The False Is The Form of the True, Series II Interval 1 Do I deserve the being I am? Complacency langors. Concentration bides its happenstance. Luminous webwork from everywhere focused through Crystal mounted on her tower-- Better resume the shadows than expose oneself to the Mothers' lethal glances (Night-turn to the Ominous . . . The False is The Form of the True II 1 Jaguar: A new set of tasks in spite of the familiarity of Violets. You may deploy secret Moles, consult with circumspect Wrench Boy. What is new is the Ocean: her many faces are anything but Distraction. No Mole can tunnel beneath her. Her deepest harmonic is Crystal, and yet the analagon is the night, which again, is no Distraction. Jaguars stand as sentinels marking the night-hours. Black Violets. The Mole retracts to its Glob. Wrench Boy is studious. He must discover the new use of the Drum. Likewise African Rattle. One keeps it tucked away, ceremonially, in its small Black Box. The Drum will rumble on its own, spontaneously sensitive to events within its the horizon. Wrench Boy sits, alert on his Jaguar mount. Violets tremble in the ambient. The apprehensiveness is Global. Jaguar waits for the sound of an African Rattle. No Tongue wags. Time itself is like a Glob.  Absence. A strain on the ear--no Rattle. Retrain the Mole. Black Lake is a curious memory that flashes and vanishes. The Captain cannot afford it, in spite of, or perhaps because he has a sentimental attachment to racemes of Violets. All are awaiting the advent of ghastly Armies arising out of the night and their eerie Drumming, with whom there'll be, all fear, no Reconciliation.  Melee is not yet. Light on the jagged waves of a disconcerting Ocean. Hammerhead sits in the windows of a thousand evanescent brick towers. Their beacons rotate erratically across the hidden waters. The sound of a Rattle interferes with subtleties of cognizance.  Jaguars prowl the edges of an ultimate Ocean. Distractions may well Mask further Distraction, but Distractions are now not easy to countenance. Concentration occupies the populace. This is no time for Justice but for Rattle and Drum. Infinite night. Black Crystal. Inversions of Moonlit sightings. Queer work exigent for the Mole. Even the zoos are alert without Distraction.  So many nations, astir from their geographies, mix and match to Establish their curious Tongues-- ghost throngs from everywhere merge in the train of Dame Night-- mysterious women from elsewheres particular to each affected locality. Locality wanders with the wandering populations, yet each nation commissions the Moles to penetrate its neighbors. Globular companies display amoebic boundaries. Operatives tunnel everywhere across the fluent differences of the nations.  A Rattling of windows in the night-wind. The affect is Global. Nations on horses, nations on the wind.  The thought of Black Lake flashes across the memory of Jaguar, causing his golden fur to flash and gleam behind his jagged black spots.  "What must we Attribute to the forbearance of the Drums?" he wonders. Just then the drums begin. This is no Distraction. The False Is The Form of The True II 2 Distract all Hammerheads. The moon's globe, attributed to Mask. The quality of the progeny out of Africa-in-ruins will prosper forever while the others lie flat shooting up violets. Distraction--perennial to Hammerhead, even now. The ominous moon-sheen globe over Black Lake establishes a face: Black Lake to balance the world globe. Every image its own distraction. Hammerhead must master the Moon of his own Distraction, establish his jaguar mouth to eat his moon.  Ocean shines in the same night as Dame Night and her ghost train-- their mask and tributary armies throng in the intermediary air. Dame Night would be Melee-- a mask attributed to Melee-- in the presence of the quivering moon.  Justice preoccupies Jaguar. He thinks: "Hostile Mothers. In an evil world nurturance is inverted. The sea-waves are cast against themselves. Crests are blades. The stars are wicked eyes. The Great Sea is angry behind the stony veil." Dame Night's name is not yet Violet. She speaks in a Tongue whose quality is like a big moon. It Establishes Violet as her own Black Box. She mutters and holds converse with Wrench Boy as if his syzygy. They speak of the Infinite, but Violet yet marshals no armies. The Night Dame is Melee, the Moon-- the molder of night-train Captains, the wielder of singular African Rattles, the rider of chariot horses, attuned to the rumor of a Great Conciliation. The horses require neither taut rein nor goad. They leap to an African Rattle. The charioteers are roused on the wind