The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken I 1 An impossible inquiry. And not because abstraction poses an obstruction. And not because a melee threatens dispossession. Scatter itself, lazy as it is, is pure concretion. A ceremonial fork stands up in the middle of the melee. Wrench Boy himself is master of abstraction. Melee is a path straight to the heart of Crystal. Thus Wrench Boy abstracts from African Rattle the scattering of its very white sonority, the scattering of purple petals of subtle violet. Hammerhead, whose thoughts and acts are always exact and concrete, pumps up his own capacity for abstraction. What nature, then, makes obstruction? What role plays Melee? What is this reflection of Crystal that Wrench Boy reserves for his working of abstraction? When you come to a fork in the loop, do you cry out for Hammerhead or scatter your chips through a gorge or contemplate the workings of some meta-cosmic bellows? Black Lake must appear from its own dream, not out of some forced image in your thought. A system of forks with five tines stands up around it. Hammerhead himself performs the Great Release. All things scatter before silence. Melee jumps and dances, aflame amidst happenstance. Black Lake, in fact, is inalienable. Happenstance cannot ripple the surface of its focus. The Mother of Concreteness is Black Lake as well as release from the ardor of Moles.  Inquiry into the meta-stasis of the bellows: a tendency to scatter. After scatter, the counter tendency: existence qua a certain species of harmonic. The bellows' suck and swoosh: an inquiry of Wrench Boy. What would he learn? Existence as maze and as mole.  A concordat with ghosts. They have no concrete sense of their own dispossession-- inexactitude, an odd sort of essence. You cannot maintain pure harmony with a forced system of forks. It is but one sort of existential desideratum bandied about at times in The Old Hotel. It connects or disconnects from Wrench Boy's concentration on Crystal-- her affinity for her own abstraction.  Another desirable thing is a pretty garden, but its anti-type's never just melee.  When things get stuck in body or mind, of course you call for release. Otherwise one is content to observe the activity of Moles.  Existence might seem like an opal: it gathers all scatter after a well-timed release. The Opal reflects freckled Melee. All this a matter for continuous inquiry. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 2 If you see a fork in your opal, take it, Violet. Put a bellows to happenstance. Don't abstract your own release. O Violet, if a violet springs up in a maze, a fork at every corner, release it. Hammerhead is building a maze, and why not? He has forks in his tool kit. Melee, the sweet principle of happenstance, happens. Crystal forever captivates her Wrench Boy. Abstract forks-- a fork up your opal. O Violet, have you found your way to concordat or more than that, perennial discourse with Hammerhead? His maze and its forks are latterly devised to foster our release, did you know that? Wrench Boy did-- he finds his Crystal in a garden's silence. With each advance obstruction's up ahead--hence, release is forever on the agenda of any Wrench Boy. Focus articulates happenstance. Now a ghost hovers above a pretty patch of violets in the shadows, threatening dispossession, which may entail release, scatter, requiring further focus to turn obstruction into dispossession. Take an African Rattle, pump the bellows. You'll make it through the maze of disconcerting inquiry. Just follow Moles. Expose your violets to the concrete situation. Obstruction is wedded to happenstance. How much silence does Violet require? How much can we all sustain? Put a fork to your hammerhead--let it vibrate. Focus is a practical matter in the workshops of The Old Hotel. Release your fork. Follow your maze into silence. This itself can become obstruction. Dispossess the very harmony with which abstraction flatters what obstructs it. The Old Hotel recedes, under such conditions, to the advantage of Black Lake-- a position of another thought of abstraction where release plucks a fork and Violet lights up the gorge and scatters her fragrances and petals-- it happens: The Great Release-- the smiling of Violets. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 3 The cat and mouse are playing cat and mouse, while the world they inhabit and its absolute alphabet is haunted by Jaguars. Is release enough? Can you make your African Rattle sound like crystal while silence takes possession of every fork and focus? Crystal must crystallize Jaguars. Release must focus Wrench Boy. Jaguar, once loosed, must not tramp over violets but take possession of dispossession. What does that mean? It means that Hammerhead will thread his own maze-- all forks be tuned to a loose, ubiquitous release, and indeed our African Rattle sound pure crystal in the ear of every Wrench Boy. Follow your Jaguar-- but Release is the key.  