The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken II Concreteness fortifies the Garden as a gorge, beneath foundation, enriches with dark life The Old Hotel. 1 Happenstance, as ever, happens to Hammerhead. Jaguar, older than riches, holds his opal skyward over Black Lake. A catalogue of images helps, vis a vis dispossession. You can go either way: Jaguar as essence of jaguars; concreteness as guardian of happenstance. Dispossession makes of the gorge a treasure-trove of riches. Go down there. See what you find. Concreteness, an essence of happenstance, may articulate a mazeway or toy with an image like Black Lake-- Black Lake create deep shadows -- attractive shadows -- through the vacant chambers of The Old Hotel, its garden a place of delicacy, seduction, or serious work, exempt from the scattered attentions requisite to negotiate happenstance. When anything happens to Hammerhead, the need for such attentions motivates other diversions than the peccadilloes of Jaguar. These cover the gorge with cold-colored eye. Concreteness happens as dispossession in a garden that were it the sedulous locus of serious work opens, from the center of each floweret, onto Black Lake. Sit there and look. Maintain your focus. African flowerets, stamen and pistil, like fair little bells, rattle with an extraordinary fixity, as if their hammer-tongues and calyxes were crystal, if dispossession sweep across the garden or the bellows send a ripple across Black Lake-- not melee but celestial Jaguar's deep basso sonorities-- each boom expanding across space to neutralize obstruction--  Up above us was The Bellows, an image merely, but that Jaguar compelled with his silence as if to organize all degrees of scatter from translucency and pattern of pure crystal to rigorous dispossession-- opacity, no pattern at all; Crystal sighs when such happenstance occupies Jaguar and he builds a maze out of sound and Crystal's heart will not come loose till happenstance come round and stab with a fork the passionate chaos of her dispossession. She remains aloof and a ghost not concrete at all covers the gorge. For Jaguar there is no such obstacle. For Jaguar, when scatter no longer dominates happenstance, when bellows allows existence to seem concrete-- it is not to appease Crystal or obviate abstraction.  "No one can fathom the attitude of Jaguar," says Violet, "Why bother? If concreteness were everything, we'd have to lock down Wrench Boy, and scatter concrete proposals throughout the whole complexus whenever Bellows discovers opals freely placed and floating in a ring of gray luminosity around Black Lake. But happenstance shall bring Crystal mysterious intimation of a harmony concrete enough, in its own way. It will happen. No need to fathom our Jaguar . . ." The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken II 2 Dispossession was the consummate realization of Wrench Boy. His spirit filled The Old Hotel with wildly pulsating African Rattle sonorities crashing through material obstacles-- whatever obstreperous happenstance happened to bellow. And The Old Hotel was happy. The Old Hotel aflame with abstract dispossession? Never! A mighty bellows roused the green fuse in the garden. This is something that actually occurs. Abstraction, of course, sets the course of it. And dispossession itself like an empty light charges the Jaguar Mind of each of us transforming in the instant it arises every obstacle so that nothing of obstruction in it, is it. The Empty Light is the Gorge of Space-- concrete happenstance aflame with its own dispossession, Dispossession of what? How many ways can language say this? Wrench Boy at large in every chamber of The Old Hotel. He eats what others grow in its curious garden-- hortus conclusus, an abstraction planted as a dispossession by bellows.  You cannot list the concrete elements of passion. Description in the instant it arises poses a fresh obstacle. Nor does the articulated harmonic intimate its exigency. Nor does the questionable advent of Melee merely. She bides her singular instance-- a forest full of hammerheads, a choir of meddlesome pipers squeezing their bellows.  The event is always concrete, not existence merely. Silence subtending is never obstructive. But what if the violets you allowed to proliferate were poisonous and The Old Hotel a refuge for spurious opals?  Ghosts eat happenstance. The Old Hotel bellows of dispossession. Hammerhead to the rescue! He rides in on his resuscitated elephant, his incoherence and obtuse obstinacy no obstacle now. He sees right through the impotent phantasmagoria proffered by spurious opals. Abstract or concrete, no matter either. He laughs and lets Melee be music in the red lounge of The Old Hotel-- The Old Hotel an exercise in radical focus. Hammerhead threads the maze that The Old Hotel and its grandiose, comedic, if twisted topology throws up as a vision in an opal. Where are we going? One night of passion. What does an elephant do in a delicate garden? Sign Release! All the stodgy guests in The Old Hotel grumble and start to scatter till the grand resort recovers majestic silence. What dignity!  Open the locked maze door for Wrench Boy. His dispossession infuriates, then magnetizes Crystal. She abstracts from the maze its impertinent happenstance leaving a remainder of silence that is like a Black Lake. What happens now? Melee pumps bellows. Abstract dispossession is not enough for Hammerhead. He takes up his genuine opal and watches events in the maze inflected there. Africn Rattles spring up at the corners forcing innumerable forks to unrule the grumbling guests in The Old Hotel. The Mouse Eat Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken, II 3 Air is ambience. Bellows devours air and expels it changed alone by having been so devoured, outered as Mazeway. Subtending ambience, a gorge and its undefining melee. We see this in our opal: the advantage of dispossession. Silence spells the Gorge lest Gorge be hamstrung by too many forks. Bellows deviates silence. In a concrete sense there's a fork in the bellows; one way elaborates an Old Hotel, the other manifests an opal. Opal in one sense is the prince of manifestation-- it opens on a garden and is one; in another it occasions abstract dispossession. But Bellows, in every sense, bellows: its pattern in time is not like a maze, not like a gorge. In a concrete sense it is like a fork with two tines only. If its silence is abstract in a high sense, so is the opal-- a scattering only of violets. Wrench Boy, majestic, opens on silence.  But there is abstraction in the ghost only in a mental sense: it has no thought that its being is only as in a smoky opal, the aberration in a questionably broken crystal, existence too long in the rocky walls of the gorge, too loud, the jazzy redundance of an African Rattle.  Here our Jaguar is a god. He haunts the maze in the opal. His silence obviates Bellows. His garden lies over a gorge. We use happenstance to obviate tyranny over intelligence effected by too accurate an opal. Dispossession requires many things to be broken, many things to be eaten. This is direct hermeneutic, not ghost and its erratic silence, ever-so eerie. Still, the gorge is audible in all harmony if it is no obstruction as syrupy angelicism merely. Here Here! for the Great Gorge and its poignant archaicism-- violets perennial (are violets perennials?) Silence pervading the melee (subtending it also).  Here we say what is; stamp a fork in the foreground. It must be tight and loose. The gorge in this heraldic sense recuperates scatter, as the five-tined fork maximizes focus.  Hammerhead has a fork in his tool kit. He deploys it to loose release and sustain his focus as all manner of things break all about him revealing Black Lake as the boon for deep dispossession, as the Gorge opens on Silence.  