perennial obliquity. We set Crystal into the Rite, get back to our opals to ascertain whether spring will be our nemesis, assuming we get there. Non-ordinary focus works in Inquiry's Garden -- questions pop up everywhere in recalcitrant earth. The Gorge hath no doorkeep. And it is not requisite to sacrifice at Black Lake. You can ignore the little Druids and the demands of that doorkeep: just drink and dive in.  In The Old Hotel Wrench Boy sat performing a sort of sacrifice to Inquiry's Garden. Everything was questionable. There was an edge beneath each certainty -- quick light flickering till you looked at it, then the kind of stillness that feels like it ought not be stillness. Melee had bribed the doorkeep and snuck in Jacinth to The Great Red Lounge. African Rattle waited upon happenstance.  Victory was itself a kind of rite -- a great light above Black Lake. As far as you could see the Druids were lined up along the stable embankment stones containing The Roots of Exuberance. Interval Gem-freak Jacinth lived in a jumble of kazoos and strung-together beach detritus but kept her opals in columns and rows primed for The Rite. Night was more than Night. It was Black Lake in which her mind entire emitted fine luminous fibers to stretch across its own blackness. And if spirits were to manifest anywhere, it would be in a mind so accoutered and blackened with silence. Perfect obliquity permitted this. She wielded her own nemesis as other practitioners consumed each other's happenstance. She stood as righteous sentinel before each excitement and enticement. No lethargy jaded her focus. A ring of forks handle-ends stabbing the sod. And night-creek moon-lit cold rill light tickled the garden and tumbled huge stones in the gorge. The Old Hotel was on blue alert: jaguars parked in a row before the great oak doors. Infinite courage charged Wrench Boy. Hammerhead was nervous and primed. Never Tire of The Road 25 "I'm excited about your opals," said the fence. He'd set himself up in the guise of a squint-eyed bursar in the narrow lobby of The Old Hotel, and he posted a small notice above the bars at the burse to the effect that anyone's treasures, particularly opals, might be placed in safe-keeping in a locked closet, no danger of their slipping into some trough of Deep Storage. His mind was a garden of quirky devices. He knew well how to poison your silence.  "You don't put things in Deep Storage," I volunteered irritably. "The thing puts you in its lists or sometimes on notice. If you possess impertinent opals, they become separated from your arrangements. You go to sleep, and that itself is a rite that simply takes you into its arrangements based no doubt on situations the noonday garden of your noonday life specify in their noonday spirit. One good opal arranges Deep Storage entire. Sleep is cleansed thereby, pure again, like crystal. No situation dreams this. But a clamoring of beach-strewn kazoos jazzed up by a troop of terrifying, goofy musicians rides in on the dawn of a dream that cannot end. Black Lake sinks into The Gorge where silence is polluted by hammerheads. That's why his opal is clouded and his focus seems incompetent to extend through his slumber. How do you purify silence? You ride Long River as long as you must in sleep or in states of innocent exuberance as Happenstance or strenuous practice stimulates. No one knows what sleep is -- you don't do it; it does you. In the middle of the melee of your noonday it is your nemesis. In its proper allotment, your opal.  I rode my African Rattle right up to the fork where the Gorge made opalescent dreams grow out of the ground from Deep Storage. A dream can be your nemesis." Wrench Boy was talking right out of his opal. "Victory! The Gorge is blooming with violets!" "Why?" "Why not?" There was no necessity to obviate the muse in his opal. He could conjure whatever he wished right out of the depths never apart from his Crystal.  Tornado Island is no stranger to exuberance. Its gardens in obliquity twist as tornadoes touch down -- two or five like the tines of our instrument -- how many tornadoes locked in to your perfect crystal?  Hammerhead remembered his Higher Hammerhead-- idiocy redeemed by idiocy filtered by opals and the sound of African Rattles rushing through his own extravagance. His mind was glutted with ghosts -- a peculiar sensation, but he liked it -- better than ordinary slumber, anyway. Jaguar stood as the door keep of silence -- to keep it out -- until exuberance was quite exhausted and they all hung their African Rattles up on their hooks. Never Tire of The Road 26 At the end of the road -- a doorkeep. Gracious and relieved. No rigorous stipulations. No mean exclusions. Just open the door and allow whomever approaches go through. On the other side of the door an enormous forest of African Rattles or else a great gorge surrounded by African Rattles whose handles terminate in a five-tined fork. On the other side of the door a path to Long River and a ghost of a child offers his ghastly fingers as a hand to guide you to the Rock Behind the Broken Mountain where the path bifurcates. One way wends through a forest of African Rattles and all residual exuberance is sapped. At the end of the other they give you at long last your opal. The road has been along Long River all along. At the end of the river -- Black Lake. With solemnity you agitate your African Rattle no matter which tine of the fork you happen to choose, whioch chooses you. an action prepared to drain off your last modicum of exuberance. On the other side of the door your avatar of Hammerhead terminates all tendency in your nature to stimulate material or cognitive melee.  Shake your African Rattle and put this question: Is the end of the road a good thing? Open that door and a jaguar with a fist full of violets in his fore-paw may or may not be your nemesis. One thing is certain: this is no ordinary garden here on Tornado Island and Deep Storage has liberally opened its city of ghosts who traffic in a cold sort of exuberance. Nobody owns language, but all possess and deploy it as it were their own. And there remains a ghastly doorkeep and the door creaks as he pushes it. It gets heavier and harder to open onto such language as at the end of the road you wish to deploy. You slide through with difficulty if your mind is too portly, but the downward passage is dark and Deep Storage is empty.  That is a good thing. Each lexical slot is replaced by a crystal. It's a good thing too you've come equipped with a fork and quiet exuberance survives on account of your studied obliquity and an African Rattle is a versatile instrument, no matter the character or mood and office of the doorkeep.  Over time I've accumulated and impressive cache of African Rattles. I use them to intensify my focus and catherize the qualities of my garden, keep those ghosts at bay, sleeping mostly. Yet I know no anodyne against narcolepsy more natural than an African Rattle unless it be an afternoon or evening well-spent with red-haired melee.  I've kept my exuberance as a sublimate once I learned the working of crystal. She herself may be your nemesis with her silicon riokan full of motionless ghosts and her exemplary focus, but I've found a garden to which there is no path and the spirits that attend it know ell to compel Long River and exhibit consummate courage. Never tire of the road that starts nowhere, and you cannot cognize while on it if it ever ends.  Jacinth hath no need to dissipate her exuberance for her rite itself acts as a doorkeep and she shares her own nature with her ghosts and Wrench Boy is her syzygy (that's a secret) and African Rattle has its uses at well-defined ceremonial junctures.  The road itself is like an old hotel -- its spirit is composed of many by-ways. Deep Storage is an index to everything but resolves over night to Black Lake.