on the night plain. Their souls are made out of horses. Certain matters are bespoken alone through holy imageries, not events among waking persons; but we ourselves pass through veils and walls; strange commutation, betwixt, between, and among events and imageries. Ocean shines as if the thought of Black Lake-- O luminous absence. . . Crystal breaks through all the world-- light, her tributary. Wrench Boy mounts his Jaguar, a Tribute to establish the Drum, establish Black Lake under Moon behind betwixt and among established perpetually. Interval 2 (The Eagle) The Elder's eagle was our guide. We turned at noon into the labyrinth of gauze and adobe. I said to the five adjutant children, "We have taken a wrong turn, though indeed we've journeyed well along our allotted pathway, slid ever-agilely down steep declivities, racing without digression through the green plain; still we have turned wrongly. Now we must climb through the gauze and adobe back into the noon light. The eagle will guide us." The eagle was high above not only ourselves, but had a grand survey of all geography. He waits upon our inquiry . . . Interval 3 (Wrench Boy's Dream) He wants to build and inhabit an enormous castle on an archipelago with ten-thousand windows and a shining crystal luminous inside a central chamber receiving light from everywhere sending focused beacons out from ten-thousand windows But the castle had a small door under the great rocks that supported it and Wrench Boy escaped through that door and passed into the ocean . . . The False Is The Form of The true II 3 The African Rattle is an emblem on the crest of an imperial Wrench Boy. Every captain has one. Also: Moon over Wrench. All the nations, aligned in transient conciliation. Occultation of Melee. She retires to the hut behind her large bench. Established captains parade the nations. Hammerhead establishes, through his hammered out plates of geography, an irregular empire adjacent to the imperial confederacy of nations. Another Imperium looms. He too has an African Rattle, not only Wrench Boy. He too keeps captains. And an emblematical big moon. History is thus Black Box. What time is this? Justice dons its Mask. Black Box dons its Moon. African Rattles emanate persons and languages, Wrench Boys and surrogate captains. African Rattles back up anthems of Justice, lend traction to captains.  But multiple are the empires recently tributary to Melee. She comes out of her hut. Nothing conciliates Ocean. Crystal is for the moment invisible, contributes to Black Box, augmenting Infinity.  Naked armies rise from small black boxes stashed like mines on the plains. Armies crisscross the globe, their captains established in anticipatory ignorance.  Reconciliation is the face of the Infinite. Hammerhead withholds such sagacity from his captains. He'd rather have African rattles iterate absences. His captains keep jaguars circling captains' quarters. Justice inverts the practices of Absences.  The zealot Violet's patch-blotch geography redirects conciliation to a mole's discretion. She transforms herself into an eternal distraction. Conciliation smothers the utterance of Justice, establishing a bruit dream. She has been abused that traction dismisses conciliation. Her Justice rattles its Africas. She too now generates captains, her justice, tense to be established, her horses possessing her captains, affecting at last, a tense reconciliation with Melee. History--Black Box-- written in the ratchety noise of war's black rattle. The False Is The Form of The true II 4 Establish the mole and his armies, their captains and horses, like a geographically organized system of crystal, the order of which is Justice itself: budge an inch and the armies bristle with potential agitation and compensatory violence. But Imperial Wrench Boy's attitude toward Justice is a trickster's sense to disestablish the rigidity of all global armies--even his own. He forces his captains to face their drummers' secret penchant for Melee. If the face of a captain shows too intransigent a trace of established decorum, he is demoted or promoted to the posture of a mole-- impossible for the armies in general to establish which. He dreams of a profusion of African Rattles, a forest for the trees, displacing all armies.  Here I give an inner arrangement of affinities. Moon with disrupted armies. Drums and re-wildered some-time chariot horses. Being itself as Black Box. Freelance moles and trickster- imperial Wrench Boys, who attribute secretly re-wildered horses (their chariots quietly assigned) with the native energy of crystal. And Crystal herself a focus device of Infinity.  