Nobody operates the highest instance of Bellows, not even Wrench Boy. Apart from all exigency Opal shows African Rattle how to obviate Fork: it is proper deployment of Abstraction. Violet so heartily embodies it that she has no need of Focus. First Interval Thread an inerrant mazeway through happenstance, appearance, seductions of symmetry and de-or re-construction. Call the point of arrival as their advent suggests: luminosity, pure being, pure consciousness, the intelligence of Jaguar, the silence of abstract crystal. In an instant, these cover Being. Does Being cover itself? Don't answer that. Where the signs fall or accumulate as you gather their tokens, follow the narratological exigency, follow the argument, do nothing. When you come to the five-tined fork or the fork whose finger are flashing, how many fingers? Do nothing. The point of arrival precedes you. What you know precedes you. What you know precedes what you do. Impossible inquiry. But eat what you will. Consume what consumes you. Do you still beat your cat? They cover you with a blanket in sudden night and beat you up in the night cell. No formal initiation but transformation anyway-- invention of degradation or wariness-- a fork in the incarceration mazeway. Who are you, two decades down the pike, toothless but wise in the new light of release at home in the uninitiate city, at peace in freedom's mazeway . . . The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken, II 4 A silent Jaguar repairs to his secret garden, not particularly well-bestrewn with violets; rather gnarly African Rattles grow in its verdant shadows. In terms of the phases of the bellows-- half an inhalation. There is a ghost in this garden causing the quivering gardener to take frequent refuge in the sound of African Rattles because silence is most hospitable to the ghost. Sound in this case is no abstraction, no joke, though the Rattles at their most vehement harbor a secret silence-- a lasting affinity for the gorge in Central Africa where the Rattles first rattled with zest. Fixed in a concrete block, handle-down, a five-tined fork. As the phase of Bellows changes, sucking further, and manifest phenomena grow blear and blur, Silence comes to qualify Existence and silent Jaguar grows ever-more happy with his garden. An abstract principle resumes the African Rattle. Secret silence animates the ghost. The tines of the fork flower and flame. The Rattles shake to the rhythm of happenstance lending a crystalline articulateness to the most contingent incidence. Silence so thrills of the ghost that it fuses with the fork and, for an instant, Black Lake itself darkly flashes in the white sonorities of the dancing choir of the African Rattles. Even Hammerhead approves of this garden, if he can get there, even Melee. Curiously, The Old Hotel is not sanguine regarding this nearly universal approbation. Something seemed too loose. Black Lake, though it flashed up qua its imagery, was nothing concrete. And though the Garden attracted Melee, there was little for any of us in the way of genuine dispossession. The gardener was not errant in his terror. He wished to recur to Black Lake in a concrete way, to find true release in true Melee and silence while preparing among the flowerets his skrying opal. An interesting fellow, the gardener. The exception he took to the apparent complacency of Jaguar, who always was ready to lounge and indulge his intellectual propensities. And the Ghost in The Garden was a ghost indeed. The question was was this specter a revenant and if so of what or whom? And why did he haunt this garden? When Existence itself is a-scatter-- (the concept of Existence, that is) as the phasing continues to extract the "mules of apparency" (someday we'll explain this, if we can) and there's nothing but an amazing paradox of ghosts and an ominous, intimate silence that tinctures the garden-- every garden, not just this one. We wait for the melee at the abstract apex of phasing to tear all gardens up, every obstacle fair game for Bellows as the apex of inhalation approaches, even the mazeway's walls collapse and dispossession is distracted from "Null Property." And The Garden is Black Lake, and the integral, orderly, though recondite maze is a melee, and the suck turns to swoosh, and The Old Hotel is happy. Wrench Boy applies in a rush his excellent African Rattles-- that is the sign. Hammerhead appears as the gardener. A certain commencement of focus regains the garden. The Ghost was Existence itself and is-- The Silence of Jaguar rejoins his release. All this appeared in my opal and I was happy with such opalescent harmony. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken II 5 If anyone, the ghosts have best access to the secrets of The Old Hotel. What will they do with this? It takes time and thought to become (dis)possessed of concrete realities-- hence Crystal's affinity for Melee. She is not possessed of time. She is one thought. Who is? Light passes through her in instantaneous flashes. Apparent realities glow still and silent. Black Lake is there concretely, certainly, as concrete focus, but ghost thoughts smoke out Black Lake without forking inner angles or focus points. How do they do this? The ghosts rise up like whisps of smoke in the garden-- the common image can be configured as true (with a wink and a nod) if truth be the heart of Melee, Melee the avatar of The True. Abstraction may release into silence: then you have the ghost of a ghost and The Old Hotel the haunt of secrets indeed. But let's be concrete about it, plant a fork in the ground and establish a focus. Let all ghosts repair to Black Lake, release themselves from the Mules of Apparency, Melee dispossessed of what quiddity obsesses her-- there is true juice in it. Zest enough for Hammerhead and Jaguar to know Black Lake very well without exorbitant mystery. It is enough to be loosed from obstacles, integrate with Melee, enter into confederacy with Wrench Boy. The point is that there are many senses of concreteness, many ways to come up smiling with a fist full of violets.  In my opal an eerie silence. A portentous grimace on the countenance of Jaguar. Abstracting from Abstraction itself, Jaguar was staring at a terrible ghost. One glance was enough to scatter his focus. The Bellows was empty. Only the ghost could sustain its focus-- configuring an obstacle that was perfectly concrete. The happenstance of The Nation so organized its potential for melee as to assemble an obstacle to every possibility of release. Jaguar was stiff and cold from ghost-focus. The violets in his forepaws, giddy with a ghostly harmonic. In public parks and common ways concrete puddles decked out to look like Black Lake. At night, the ghosts flew back and forth from their gorges and filled The Old Hotel with a sickly sort of melee-- greasy table-ware and napkins crumpled and soiled, dumped in a vat of dark water and settled to a kind of stagnation as if the stillness of Black Lake betokened but a filthy lethargy. And the ghosts had fashioned a maze and enforced a muted silence upon Jaguar and his avatars. All forks were plunged tines down in vats of congealing concrete that blocked the exits. African Rattles were stopped-- impossible to instigate a salutary melee. Black Lake, lost in a Black Lake of black concrete-- Black Lake, lost in a Black Lake of concretized abstraction. Third Interval Take what thought with you as you will or can-- I am lost in my opal. Will Bellows fill again soon? The silence of the bottom, the stillness at the bottom of the breath, the point of the empty bellows-- pure possibility commutes with abject horror there is nothing nothing to be done nothing to come -- Then the Opal changes the breath returns-- manifestation fills the earth and the heavens the galaxies proliferate but I am still lost in my opal . . . The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 6 Life around Black Lake wasn't like life only. There was a gorge and an irremediable tariff of abstraction. You paid or never got out. Hammerhead understood this very well, but for Violet it was as if you required that she see ghosts. It was an obstacle just to intimate abstraction. Yet an abstract altitude mediated Harmony at Black Lake from which too exclusionary an attitude towards life itself would prove an obstacle. One would want to be loose on this matter. Not that things weren't lively, mind you, or that the applicable harmonic at Black Lake excluded life in concreto; and Violet herself was easily conversant with black violets. But there was an inevitable fork in your focus, a willingness to entertain ghosts, and not to entertain them merely, but at Black Lake one was implicitly solicited to be quite zealous about them, for Black Lake was their home and habitat actually. Being loose--and that alone-- produced harmony at Black Lake. Anything else were a serious obstacle to focus. Violet--at this phase of the Bellows--close to full, ambience almost empty, but air enough so that whatever was there in the dark positively glowed-- Violet clung to Wrench Boy. She knew very well that even now back in The Old Hotel there'd be no obstacle to her attaining sufficient focus and finding her own being in my Opal. For to Violet it was not at all amazing that affinity and nature change with phase, and she felt in the windy fluctuation of her petals that abstraction itself was pertinent to Crystal, her sister. So harmony prevailed. Melee held her melee inside, abiding an opportunity to lure Wrench Boy up to The Old Hotel, there to release him from too restrictive a sense of harmony. Focus, however, does not preclude the Dead. So Wrench Boy was wont to succumb to his own abstraction. It wasn't a matter of happenstance but of phase. Violet, as floweret, surely could get that. In her black habit she was the accoutrement of ghosts.  We countenance the antithetical in this phase, yes; but regarding Crystal as total covering and encompassment of Being, no. Death is not the antithetical. It is closer, in abstracto, to Silence in the sense of absence-- not abstraction, but there, where though there is no sound, there are all the possibilities of The Opal. To abstract is to pull away, but once you are away, in your dispossession relative to one world, surely other worldliness might absorb you. In a blink of an eye you find you are intimate with what just now was quite alien, non-existent even; but after an eye-blink or an epic, you are released once again. Thus Wrench Boy found ghosts no obstruction to his wonted fluency and was happy to be abducted to the Old Hotel by Violet, was it? Whomever-- hand in hand with Crystal, the three or all four of them entertaining a harmony of their own.  