More than method is the means here. Focus will find the maze-- but to foster dispossession of every concrete situation, while ghosts saturate your opal? Don't get me wrong--focus is behoovely. Travel your mazeways beyond all beckoning harmonies, but only The Great Dispossession will bring you to Black Lake. Possession by a quality that is no quality at all at the very heart of Crystal, at exactly the point of transition between suck and swoosh of the bellows. There, violets wildly proliferate, but no one takes possession. Catch a glimpse of Wrench Boy handling his fork with consummate focus. Faced with obstruction? Call in your Jaguar. Land in the middle of a melee? Stay centered, relaxed, alert, but watch out for the sleek vibration and wildly hurtling forks. Unaccountably, Jaguar is Master of Harmony. Many things just happen. A fork may proffer falacious harmonic; Crystal catalize erratic scatter; a fork in a mountain make Jaguar see ghosts as they swarm in his opal just after being loosed from the Great Gorge. The work here is not so much abstract as furtively crystalline-- a secret harmony controlling what occurs in the Gorge. But why this impatience of Crystal?-- as if her garden were threatened by Jaguars, her affiance with Wrench Boy, a bit too loose-- she calls a ghost from the Gorge to animate the silence. She places her Jaguar at the gates of The Old Hotel and covers all Being with an attitude of Crystal. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 4 Focus requires its melee. The spirit of Hammerhead-- to smash or to join-- devises the regimen. A ghost it is that is expressed through Bellows. Release anticipates harmony. Hammerhead deploys his hammerheads judiciously as he marks the several chambers of The Old Hotel. His focus maintains him. His harmony is a maze of coded chambers. The Old Hotel holds its focus so well that the place itself seems tight as crystal.  Given the Last Proposition, what use is there for Bellows? But perhaps it's no matter of use. Who would use such a bellows? Well, possibly Wrench Boy. Jaguar breaks the code of the chambers. His loose focus is all he needs to focus Melee. She eludes the astringency of Hammerhead and produces herself in all irony as his consequence; the logic of which is the maze that is The Old Hotel.  Focus motivates harmony and conversely.  It is an interminable matter if not to define then to determine our terms. Jaguar under current logic circumambulates the Last (that is the latest) conflagration and sees to it that the bellows abstracts itself to guarantee the autonomy of the flame. There is true use for Black Lake. Its effusions rise as gray mists suffusing the white susurrus of an African Rattle-- such harmony as Jaguar finds no reason to scatter-- the point being that the duality of the suck and swoosh of the bellows prove no obstruction and the racket of ten-thousand hammerheads open on silence.  Much of what we must do here is mark time but at interminably various chronotopical strata whose crystallinity is n-dimensional, get that? You cannot circumscribe, thus, the suck and swoosh of the bellows. The mazeways re-articulate whatever has been loosed.  Harmony is not necessarily hidden deeply--consider Violet! Consider the fresh breath of Melee! And Bellows is not the only rhythm to guarantee Harmony. Remember the Fork in the Opal. All these were tools: bellows, rattles (out of Africa), instrumentalities of silence. But deep dispossession long had ridden Hammerhead of his inward scatter and melee. The Old Hotel was his possession now-- the transparition of its harmonies. He could foster the scatter of happenstance as propaedeutic to release; convert it all to the pure exuberance of an African Rattle; relieve the scatter of everywhere-- Hammerhead--the Master of Harmony-- Wrench boy--confederate to Hammerhead. A Fork in the sound of an African Rattle: Harmony! Hammerhead--the harmony of the Abstract-- Hammerhead the Host at Black Lake-- Black Lake, for Hammerhead, concrete site of dispossession--  Here, at this joint in the narratological catalogue, this elbow between strata of an n-dimensional scatter, is Hammerhead truly The Master of Harmony or Harmony the Master of He? Wrench Boy walks the maze of The Old Hotel and summons the Ghost--the geist of Metacosmic Bellows. He blows silence over the garden and the Ghost of The Old hotel, is itself the very Gorge of ten-thousand Hammerheads . . . First Interval Being itself is covered by the gods. What god does Being cover-- what topology? We begin each day again to break the bowl to take the pieces from the sky to find the empty hovel where cat and mouse once plied their homely hazard. We toss the coins or scramble the tokens and bide the shining shards and where the broken cipher falls the argument must follow. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 5 Harmony, well-desired; but desire itself scotched to get at it. Violet skirts the outskirts. She follows the divisions contracted by Wrench Boy. Together they limn Black Lake, great silence now. Great focus. Together they mark out the scatter. Wrench Boy takes her as Wrench Girl (and conversely). To the others it appears they circumambulate a gorge. Their concentrated clatter distracts, thereby protects harmonious matter. Above the miraculous scatter a sky that is Jaguar. Above the Gorge, the sound of the rank harmonica. Hammerhead sucks and blows dividing the silence. The silence grows quite maze-like-- the sound in the kitchen of The Old Hotel. You do not focus your harmonica but propagate raucous harmonies. Violet is Wrench Girl. She sits on a stool observing celestial Jaguar cover the Gorge. She too sucks harmonica pretending to catalogue scatter. The Old Hotel hides silence. An obstacle fork multiplies its tines. Melee of scatter.  The Old Hotel is open to happenstance. Whatever you please may happen there.  Silence Prepares an Opal. Wrench Girl Welcomes a Ghost. Theses are headlines: stories to follow.  Crystal, understandably, stood aloof from Violet's funky music. Silence reigned between them-- relationship, for the moment, a scatter-- remorse for prior harmony. Ontologically inconsequential, surely, but the sound of an African Rattle filled the gorge. Crystal had no possibility but to maintain her focus. The gorge was the situs for happenstance. The music itself was like the tedious pumping of a bellows. Happenstance catalogues silence, but no catalogue hazards an essence. It is the higher harmony that Wrench Girl contemplates in Jaguar-- the harmony that mazeways mediate in melee: Release! And the gorge is crystal, the gorge the altissimus of harmony. Erase Remorse.  Does Melee enervate Silence? Surely not. But the essenceless ghosts scatter the fracas of forks, shifting the fields of happenstance.  Wrench Girl calls back her ghost, enraptured by Jaguar. Shall she play Violet now and bring back to The Old Hotel a sanguine silence? In dispossession the Concrete must first find focus, transforming Melee's harmonica into a haunting song across Black Lake, no gorge of mouth-sucked notes, but quiet time in a garden to catch the ear of Wrench Boy. Second Interval Beyond the body's infinite concreteness, chaos, and complexity, the hyper-continua of "the rest of it" : The Beyond Itself -- The Body -- release the unfolding configuration-- the thing imposes on itself the empty oxygen of conscious space that takes itself up qua Being without syntax -- Drop the "qua"! The mules have climbed their mountains, dropped their loads, realized the point of their obstinacy --So have YOU! the light in the eyes of two strangers converge in an instant the mole shakes hands with the mountain The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 6 Scatter the particles of crystal through a putative maze. Therein lies the obstacle. A ghost that plays the harmonica. Happenstance, the Mazeway, the Mazeway, the Garden. Scatter happens. Existence is like an Old Hotel: come wind to its garden, scatter seeds and petals. Wrench Boy / Girl / Boy Girl pretends there is no ghost-- Existence is no ghost. There really is a jaguar prowling about the gorge. Queer. The sounds from the harmonica scatter Scatter. Crystal comes together out of the maze. The Old Hotel is happy in its garden. Scatter mere happenstance. Deliver to its gorge the ghostly hunger. Complete release. The opal tinged with violet. Existential happenstance, a gorge of dispossession-- that's a good thing. A ghost in an African Rattle. The maze dissolves as Black Lake.  Explanation begs its silence. You can't get there playing on your harmonica a scattering of homely attitudes. That's why there's ambiguity in the garden. Bad feeling scatters the violets. Skinny-eyed focus opens the maze making an obstacle of the garden's concrete barrier-- you can't get in there. Or if you can-- Only in the maze are you truly loose if the garden is an abstract one. A garden of forked violets is no random happenstance, no innocent scatter. Scatter itself cannot commission such a garden. Even Black Lake if it drink down Old Hotel makes of garden melee merely: insidious hortus conclusus this is not. For such a garden the old, unregenerate Hammerhead might perhaps be requisite, if insufficient: a garden of dispossession, not in a good sense. But the bellows blows and you are empty (in a good sense). And the garden is simply a garden. You recover your own dispossession. The cat's bowl is broken.