Such compensatory disruptions do not, however, spell out the conditions for reconciliation. African Rattles agitate the all-but ultimate Ocean. Quivering moon change educates armies.  Across Black Lake and inverted within it other empires rattle their Africas. Wrench Boys, other than compensatory, neither by any means his avatars, distract their own armies with drum rolls. Wrench Boy is a mask for the moon: mere immutabilities don illegible complexities.  Jaguar will not sue for empire. His invisible avatars prowl all the armies. They require no mask, no queered attributions. Their concern is the harmonics of the globe.  Hammerhead manages with well-managed horses. He follows the rigorous order of the moon phase. He has with exactitude and consummate zeal trained in this. His African Rattles are bonded to Eurasian horses. His dream is his drum.  We provide thus a catalogue of empires. They all abut the night, unbeknownst or knowingly, the vassals of Night Dame.  Crystal has no empire other than the manner each abuses the luminosity her focus effuses. Her horses animate Violet, who activates her armories with unlikely floreate propensities.  All the armies exhibit certain affinities. They speak in tongues from one source mutually mutilated. They mount the same re-wildered horses. Remote from the attributes of which they are familiarly cognizant they instantiate crystalline orders and that to infinity.  The possibility of war is Absence, not only armies and horses; the secrets of the Night Dame's affinity for the shadows and light lanes of Crystal. Interval 4 The rebels of Ajabaja --Central Bhorijada--were resubdued by the Hammerheads in 671-673. In 673, Moles made Ajabaja a separate governorship and appointed Black Violet its first governor. The latter crossed Long River in 674 and raided Black Lake, the commercial city of the Kingdom of the Vaults, forcing the Vaults to pay tribute. When Moles died in 681, the succession was troubled. Civil War (684-693) ensued, during which most of Ajabaja regained a de facto though not de jure independence. After revolts and other internal troubles, Melee (r. 685-705) became Black Box, and control over nearmost Ajabaja was tremblingly restored, though no longer by the Hammerheads. In 695 Melee retired, appointing a new governor over Old Hotel and its messuages. This was Wrench Boy, while Melee retained Deep Storage, claiming separate sovereignty. Due to disastrous rebellions and weak governors in surrounding petty-empires, Melee quietly added The Old Bank to Ajabaja and resumed governorship, now over a severally enhanced and strangely fortified Deep Storage in 697. Her empire had no center. Her forces sprang up as if out of nowhere, granting license or enforcing cruel astringency, according to happenstance or whim. This yielded to Wrench Boy control over half of the old Hammerheadian Empire for the rest of Melee's reign and all of that of her daughter, Crystal I [r. 705-715]. Wrench Boy was circumspect and able to accommodate Melee. When Melee retired a second time, he formed a conjugal alliance with Empress Crystal which lasted until her demise, at which point it manifested that the rebels of Ajabaja had been secretly tolerated under Melee's attenuated survey and now became active once again, only to be resubdued by recrudescent Hammerheads. . . Interval 5 (Dame Night) Dame Night is Ocean. The armies out of black boxes surely are her minions. Who are the captains? What are the nations? Patch-blotch geographies-- the wanderings of peoples-- driven by lust or hunger-- the daylight of their ramblings masks nocturnal natures. Being self-transverts to living squads and multitudes-- bankers and day-traders-- Exchange but reciprocal tribute-- debt and accumulation-- violence itself reciprocal summing to naught-- standard deviation-- the hordes of the dead in Dame Night's night train-- armies sucked on the night train-- conquest by horse-back archers come out of a giant tree-- premonition articulate in drum rattle heard by the women who sit on their benches-- sympathetic agitation of dry drum skins. The men turn into wolves equipped with iron whips with which to chase off the Invisibles-- they ride on iron bicycles up impossibly declivitous hill roads-- catch the angular sky lights like darts in tough flesh-- elaborate cities rise to block return path boulevards-- there is no exit to their maze-ways. You cannot fly through so many red brick walls. Better abandon the field and wake up in your hut . . . Interval 6 (Books) There is no such matter as a book. What then is this in which we read? Vanishing thoughts like all others-- whose