But let us resume our focus. Where does Happenstance find us? In the middle of a field of serially ordered tokens. We take them one by one like images in an opal. We are free to entertain Abstraction or attend to the all-consuming white susurrus of an African Rattle whether we hold one or not. To seem to be is like ghosts in The Old Hotel seen in a skrying opal. Do you actually have one? I do not. Though I am solicitous to acquire one.  The Abstract comes in many species-- there is a many-tined fork in it. Jaguar treats it in his way; to be a ghost is another. But at all events these are not necessarily obstructions to the realization of Black Lake. And realization it is as you penetrate your own scatter, abstract harmony aside. Wrench Boy is past master; in his hands a fist full of black violets, a ghost in his tool kit of wrenches. He tightens up salutary obstacles. He modulates your garden. He'll tell you he abides in his gorge. When a profusion of violets--too much life-- becomes an obstruction, he opens an inward existence that is like a black lake. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 7 So much for obstacles. The Garden is lined with forks stuck, tines up in the sod. Wrench Boy advances on his tour of inspection. For him the measure is crystal. He imagines Black Lake and its chaplet of luminous opals in a ring around black water. His wrenches are forks. He forks the butts of sluggards when he encounters mental scatter. He himself pretends to be an obstacle while all the while he furtively looks in his opal. There is nothing like focus to find a use for your scatter. There is no such thing as obstruction in a final sense--make mulch!-- no matter the depth of abstraction, obsession, or abject desolation. Your functioning part-psyches seem forced to adapt to experience. Experience resolute or distracted must open crystal, if crystal phases in or phases out. Release will snap desolation though this phase deny all but grim-most disharmony. No advice. I drowned in a simulacrum of Black Lake a thousand times. No such access to experience available lost in opalescent obstruction. My cat is nervous if I am. She won't retract her fore-claws or take up her wonted attitude in my garden. There's a fork in her feline focus while my part-psyche is a-scatter. My obstacle--I admit it-- is the fog in my opal. I pick up the harmonica and try to imagine crystal in its suck-blow notes interspersed aptly with silence. Existence is a maze, a gorge. It quivers when presented as such in my opal. Hammerhead and African Rattle recorded with inappropriate technology, too complex to render the simplicity of clear crystal. Oh Fork! Find me my Jaguar! I am Hammerhead!  Awake in his gorge now Wrench Boy took cognizance of his inward scatter as something immediate and concrete. He did nothing with fork or opal. The evident appearances flashing in the Gorge were quite enough to summon a lively attention from himself in the form and attitude of Hammerhead. His opal was clear now but now was no time to skry. He climbed back into the ambient atmosphere and sniffed for violets. The atmosphere responded. He saw the orderly forks with some vehemence achieving a focus. The obstructive phase of the Gorge faded away. Crystal was strolling with Hammerhead. Sunny day. Melee, arms raised, ready to dance. The avatars waved to her. Black Lake was as remote as Deep Gorge, as close as a ghost. In a blink of an eye valence of experience flips its token--not even a fork or the sudden eruption of rattle sounds out of Africa. You find a sac full of opals, sink a fork in your high-class sashimi-- not a thought for the new phase of the bellows if that's what it is but it isn't unless you subtly say so-- but you don't. There's a violet in your button hole, a fork and an African Rattle in your shirt and corduroy trousers. You gorge yourself on oysters with appropriate forkage. You are Hammerhead. You never surrender your focus. Fork it over! Whatever. You focus your African Rattle. Surely this goes on forever. No use for dispossession. Why skry in an opal? There is no obstacle ever. This condition cannot scatter. Ah! I see a maze. Snap and I turn into Wrench Boy, scatter previous Happenstance. A fork to mark a corner. Look! It's The Old Hotel. It seems concrete. Things of themselves are a-scatter. Where'd everybody go? You do not name what's afoot, but a vast black lake opens out under the cognitive scatter and the eerie smooth white sound of a tiny rattle . . . The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 8 Worse than fog the opal filled with black resin concretely, not in image only. Strategies to release it. Think like a maze. Hammerhead said, "Smash it! Existence itself is the obstacle." Noise of African Rattles fill the head. Rattles uttered, "Strategy to loose me? Trust Happenstance. The opal will clear. Your head lose the rattles. Harmony rise out of Happenstance." "Fine for you to say," I said. "You have no black resin in your opal." "Pick up a fork," said Hammerhead. Hammerhead was growing wiser by the pico-second. He had no necessity to focus. Radical scatter--no obstruction. Rather, the stuff of wisdom's substance, like jet fuel. Opals spewed out of his fontinelle-- opals, in a concrete sense and every other sense. He said, "My logic is loose--loosed on the world, neither subservient to harmonic desiderata nor any other desiderata save the intimate coursing of The Higher Happenstance. Put that in your opal!" An eerie little rattle inside of whose sonorities one might listen to tales out of Africa forming through the complex movements of tiny sounds alone scattered as quietly as it came. Hammerehead at last saw a ghost and was amazed. It had the form of a vast celestial Jaguar settling over the Garden. He said, "I am not born again, but for the first time ever I sense my own gestation. Henceforth may I scatter incandescent particles spermatic as I shake my African Rattle with small movements to realize weird worlds only. Melee, will you come to your Hammerhead? Shall we meet in The Old Hotel? Rules of accommodation there are usually quite liberal; at least that's what I hear from that fellow, Wrench Boy, ahem. I think you know him." Strange words, or was it black fog talking?  African Rattle itself sat quietly trying to realize an opal out of sound alone, but all he produced was Melee. She laughed, quite at home among happenstance. Existence itself was her opal. Nothing to release or cut loose. What she was striving to produce was an abstract garden-- she needed to dispossess her own release. She practiced silence among the boisterous May flowers. The sky was full of complex sonorities-- white susurrus their origin-- of an African Rattle that at last had assumed the function of a skrying opal.  "I myself am quite released," I said. "I am Wrench Boy, my alibi today is to proliferate blatant harmonies. I loose myself into the being of a clear quartz crystal, an incarnation of my syzygy. We do this while causing a garden to manifest those harmonies. Hammerhead pretends not to know me-- such is his wisdom-- but as the narrative disposed by the African Rattle progresses, he will be released from his obsession with newly gestated species of harmony and Hammerhead will recognize his Wrench Boy. It's just a matter of adjusting focus."  The problem was the proximity of the Gorge and the way it was oozing black resin to corrupt the public opal. It was Jaguar from his celestial purchase that discerned this: he determined to take command of the Bellows, modulate African Rattles, and cause the obstruction to scatter back into the African Rattle's white susurrus. Release would be followed by a salutary melee, and we all could go back to Black Lake and tend our various gardens. "Logic is properly tightest when thought is loosest." Wrench Boy said that while quietly attending his opal. Interval Organize human time into corporate bundles sociality effectively broken into familial corpuscles and sentimentally so focused upon them that the sky dome invisibly defragilates we survive a rain of cracked ceiling paint and improve our huts our happiness to our own detriment salutary ruin requisite for further prosecution of The Great Possibility as if Being winked at its victims from behind the veils of Cosmos City the sun behind one hundred billion galactic collectivities winking into salutary oblivion such is your original nature without reduction to vocabulary of origin The head and its mouth turns around and takes up secret utterance one oath of allegiance that is to Being only no temporized equivocation any longer the possible waste time in the waste time pluck from the skeletal arbor perfidious opal. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 9 African Rattle went on strike. Well, not a strike exactly. But an abstract action with a universal focus. Its target-- samsaric thralldom in toto. Jaguar spear-headed dissemination of the pertinent ideological tracts. Wrench Boy as Trickster though certainly committed in principle to the ideological attitude of the action was equally in principle committed to provide its antithetical complement. Not that he intended to stay put and bide his opal. But rather than boycott thralldom he thought to go whole-hog including the postage, if you get the reference. This might indicate melee to complement focus, but focus to subvert too blithe and unresponsive a practice of dispossession. African Rattle disregarded his apparent defection. He had his own use for Melee. He thought to exhaust her-- in the meantime to deploy her energetic scatter to disarm and dispossess the sting of thralldom that African Rattle conceived could not be loosed until its energy be properly sapped; though for the most part, in contrast to Wrench Boy, he just remained impassive. This in fact would have been an excellent tactic had his business been war against Wrench Boy. The Trickster for the most part requires that there be something for him to subvert or counteract. His esoteric mission was to reassert a certain harmonic vis a vis immediate happenstance, if you follow. Melee would occur and not as the simple result of statistical happenstance. There was also the questions of Violet and Wrench Boy's intimacy with the Gorge, and the kind of focus that threads the invisible mazeway. But at the esoteric center of his actionless action there was no opposition, so all, as it were, ought to have been at peace in the Universal Opal into which African Rattle allowed himself to gaze fixedly; African Rattle, resolute in his abstract focus, was proof against the general scatter implicit for samsara. Total dispossession seemed the perfect analgesic. African Rattle in stillness, yet contracted to jiggle sufficiently to instigate an adequate melee so that Happenstance itself would seem the source of it and Wrench Boy have nothing to operate his utterly unpredictable performances in response to. But consider: A certain duality obtains between Black Lake and The Old Hotel. Well, not duality, exactly. Nothing concrete. But if you wished to work against samsaric thralldom by establishing a factory system effectively to do so-- training in various tactics of focus formal invocation of ghosts supervision by instructors regarding the progress of your dispossession judicious introduction of cognitive scatter at the proper phase graduated deployment of your personal African Rattle when to keep silent when to gaze in your opal Then: The Trickster Function will certainly come into play. The whole system will be made to seem like a maze in a concrete sense; your practice itself your quite personal obstacle. Whether you focus or not, you will not find a violet. A veritable melee of dispossession. Perhaps you'd think you'd better take out rooms in The Old Hotel. Red-haired Melee be your bedmate, Hammerhead the sneaky-eyed maitre d' provide a veritable menu of focus objects. He himself, of course, designed the system so he ought to be able to provide an antidote to its possession of your dispossession. And violets are provided in vases in all the chambers. Perhaps abstraction itself is the adequate antidote. Focus until dispossession arises without compulsion. Things just fall off the juggernaut and Harmony itself allows the proper focus to deepen the harmonic that fosters further focus. Suddenly there is Crystal in her closed but luminous car beckoning you to be her. Joyous dispossession--The Old Hotel full of light; The Old Hotel of Silence. Hammerhead winks at Wrench Boy. Melee brings out her rattle. It is Africa of primal time eternal dispossession a magical fork its handle in the sod the archetype of focal stability the Universal Garden the image in the opal, realized-- Melee and African Rattle in trine with Jaguar a new Loop of Dispossession. Not even Bellows will dispel this. Appropriate focus at Black Lake just below the surface of dispossession where Silence glows. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 10 If Melee is too virulent even a five-tined fork cannot force harmony. Only The Old Hotel is good for that. A maze and an African Rattle, a fist full of violets, and a new chromatic harmonica with sixteen holes--a quest for harmony. If a bellows fans fiery melee and your violets blow on the hot wind and happenstance fans your bellows, Melee will suffer no remediation unless exorbitant focus defines the phase of the bellows. What phase is that? When the Bellows is at Still Point-- acme of swoosh and suck-- fully empty or perfectly full. Apart from that there are other consequences than statistical scatter when virulence rules. Violent dispossession. An angry African Rattle in the hands of the morbid sentinel. Melee becomes unsociable. Her human form burns off in the flaming melee. Nothing but charge and the raging winds full of forks and other quasi- magical but pertinent weapons. Harmony stricken by happenstance? Study your bellows. We are more familiar with a less virulent Melee-- one that occasions a wide proliferation of violets and fosters universal dispossession. Big cats and small ones, white tigers and sleek panthers, calicoes, wide-ranging cougars appearing in urban centers-- this happens--it is erratic but not unfamiliar. If the Bellows explodes when negative ambient pressure discombobulates the physics of the instrument or some egregious obstruction impedes ejaculation from its nozzle and the viscous ectoplasm in which it was wont to wallow is expended on the wind or backed up egregiously within it, then the Gorge will be bereft of the abstract order provided by its regular operation. Otherwise it is just possible to ignore the archaic gadget. Violets sustain their delicate dispossession obedient to phase-work of an internal order. Crystal is autonomous vis a vis the bellows. At some later point in the progression of the tokens in this matrix we may hear of a garden and the many hungers of the gender pairs and other figures erupting from its sod-- a polydimensional harmonic configured by Jaguar.  Harmony, whether engendered by systematic prescription, if you take the wider view, is a matter of happenstance of which the systematic is but an element. Melee or maze or the ministrations of Hermetic Wrench Boy-- but the gorge is not a part. It is on a par with the Bellows. You will have it or not, but it will not work as an element. Violet, thank God, is ubiquitous. She tinctures Possibility itself in the rooms and porches of The Old Hotel. That these might be Harmony, it all follows from the sweet consideration that she is of the effluence of Being, and directly. At all events at this point we do feel the necessity to entertain that prejudice. The big cats are hungry for something concrete The big bulls bellow. Melee laughs and remembers archaic pleasures. Happenstance, is it, that rolls over Africa and a mule cart rattles on a rocky road to the Gorge. To each hut one bellows. The ambient melee is precise in its degree. An abstract figure orders the common elements that comprise existence. Even the great maze believed to have been erected in a field where the woods clears unaccountably. Functions to inscribe the outer mystery in a sort of inner sanctuary albeit inscribed and sanctified to holy danger-- a jaguar prowls there-- a jaguar surveys the maze as if to scour the bounds of his intelligence -- a maze in-bound by silence-- a silence not pertinent to harmony. But to the Gorge, if this is an abstraction, it goes to show what severity-- black violets oblique to happenstance. A maze does not just happen; it is built to the measured pulse of a thousand African Rattles. Violet and Hammerhead in their ancestral avatars pulse the rattles; ancient pipers press the bellows and force the reed-noise drone underneath a rain of fragments from the leaves of African violets purple and green and with a raucous texture to the touch. If this is an abstraction . . . The Old Hotel has transmuted backwards through an inverted chronotopy. It has the shape and construction of an enormous hill. And the bellows accompanies an anvil. Time itself is tight and loose; an abstraction of general happenstance, the Bellows but one figure the Gorge another according to your focus. To get a sense of the severity of abstraction, the tautness possible for harmony consider Crystal. She has the fortitude to trap a ghost. Harmony beds down at Black Lake. Wrench Boy makes a house at the Gorge. It has the form of a maze. It is adequate to convert scatter to magnetic harmony and replaces the fetid ambience with innocent violets. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 11 Thank God for violets. Release. Scatter whatever is so, up to now, into The Great Gorge. Let the world seem composed of little Jaguars irresistibly smart and snappy. Let Melee commute with Crystal, but for superficial morphology, they already are each other. Scatter be the matter-side of Silence. All things arranged to sport violets. Crystal glistening with the spirit of dispossession. Silence tinctured with a violet fragrance. A tincture harmonic with Jaguar, The Great Jaguar, pervading his avatars, a perfect master of happenstance. He introduces, in place of The Bellows, a principle of Obliquity. It enters wherever with a wink and a nod. Even Melee's disconcerted. She whimpers: "Thank God for violets." Violet stays loose and fresh and keeps on scattering her tinctures. The new principle might serve or utterly dispossess any of the others. Even Silence is not immune or immured. She huddles close to Violet in contrapositive anxiety. Violet forms an ambience with Crystal whose deep morphology already incorporates obliquity in one sense, in another is rife with small jaguars. I see it all in my opal. I plant it all in my garden. I fence it round with five-tined forks, imbue it with intelligence like crystal. Hear Hear! for the intelligence of Obliquity. A brand new zygote for Hammerhead, now that his embryo's been located. Jaguar's ascension will bring issues beyond the concrete and its sublimate, something other than scatter. Hear Hear! Summon an assembly in the lounge of The Old Hotel.  I was the first to speak. I said "Greetings to all. We meet to welcome a new principle, neither abstract nor concrete; neither silent nor fixed in focus." Melee interrupted. "I cannot keep silence. Hammerhead, Jaguar-- can Obliquity come to the Garden? Is it not enough that we have Forks?" Wrench Boy, who was tardy, leapt in through the great lounge window. "Melee," he laughed, "can it be that you are anxious over Forks? Fear not. Whatever is meted out to us from strange angles, no angles interdict Violet, no angularity, even from our mother, Black Lake. Let us wield Silence like a mighty shield and receive whatever comes at us with grace and aplomb in the lounges of The Old Hotel. We know how to work with all obstacles. When Fork arrived, there was no call to scatter. Violet twined round its tines like a tendril. We let him form a fence about Black Lake. And ghosts already share this new character. And Black Lake can never be distracted from its focus." Jaguar responded. "Mine is the current presidency. I vote for the persistence of violets to turn to good account all incidence of scatter. It is time to elaborate the maze from new directions and dimensions with hammer, fork, and whatever instrument will manifest from the treasure chamber beneath The Old Hotel. Behold--All Things are New! Hear Hear to Dispossession! A fork in a maze makes a garden. Apo-kako-daimones! All bad things--a-scatter." And for the moment, they did. The African Rattle and its great sonic scatter filled the air of The Old Hotel. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 12 Crystal was satisfied. She pondered: "This matter would do nothing to interrupt my focus. It's just a specification of a certain sort of happenstance, actually. And, as for the Garden--well, actually, if truth be told, it always shifts radically depending upon whose thought affects it from the ambience. Likewise The Old Hotel. And we have the assurance that it will not violate gentle Violet. And Hammerhead has to be put to work somehow. And we all are already open to happenstance, so what's so new?" Suddenly a ghost flashed through the silicon flesh of Crystal. Hammerhead loomed enormous and multiplied his avatars, one to a facet. "I am Obliquity," he thundered. ("Sounds pretty direct to me," I interjected, parenthetically.) "The very Ghost in the Crystal. I come where I can, in on the Winds of Scatter. "I fill The Old Hotel with incoherent impulse and interesting attitude. The Old Hotel dispossessed of its wonted Silence! No Violet can resist me now. O Crystal, Crystal, I come in on the very angle of your focus. Happenstance is my instrument. You cannot calculate Obliquity. Like a ghost in a crystal, I am the Hammerhead of Old, the bane of every silence, the Prince of the New Old Hotel!"  African Rattle was astonished. "A concrete, shake-'em-up, world extravaganza seems in the offing, not just some little-ol' local release. Hammerhead would be coming in from Everywhere. But now the momentous question: Has he learned nothing? Has he no appreciation for Silence? And what about Wrench Boy? Would his doctrine of antithetical complementarity withstand the onslaught of Anywhere? Was the ancient Enmity to be renewed? In The Old Hotel, the house lights flickered. Abstraction reached a concordat with Happenstance. Everyone waited for a response from The Gorge.  "There are no degrees to proper dispossession. You have in every instance either to let go or not. When something jumps in on you, are you ready? Wake up! Don't keep your head in your opal, unless your very being is clear as Crystal's." Wrench Boy was talking to himself and swatting ghosts. Melee sat beside him, mockingly assuming Wrench Girl's form and demeanor. "If there's a ghost in one's harmonica--" The thought out of nowhere struck the two of them simultaneously-- "There are ghosts coming out of the Gorge, startled and randomly flocking. And Black Lake must be letting its ghosts. And the maze must be in a panic. It cannot articulate its own stress-- it has no un- anticipatable angles. And of course wicked shearsmen might appear or simple mowers and clip sweet Violet at the stem, ignoring that she's a perennial! We all are. We have roots in the soil of dispossession and return, O Hammerhead, as if fixed in an amulet of crystal, as if loosed forever in the magnanimous halls of The Old Hotel. We are ghosts in a great museum of black winged statues. Vast chambers as if buildings housed gorges and the gorges were full of ourselves in the forms and demeanors of ghosts." We all were thinking this together, not only the trickster and his syzygy, as if in a whispering choir of absently prattling psyches. Jaguar observed this from above and within and stroked his whiskers and worked his feline chin. "This is collective hysteria," he expostulated. "It only happens if they say so-- and all of it is on my watch. But I only wished to spice up their tedious dyads with the advent of input from Elsewhere." Jaguar pulled over Wrench Boy to disabuse him of his possession by the Collective. "This is not the proper use of Obliquity," he remonstrated. "At least it's not the use that I intended. Release this bunch from their thought-- it opens up a wound and lets in ghosts. They suck them out of anywhere, the crystal palaces within them are distorting the angles of their facets. They abuse their own Release, as if it were not enough to be the legitimate residents of the excellent OLD Old Hotel. By god, I'll have to chase them like a big angry cat into the gorge to dispossess them."  And he did chase them into The Gorge that was really a Garden; and it bit them down until its angles released. Crystal was the first to laugh. "An obstacle can manifest from anywhere-- a fork in a violet garden." Jaguar bowed and took the hand of Hammerhead. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 13 Even our rejuvenant Hammerhead had had an oddly angled attitude toward harmony. This was no consequence of any dispossession but a concrete application of his basic nature to the practical business of hammering things together. He had a native abhorrence for The Gorge. His ideal for organic excellence was crystal. Wrench Boy, rather, on this subject, had long learned to let things be. The key was dispossession. This no doubt was one source of their perennial enmity. Dispossession is not different from Black Lake, about which Hammerhead hovers ominously, not knowing quite what to do about it. Advice on the matter from Wrench Boy was generally greeted by silence. Black Lake is not, obviously, a means to the perpetually rejuvenant state regarding Hammerhead. Happenstance is wedded to The Gorge. The Gorge in this regard, a matrix of Obliquity. You don't know what might come barreling out of it or how or when. Ghosts love to hang out down there while preparing an assault upon bright Crystal and waiting with grim resolve for the exorcist's hammer. Crystal is What She Is, perennial object of admiration under the attentions of Hammerhead-- Hammerhead's conception and vision, the very image of Harmony. But under the universal Law of Dispossession, every nature must pass through a silence peculiar to itself, on its antithetical journey-- a requisite violation of what it holds to be its nature. Such is the Law. Therefore, Black Lake has a peculiar relation to Hammerhead, like a syzygy, in a certain sense. Wrench Boy had long since abandoned dialogue with him about this. Eventually gorge-ghosts would get him, activate requisite melee, distract the abstract character of his focus. Wrench Boy knew very well he had long ago been initiate to the antithetical, but initiation is but the beginning of the journey. And he had only recently become initiate of ghosts. There was a maze ahead, and one depot of it would be The Great Gorge--many-a-fork to be added to his tool kit before pure dispossession would realize his garden.  Wrench Boy went back to his opal having breached a latent jungle of obstructions only his opal was able to scatter before him. Then the smoky clear bauble would recur to silence beneath which the Gorge turns into a garden enriched by Wrench Boy's perfect dispossession at a site where ascendant Jaguar would arrive in a car made of crystal and his dispossession further transfigure the Garden. There was only silence and the taste of dispossession, dispossession the opening for an African Rattle not to break but deepen the silence, its dispossession abstract but not abstract, the dispossession of the Garden itself. This is a veritable maze of dispossession. It will never cease raveling and unraveling the antithetical looseness associate to taut Crystal. If Violet had a thought in her vast dispossession, that thought's sweet garden would go on forever reflected in Black Lake. It is to such a garden that Hammerhead was tending in spite of his peculiar antipathy. Black Lake must come to seem The Old Hotel-- The New Old Hotel. The means to effect this, an abstract focus with an ambient aura of silence--not absence but a way of Black Lake, abstruse and diamond hard, evolved through and in one sense by Hammerhead for himself, with his peculiar manner of focus, for a long while obviating The Gorge but allowing The Garden. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 14 Wrench Boy and Wrench Wench together assumed the Presidency. From that altitude they were forced to observe the general scatter. Obliquity forces entropy, certainly, but its disturbance might just as frequently provide stimulation, not in an abstract sense only, but so that the Garden grow unwonted botanicals. Hammerhead busied himself correcting the maze. Its pathways must illustrate oblique angles and thus be able to receive and integrate input at entrances from anywhere. Obliquity was quickly losing its ability to generate obstacles. Thus a new item on the agenda of Wrench Boy's presidency: Skew the Maze. Let it be the receiving platform for a random flock of ghosts. "These would not be obstructions, but rather activate everyone's obsessions. Where you're stuck, you see them," Wrench Boy speculated. "Up the ante on Dispossession and let the garden generate strange genders. Let it be The Gender Garden-- dyads and triads and quaternions for new modes of propagation and new ecstasies, confound identities or suffuse them with transcendental tendencies toward union or distinction, a path to transfinite, pointwise, division. The image of Continuum as a journey all the Way to Black Lake. Let anyone that can think themselves to abide there, abide there." Wrench Wench smiled in admiration of her syzygy. Hammerhead stood there eyeing Wrench Boy with his signature elevated left eye crease and humped up shoulder. "I know what you are contemplating, Wrench Boy, and I hereby serve you notice that whatever you elaborate to scatter my hammer work, I'll built it back again into some responsibly hammered out form. To you I am still Obliquity, even to the extremity of conjuring or laying ghosts. But do hear this, my young fellow. Together, you and I, will transmogrify all obstructions by our very opposition. Opposition is true friendship, as the man says. To think it makes me weep tears of joy." Wrench Boy stood aside and observed him setting to work building his maze of such an order of complexity that, at the limit, it would approximate Black Lake, continuous with infinitely branching pathways passing back and forth across themselves, attaching, running under, running along tangled arteries and tubules that in microscopic densities, green and fluent, allowed not only The Garden but all the viridescent scenes of Demeter's realm. Violet was not innocent of this discourse. She sensed a radically forked harmony fracturing the maze, a deepening of the darkness of Black Lake, the capacity of its recipience vastly enhanced, with she and Jaguar, in their different modalities, decorating and encoding the margins of it.  Violet twined the Fork oblivious to its harmonic. She became the maze. Her heart was a black lake. Jaguar eyed her ruefully. It was a time of universally mutual objectification and observation. There was a change in The Garden. The little flowerets were loosed and grew obliquely green protuberances from their pliant stems. The change was irregular, concrete, and rapid. The Garden was redolent of Black Lake. Faint smell of mud. Its rows and pathways were maze-like now. To walk it was to take a walk in obliquity. A faint sense of the presence of a jaguar at every corner. A crystal glittering oblique ray-like flashes across silence. You could sense The gorge in or as the deeps. Jaguar really did prowl the pathways. Oblique gender formations opened fomenting mazeway. Unfamiliar harmonies rode on silence. Obliquity and concreteness in an articulate complicity welcomed ghosts. Quietly, quietly, a chorus of African Rattles grew to a focus of intensity. Hammerhead was amazed. Was Wrench Boy / Wrench Wench behind this? What of their wonted practice of Dispossession? He saw jaguars everywhere with strangely flashing extraneous parts and organs: every spot was an eye; four tails coiled snake-like about his hind parts. He could not claim to be Obliquity now-- that quality HAD him. Wrench Boy held the Fork. "Damn these African Rattles," he muttered. "I cannot locate Happenstance. Some oppressive intention overrides and obstructs it. Damn these changeling jaguars." Suddenly Silence reigned over Obliquity. Every concrete thing shifted slightly. Every silence seemed oblique. The attitude of concreteness sought the form of ghosts. Garden? An abstract Gorge. Fork? But an obliquitous transform of Melee. Harmony? The clanking of wrenches in a rucksack attached to the back of Wrench Wench. It was African Rattle that at last put a stop to all that. By certain pauses and dampenings in his sonorities he managed to form an abstract of these obstacles and place before us all a shining opal whose obliquity approached infinity. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 15 The Maze of Happenstance is never silent. A fork in concrete existence. Wrench Boy returns the presidency to Jaguar. Jaguar reconvenes the assembly. Silence sets the scene. Silence fills the opal. We gaze and listen. A maze appears. Jaguar opens: "Let us reflect Black Lake." White scribulariae shine on its waters. Opal opens: "I stand back from what appears in me. Existence is like a maze: wherever you seem to be in it, newly intimate doors and tangled passageways defy you to signify the scheme of it. If obliquity captures concreteness, this obviates history. Unaccountable factors sidle in from elsewhere. Concreteness grows ghostlike. Everywhere cognitive baffles and immaterial obstacles. I stand back from what appears in myself that others might watch and listen." Wrench Boy jangles his back pack and the wrenches make sounds with odd shaped gaps and spaces. He waited till everyone was distracted and there was an erratic clatter of disorderly responses. He found holes in the general disarray, rang a wrench that made one tone, and the maze of sound subsided. "Existence is amazing," he said. "Happenstance proliferates over silence. Black Lake is where it comes from, a mouth comprising our hunger, a stomach devouring what we know." The opal turned white. He had just realized that everything was occurring inside him. Now Maze itself wished to speak. "Mr. Jaguar. I protest that I am no obstacle to the operations of The Old Hotel, whether concretely focused or permeated by deep silence. I am my own abstraction. I countermand the Fork. But are we really all inside the opal?"  Jaguar stepped back from the plethora of obstacles that rendered concreteness itself an impasse on the pathway to Crystal. Is that where we are going? "Don't think in advance of your own release," he commanded. "Let each thing devolve to its particular scatter. If we see too many jaguars lurking by the drum, this well might be our community obstacle and cause The Old Hotel to lose its concrete focus, foster radical silence, mop up the general confusion with an abstract generalization-- in this case that might be-- I am not strictly asserting this-- a good thing." "What are we doing here?" Asked the Fork. "Do we know? Obviously we cannot inquire of the Opal if we are all inside it." "Nonsense," African Rattle contradicted. "I am not, for one, inside that smoky pebble. I'd rather be drowned in silence." "But I am made of silence," whispered Violet. "Shall we solve the secret of what we are by this sordid scattering of fragmented attitudes? Jaguar, can you throw some light on his terrible maze or find a thread to lead us through its immutable confusion to silence? I will not survive pure abstraction. I long for Black Lake where my ten-thousand sisters bloom in silent obeisance to its waters. Concreteness itself would be a garden if only we were released from the closure of this opal. Sweet harmony once contained us in opalescent dispossession. Why own anything at all? When Wrench Boy juggled his opals in the lounge of The Old Hotel, Jaguar laughed and produced in us such a dance of happy attitudes. Scatter is not the same thing as Dispossession. Can Abstraction scatter Obliquity? Is there nothing at all but this intolerable cognitive melee?" I said, "Concreteness exchanges obstruction for loose scatter. But what thinks The Gorge?" "Ha ha ha. Wrench Wench and her silly sibling-- scatter-heads the two of them. I'm amazed that Melee hasn't overwhelmed us all. That boy--President? When was that, yesterday? Ha! I eat your Old Hotel for crunchy soup at lunch!"  