apparition is apparent for a different span and in a manner peculiar to its matter. A boat appeared on Black Lake. It was an empty cask without engine, sail, or paddle-- colored white; carved out of a long thick tree. Now it was full of numerous books and persons. Now it turned black and became indistinct from the Lake. The False Is The Form of The true II 5 Justice quivers like the moon. The Ocean and its armies whose absences Violet manipulates-- her dream of an ocean at odds with itself-- disturbs the whole globe. Let's drum up some justice as the moon wanes. Ocean and its armies mask Black Lake. Vast Crystal unmasks all armies till Justice's moon tides Ocean and Justice, as Black Lake, re-establishes the harmonic of Ocean. Some call this History.  Black Box. Come off it. All this establishes nothing. The globe rattles on out of Africa and every other continent in ruins-- holds the ocean close-- it will not evaporate away -- YET -- even if we use up or poison its fishes. Some call this history. Let the adjutants of Black Lake beat the drum and change the terms of the narrative: vis: Crystal's mask is her own Fate. The mask of Melee, the very form of distraction whose absence peculiarly allows Melee to resolve with her ocean and resume her private dream, the missing mask subverting and subtending narrative and history.  Wrench Boy no longer seeks to establish a dream. Justice mauls history, and, vice versa, certainly. Imagine all the Moles of history suing for reconciliation. However, we know an ocean whose terms are other than terrestrial.  Where are we, then? History, narrative, logic. Consider that logic is horses. Violet remembers her innocence as Innocence itself and quarrels its absence means deeply reconciliation with Hammerhead.  Violet, if Innocence, is equally Mask itself. The Captain of all the Moles? Impossible. These at least, can, in principle, offer no reconciliation-- unless-- exactly these comprise a confederacy, naturally. No need of a pact between them.  Light on ocean does dazzle. Jaguars seem made of hot gold light. When jaguars are absent there seems a missing piece so that even if reconciliation is worked out, there is no justice in the grand sense. Violet must hold her tongue, for when the Face of Absence is all there is of reconciliation, "there ain't no justice . . . and there ain't supposed to be none." Interval 7 (The Glockenspiel) Wrench Boy remained seated in his form. He was a statue of bronze lodged on a bench. Resting on his forearms was a most excellently balanced wrench of tempered steel. In his suite on the second level of The Old Hotel suspended in delicate fish-net web-work was a system of wrenches of many dimensions such that if you struck them sensitively with small mallets each gave off a well-tuned tone, and his rooms themselves became a marvelous metalaphone or glockenspiel to which he retired when time permitted and indulged himself in an ecstasy of golden improvisations. It was through the tones of his glockenspiel that he often summoned his syzygy, for then she was a creature of golden music only. Interval 8 (Imperial Business) When one hundred thousand hammerheads were routed by the peoples of adjacent empires whose minds were said to be like flaming ladders-- they chased themselves forever upward in exulted flight from contamination by tiny tong-like beings-- the surviving hammerheads fled into a vast system of white caves-- cavernous spaces at the back of The Broken Mountain, whose walls gave off an eerie light due to microscopic colonies of wrench-like entities whose internal intensity positively glowed. Hammerhead himself, unable to endure the humiliation of defeat, was even more affected by the little wrench-like things whose forms flittered and glittered on the cave walls and put him in mind of his perennial antagonist. He disappeared for a time into the surrounding wastes. Presuming that their leader had died, the hammerheads took council, because according to their tribal creed the death of Hammerhead should have effected a diminishment of the hammer-like protuberances mounted on their fontinelles until they disappeared at which point they themselves would experience a certain inner release, not necessarily anticipated with joy, for the Hammerheads did not experience their being in liege to Hammerhead as onerous bondage. Nevertheless it was a kind of thralldom because at the time of Hammerhead's errant questing they had been globular, mole-like creatures. Now, it had been an aspect of Hammerhead's awakening to discover that he possessed the agency to project his own form onto the globular moles in exchange for his own