I said, "Should we sustain deep silence? Should we quietly recur to Black Lake and silently stay there? Shall we read our garden with its havoc of genders as an insoluble maze? Shall we resign ourselves to insupportable scatter? Strange. but through all of this, Hammerhead keeps his silence." The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 16 Jaguar studied dispossession in others and measured it in himself. Remainder: the ghost released by abstraction.  Not so easy to abandon the maze of speech. It fills the bowl. It feeds the many-motley-ed guests in The Old Hotel. Every word its special thralldom, every utterance its own ghost, every ghost its special accent and its access to itself along precise sonorities of the African Rattle.  Jaguar inquired of himself, "Perhaps I must take possession of The Old Hotel, encounter every obstacle in its special chambers, shake the African Rattle and rid our Collective of every special thralldom that yet binds us in one grand performance of devouring. That just might expunge the whole famous cave of phantoms in a single chomp." Jaguar chomped and there was silence. An abstract of all possible abstraction. Yet Black Lake had withdrawn to its opal and the maze outside of Vicinity was chock full of jaguars. Jaguar collected himself and continued to study his own dispossession. Here are his notes and comments. "Not all ghosts are obstructions. That is one thing. African Rattle, in totality, for instance. As Jaguar, I've decided to stop making speeches. That's another. The Old Hotel could function quite well as an Opal. Let everyone agree to seek the proper function for Abstraction. We all can help Hammerhead activate and sustain his proper focus. And each of us must discover how to happen happily in happenstance. Ha ha. Well. If Old Hotel is Opal, what of The Gorge? Abstraction cannot contain him. That's a fact. His being before and after the cat's bowl is broken. Harmony is differently a desideratum for each of us-- One Law for the Ghost and the Fork is Oppression. As the man sort of uttered. I'd rather appropriate scatter and grow a great forest of African Rattles, install Obliquity ever-changing, ever-surprising, let African Rattles fill The Gorge to see what anyone might hear there whatever their obliquities, however the exigency of happenstance whether abstract or the other thing, rather an Old Hotel a jaguar in every closet around each corner in the halls; the broken bowl is anyone's cosmos importuned as The Great Release. Let African Rattle commute with this-- the purity of Melee, in just proportion, the symphony of ghosts invited to the party Saturday night at The Old Hotel-- or else the devil with the calendar-- away with every covering for time; as long as the whole Collective dwells concretely, time might well dispel the ghost of its measures or else invent some new principle, The Great Ghost fill time as the perpetual liberation of obstacles requires, Happenstance hand-in-hand with Release. I'll take charge of Abstraction myself. Perhaps I'll not cease making speeches but in the guise of Jaguar grow fluent in managing my focus-- both on what and at what degree-- don't be too sharp with ghosts, too narrow with violets. Let Happenstance occasion methodology, choose how many tines you sharpen on your Fork. Do we need a Minion to work on our Koan? Ten sharp men, persons of whatever gender, to work together in a garden, each at a turn in the maze, another angle of Happenstance. Then light will fill the Gorge coming from ten points in Anywhere and the ghosts go back to Black Lake and the Ghost enliven the Ten Facets of Crystal. Does it take ten beings together to make it concrete? do right by what a maze really is? reconcile two five-tined forks with benevolent forces coming in from Obliquity? No leader ever, but ten angular singularities, each one visitation, one ghost? Well, it's a thought." The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 17 The Old Hotel had so long entertained Obliquity that the old crone longed for the healing waters of Black Lake. It was not just a matter of focus or bifurcation. For instance, when Jaguar called an assembly or anyone grew cognizant of The Gorge, the thought of Black Lake awoke as complement or counter-cognizance, Black Lake in turn, being ground and bottom to every sort of Melee, had accustomed The Old Hotel to the bottomless call of The Gorge, abyss of illicit riches, material and phantasmatical, opals as baubles, or glasses for conjuring single images or ontologies entire-- all this transpiring with such constancy that the phenomenal melee of it all seemed to The Old Hotel the natural attitude of historical time. Now it was just too much. To see a ghost or face a fork in one's itinerary were all an afternoon's entertainment. A fork to a guest were an obstacle, possibly; the full complement of agitated African Rattles, something for Jaguar to bother about. But for The Old Hotel these disturbances were part of the local temperature; locally assimilable, but in the aggregate and as history continued to deliver itself, quietly exhausting. The Old Hotel was worn out from the constancy of Obliquity. She looked for Black Lake in her private opal to quiet the implacable melee and was appalled. She was no closer in essence to its healing waters than her obstreperous guests. The Old Hotel in dismay turned toward The Gorge. She adopted a new attitude toward its rattles born in Africa, to the forest of forks that carpeted the slopes of its walls. She thought to hire Wrench Wench as agent or safari guide. She'd commission an expedition down there in quest of the elusive Principle of Harmony, herb or stone or rubric, something, perhaps by magic, to make possible a healing mind whose dispossession legend told paradoxically held possession of The Gorge. African Rattle was available for the assignment. A path among sonorities. It waited in a patch of the backyard garden for command. It hitched its gourd to a fork and abided the moment when to begin to scatter sound in quest of the chthonic equivalent to Black Lake and bring back the token, the charm, the anti-mechanical key to final release. And break the Koan.  Bifurcation is a condition distinct in the encounter from its recall. African Rattle subsumes temporal distinctness. In this sense its white susurrus transforms harmony to foul abuse. You must wrench yourself out of its measureless measure, assert adamant dispossession, exaggerate the concrete if you must, and dispossess your jaguar. All this was wearily familiar to The Old Hotel, sharp as crystal. Similarly Happenstance was distinct qua principle, from, well, happenstance. You make your energy take the form of Jaguar and jump into The Gorge. The Old Hotel did that. Opals in saddle bags as exigent currency-- who knows what expenses one might incur down there, what rough paths bifurcate continually, morally, materially. At the bottom anticipate Silence or rather seek release from all anticipation. Dispossession is both method and result. A fist full of violets. Melodious Melee. Release for The Old Hotel.  Black Lake as ultimate principle is not like a maze. Black Lake is not like a garden. Not like a crystal. And not like an old hotel. To what can they compare thee, O ultimate etymon? For Garden compensates Melee and we all, to release ourselves, just might jump into The Gorge, and the world is the scene of abstract machines. They don't give a hoot about our dispossession in regard to them, and a garden of dispossession releases us onto a certain instrumental silence-- use it by all means to call forth your private Black Lake.  Hammerhead hammers out Obliquity. Do you have money? This conditions your attitude toward Melee. Can you find your Jaguar? If so, why jump in The Gorge? The mouse eats cat food in the kitchen of The Old Hotel, neither does he squeal for dispossession. He is delicate with chopsticks and forks. He cozens Silence. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 18 When the Gorge is silent --ominous obstacle. One wants one's harmony to roar lest there be no release for the elderly Old Hotel-- dust and mould spores, broken stones in a garden. Obstruction no obstacle for Violet. She covers The Gorge and makes the old garden emanate perfumes, exploding with African Rattles. Violet is settled at home in The Gorge-- no need to remember Black Lake. Release is loosed in her nature. Her gender affinitant is Opal. When proper melee roars, her numbers augment the May-scene all about the Old Hotel, so elderly now. But The Gorge was engorged on Silence. Abominable lacuna of waiting for the advent and passage of Obstruction. The forest of African Rattles settled its beads and pebbles at the bottom of black gourds. Violet's petals were calm on their stems. Neither Gorge nor Garden hospitable to Melee. She bound her red flaming tresses in a tight knot pending release. Mechanics and carpenters were at work in the Maze, no distracted avatars of anyone wandering lost in there. No scatter, no disarray; not a hint of obliquity. What is a garden without Melee concretely to gamble (or gambol) release? No Carnival of Happenstance, no jouisance. Perfect stasis is obstruction-- nothing quixotic, nothing zealous; only an extravagance of focus fixed on the fixed Collective. Nobody moving.  This species of obstruction was a spur to action for Wrench Boy. Spontaneous emergence of multiple bifurcation, a scattering of point-sharp tines poking the statues, provoking release. "Loosen up, ye statues!" he remonstrated with a laugh. Renaissance of Obliquity to complexify focus. But you know the drill. And a ghost is primitive to Jaguar, Obliquity propaedeutic to Release. Scatter allopathic to Obstruction. Gorge must be black, and even when latent only, mysteriously present with a hint of the tumultuous, otherwise the Collective comprehends no sublimity. And the True Work realizes rather than requires Dispossession . . . We have paused here to offer this summation. Time itself comes loose. There is no determinate sequence. Let us take out rooms in The Old Hotel neither new nor elderly truly. But the Crone herself a great Mistress of Obliquity. She prunes the poison berries from her garden, applies the latest studies in psycho-neuro-pneumatic-pharmacology. She is herself the gardner with mowing scythe, great shears, and wicker-work bucket. Those dainty flowerets were never violets merely-- they focus the will. In her many-jointed fingers the African Rattles deliver educated sonorities set to obviate obstacles and harness abstract machines. You'd never believe The Old Hotel ever suffered gray senility. Oblique olfactories freshen her corridors. Wrench Wench importunes her avatars, one maid to a chamber, released from the womb that is the Gorge. You can witness primordial midwifery from oblique windows if you know how to find them. An army of African Rattles honors the mystery. And the crystal cat bowl's no obstacle. It glistens in the kitchen winter dawns as sun strikes frosted windows ever-miraculous. Racemes of transmutable violets scattered, released throughout The Old Hotel and its eternally transmutable gardens . . . The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken 19 The garden was guarded and bounded but opened onto the world. The ghost of worldly logic lit up the opal. Positive propositions fell prey to an implicative scatter, then came to a focus like nasty black turkey-vultures circling over the gorge. The picture was quite concrete, though a queasy feeling came over me as I gazed in my opal. Some enormous mammal had expired down there, according to the opal's logic. Seven small black crystals encircled a big block of jacinth. The mammal is Existence itself (or is my thought distorted?)-- leaving a blank in our garden, concrete with melee occulted. Crystal the goddess, the person, is also herself The Garden, inalienable obstacle come to a focus; focus itself like an African Rattle-- brown black, dried hard gourd inlaid with tiny white cowries, stem handle twined round with violets, its quality redolent of The Great Gorge that, like a garden-- if there were a ghost in the garden-- as an image might work like an opal; but the secret melee--you could see it-- disturbance among facets of crystal. Existence--if like a garden-- a concrete category no longer-- but a vivid sequence of similes-- but a string of violets in focus-- and the thing itself, a proposition alive only in the funk of our Jaguar. To call it a matter of happenstance-- well you might say that if you have to; but better let ignorance keep silence; concreteness of simile, like a long string of violets; abstract machines in focus; all this to persuade dispossession and open out in the opal what you might call An Ultimate Harmonica-- like the swoosh and suck of a bellows, sour breath from the guts of a world. Black Lake resolves but's not like this. Black crystal takes Abstraction for cat food. That's a wish. African Rattles function like sonic opals-- deliverances like shadows in the orders of Harmony. When matters snap into focus-- what disruption! Let loose all messages at once-- discombobulate Information-- in the depths of your opal-- harmonica suck and swoosh-- opal all swirling and smoky-- African Rattles run amock in The Garden. Gorge engorges Abstraction. May the Goddess abhor this.  Dispossession allows Existence (the thought of Existence) to show and dissolve in anyone's opal. Then Wrench Boy Girl Boy Wrench Wench rest at home in The Old hotel and The Gorge but the play of happenstance (something happens). Every ontology is like this-- a way to tend a garden or qualify the gorge. It is not possible to show your process. Abstract machines disorganize your opal or for better or worse ignore it -- concreteness something a little off from this-- a fork in a gorge-- a violent assertion of silence-- in your face-- the oligarch's garden.  For all that I keep looking in my opal, bifurcation a temporal illusion. I know a gorge out of time-- an opal at the center of an opal-- Being itself is a Black Box and Hammerhead stands alert in one corner to prosecute his quarrel with Wrench Boy. An opal at each tweek of the mazeway. Release itself keeps talking and you cannot silence Abstraction. Put opals instead of pebbles in the gourds of your African Rattles. Qualify Obliquity with crystal. Make love with Melee-- flaming red silence flares from the Great Harmonica. Kick a stone down the path of a garden. Fake ghosts. The Mouse Eats Cat Food But The Cat's Bowl Is Broken II 20 Concretely speaking, Black Lake is tranquil whatever constitutes your world. The world. While African Rattles kick up a rumpus, even if Happenstance has it that nothing is happening. Harmony essentializes as Garden. Abstraction has no essence. When Africa rattles, it jumps into action, and African Rattles shake across the world. Hammerhead, concretely speaking, has always manifested as Master of Abstraction, while Violet decorates his lists. Where Hammerhead has anxiety is in concrete situations involving gazing opals. He doesn't like what he sees, so he takes out his harmonica and tries to harmonize melee. A sad joke. Essence-wise, Crystal's in her element. Being itself appears as an intricately realized shining garden, entities arrayed in even rows but patterned handsomely, even fantastically, strange geometries concretized. But even so, concreteness allows for shadows, each shadow like a shaped black lake. African Rattles stand as sentinels. Violets shudder when they sound. Hammerhead's longing grows concrete when even abstractedly Crystal flashes her intrinsic harmonies. The Old Hotel on the Hill maintains a stately dispossession. If there are ghosts up there-- confusion everywhere. Who knows if abstraction reigns as collective malady. Crystal bifurcates the moonlight to harmonize Obliquity. African Rattle scatters tranquility where concreteness has been called upon tendentiously. There's always a fork in reach. Hammerhead has it in his arsenal. He glances all about and the miscreants scatter. Who are they?  We only seek release-- break up the oligarch's garden. We--the ten-thousand ghosts to haunt this oblivious to dispossession. We'll stab ten-thousand forks into the obscenity that is this garden. Let Happenstance follow our focus. No hortus conclusus unless its abstract orders rattle its Africa for all of us. We are Abstract Machines--no abstraction merely. We take up African Rattles because we are being scattered quite concretely as if already ghosts-- O Hammerhead, Hammerhead, where are you headed --AGAIN-- your ten-thousand avatars shall never know peace through your evil-spirited Declaration of Dispossession. We are Wrench Boy, Wrench Girl-- our African Rattles carpet the world like trees in the forest pirmaeval. The ghosts you see are ourselves. Call off your abstraction, O Hammerhead. We enlist you for the all but universal scatter. There is no alternative now. Behold our army of jaguars, all shaking African Rattles.  Existence, though concrete, is a maze. Every picture of it, in some sense proffered tendentiously. Will you scatter the ghosts? They return to The Gorge. No harmony yet can master dispossession which, in spite of its abuse and superficial application is the key but practiced now mendaciously certainly-- it rests on a gorge of appetite while ghosts starve in the scatter. Obstacles ubiquitous, Obstacles inevitable. Hammerhead's concordat with Wrench Boy-- pray, not yet. Not yet recall ghosts from their scatter. Greet Obstacle with ominous silence. Harmony only in Obliquity. But keep shaking those African Rattles.