hammer-like protuberance, which had transiently changed into an arbor of rattle-like growths. But just now, the transformation of the hammerheads' hammerheads had not occurred, which circumstance led the more alert of them to surmise that either Hammerhead still lived, or that he had managed to perform a certain procedure: tapping magisterially on his own dismembered bones with the remains of his cranial protuberance until his bones came together again and he was reborn. No one was certain whether such a procedure was possible, tribal creed aside. It had not been attempted since the collapse of The Bank, and the whole thing was thought to be mere legend now. But the Hammerheads were dwelling after all in the bowels of The Broken Mountain, and no one knew what was real and what was possible. The False Is The Form of The True II 6 No world system will hold. Old drums beat down old captains. Whatever ideological notions are attributed to events, the ocean remains ever-fractured. Only the infinite holds and soothes. The Hammerheads hold Black Lake. They claim the local moon as their own imperial attribute. Black Lake nevertheless remains the great matrix of secret dreaming. Every imperial potentate has his captains who attribute to His rule sole legitimate sway over the universal ocean-- hence its fractured melee. Black Box is adored in one empire as a big Black Box, in another ignored, in a third no sooner does its rumor float abroad than its rumor is suppressed. Black Violet returns to obscurity retaining her dark sobriquet. Melee, by her nature, takes no advantage of her random harmonic with Ocean. Every interval where Strife is diminished you can hear through the uproar's diminuendo the ominous equilibrium of distant drums. Captains are by nature irascible, repressed, and restless, whatever their other attributes. Their dream is their drum. Oblivious to both parts of Justice, they sneak sidelong glances at Black Box, execute instructions with perfunctory efficiency and violence, and skim from the top of tribute.  I went to Black Lake and stayed there, oblivious to empire. Rumor of Melee came to me. I suffered the stillness of her absence, but allowed my spirit to settle and attend how Black Box was like a silent moon face and Justice paid tribute nightly by providing compensatory dreams. As my contemplation deepens "Forever" approaches me. The timeless is like a dimension with an arrow headed orthogonally away from the dimension of time. The absence of effort compels me in such an endeavor.  Attribute such work to the spirit of Crystal if you wish to. But there is an avenue where reconciliation itself though real only there loses its sense. Pay tribute to what? The Infinite comprehends not at all the finite parts of itself that it alone can establish. Therefore, truly, its co-ordinations are Melee and Black Box.  Well, I've been absent long enough. Hammerhead has plenty to think about. Virtually an infinite herd of re-wildered horses, not to mention the perennial enmity of Wrench Boy. Hammerhead has learned there's little point in resisting the jejune quality of infinity he'll never spontaneously intuit in Wrench Boy's spontaneous zeal. Peace can be maintained not by exacting but exchanging a mutual pretense of tribute. Wealth increases thus reciprocally through the surreptitious violence of Trade. For the time it seems good to pursue it.  To mask is, by necessity, then. universal. The meaning of tribute in itself is (a) Black Box. If to you, it is a proof of your diadem of crystal, to me the light of crystal is like the moon: it changes with the "infinite" sum to be collected, whether collected or not. Hammerhead might trade, say, in African Rattles. He demands then as tribute a virtually infinite caravan of some commodity, while his trading partner, that is to say, an adjacent, menacing empire, demands of Hammerhead a handsome shipment of rattles and drums. The captains who deliver and collect are told it is tribute or trade as happenstance dictates. The whole matter stands as Distraction or Traction-- horses for captains, infinitely radiant crystal, armies paid and fed by moonlight or crystal, armies to dominate globally gathering tribute-- such is the pretense-- conducting trade globally-- another pretense-- Justice, in trading crystal or gathering tribute-- Everyone holds their tongue attributing whatever the circumstance requires to whatever.  Hammerhead, out of season, retreats to Black Lake and confers or carries on with Jaguar who resides at Black Lake. Together they work out a compensatory dream and attribute the whole business to the cultivation of violets.