Article: 288557 of talk.bizarre
From: Mark
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Oh
Date: Sat, 30 Nov 1996 17:29:17 GMT
Lines: 220
Message-ID: <>



  "BEHOLD!" said Monterroy, "The Mawdin Shot Stawry!"

  -- cheers or ineffectual dead-pans all around --

  Steaming cheese-and-potato perogies jostling, bobbing, free-styling in 
warm and safe quasiamniotic mother liquor--the ongoing pan-tilt setting up 
a dichotomously-ramifying internal seiche: ethereal vapors rise, amorphous 
windowpane frost, a firmamental sacrament; while Einsteinian-updated 
Newtonian mentation dictates the Fall of mortal Durum Triticum blobs into 
diabolical colanderdom.
  Ditto, the division of won-ton soup.  Alas!  Unremitting dualism!
  "But all pluralism--" said Monterroy.
  "Reduces to unanimity, don't you agree?" said Alexis.
  "Yes, no, both, and neither, all at once." said the skeptical Scragnowitch.
  "Precisely!" added Addison.  "It all makes perfect Nonsense.  The ideal
starting point!"
  "But only a fair-to-middling middling point, and a downright snot-nosed
ending point." said Alexis.
  "What instead?" demanded Scragnowitch.  "Intellect?  Ha!  That's yuh, yuh,
yuh, yuh, ya?  Yuh, yuh, yuh, yuh, yo.  Yuh, yuh, yuh, yuh, ya?  Yuh, yuh,
yuh, yuh, yo.  Yuh, yuh, yuh, ya?  Yuh, yuh, yuh, yo.   Yuh, yuh, ya?  Yuh,
yuh, yo.  Yuh ya?  Yuh yo.  Yuh Ya!  Yuh Yo!  Ya!  Yo!  YA!  YO! YA!YO!YAYO!

                  YAYAYAYAYAYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA|__/\  ____________________ !

  "Or Emotion?  It's all addled also," added Addison again.  "Where we go
charging to the top...(yippee!)...and we go running right back down.  We go
charging to  t h e   t  o  p . . .  (plink) . . . a  n  d   w e  go running
right backdownandwego chargin g  u p  ( )  a n d  runningdownandchargingupand
running down, charging up, running down, up, down, up, down, left, right,
left, right, updown, updown...running, running, running,runningrunningrunning
rrrrrruuuuunnnnnnnnnniiiiiiinnnnnnggggggggg|______________________________ !

 "But Silliness," said Monterroy.  "The last frontier!  Listen, and reckon:
Pooka pooka bong.  Ching chang chong!   Zitz.  klahh.  oooooh,  ahhhhhhh!
Targatoobeewannawillyblatsatfit!  rrZzzzrrRacacacac Splukroinga--twins!  
Riding over sqlitchy with a blurx on side when Jim n seeing klomglatz 
worgflurns teeplangshobjahyvsarphhut.    ߥ妬椵Ρ   

Ohh,  lmttis of the keyboard, lmttns of-the-Bhord, 
Nya na na na ya naaa!

  "Nevertheless," said Alexis, "here we are: still caught by Conformity,
still fastened by Familiarity, still imprisoned by Identity, still secured by
Self.  But...Oh My!  Isn't the world in such chaos!  Captivated by Chaos, day
after day.  Good?  Bad?  No difference.  But FUN?  Ah"
Or rather, no.  No fun at all.  Pink, orange, mauve--they're all colors.  And
clothes, people, events, things, things, things...they're all things.  What's
to choose in sameness?  Can not a thing save me?  No.  Madness?  No.  Not 
even from the INSIDE?  No.  Oh C'MON!  No.  There's no salvation.  Nothing.
No thing.  No not-thing.  But Silliness!  Nonsense!  Absurdity!  Now then.
Don't you see?  You see?  See?  ?  No?  "No" you say.  You say, "I am you and
you are he and he are we and we are all together."  Tethered by Togetherness.
  "Did you know--" said the metaphysician.
  "No, did you?"   sai th met physicia
  "Well?"          sa t me physici
  "Huh?"           s m physic
  "Hey, stop!"
  "Where are we?  Where did we come from?  Where are we going?  What's the
meaning of this?  What's your purpose?  Who are you?"
  "And ptui to you too."
  "ARE you?"
  "I am."
  "You are what?"
  "I'm hot!"
  "Huh!  Hot awree?  Wrell, wree kin fix dat!  Take dis.  And dat.  And dis
and dat!"
  "Ahhh, fixy-fix,fix-fix: What a fix!"
  "Who are you NOW?"
  "I'm... MOVING!"
  "You're still."
  "YOU'RE Moving!"
  "I'm stationary."
  "We're ALL Moving!"
  "We're motionless."
  "EVERYTHING'S Moving."
  "Yes, no theme, aye, an a-theme-a a, a, achoo!  Eschew a theme?  Most
definitely.  But Form...Style...Technique...(or whatever) ALL!"


  The goal's umbra elongates, expanding (with his approach) into an all-
encompassing pall of synthetic volcanic ash, thereby occluding the objective.
Then, sludgegates open to slather the emergent instar with profundal detritic
ooze.  Acclivities obliterated, clinometer rendered obsolete, scansorial 
skills squashed; it's fossilization time.  Catastrophism.  So what?  
Succession, he hears, advances, reseeding.
  So, WHAT are you? Abstractionist? Surrealist? Existentialist? Absurdist?
Experimentalist? Avant-garde-ist?  What label?  What moniker?  You MUST be
called SOMETHING--every Columbid has a hole: Procrustean taxonomy.  And once
an X, always an X: Prometheus bound.  Likewise, what soil you stand on?
Edaphic factors = crucial information.  What?  "Niminy-piminy" you say?
You say, "I am telluric; and this, a given, given, I give no more."
No matter.  We find out.

  A fly, buzzing at the window, stops, exhausted.

  At the beach, a nubile Caucasian reclines on a chaise longue beneath a 
mackerel welkin.  Delitescent protandry completed, she is scantily clad,
allowing ultraviolet solar photons access to her stratified squamous 
keratinizing epithelial cells' DNA to produce thymine dimers.  "If only I 
were an octoroon," she muses, popping a locule of ugli into her buccal 
cavity, "I should be presently wed."  A somewhat fashionable flibbertigibbet,
she imbibes a philter and vaticinates for the nth time the rigmarole anent 
wooing, via some jape, an uxorious hubby of studdish ilk, garnering 
superpecuniary emolument...ahhhh!  Now masticating a nubbin, she quits the 
limicoline seaside strand to ambulate, trans-llano, into the metropolis with 
her bamboo lophophore containing leftover haggis, kohlrabi and a tripe-filled
blintz--generally, edibles whose electivity index approaches negative one--
and, hounded by a frowzy young mendicant, she inadvertently becomes a Job's 
comforter by relinquishing eleemosynary orts to the poor gamin, who 
immediately scarfs most of them down and returns to his back alley 'home' 
nearly empty-handed (again) to submit to an ineluctable ritual wherein 'papa',
in his permanent reeling stupor, takes his handy ferule with alacrity and 
slugs the yammering younker with one hand while slugging usquebaugh with the 
other, all the while ululating threats of the knout next time, thereby 
maintaining the status quo.  And the beat goes on, even in schoolyards and on 
dog-dirtied playgrounds where clubbable children intrinsically anthropophilic 
but made xenophobic by the font of popular wisdom, skip rope, breathlessly 
mouthing the words of 'nursery rhymes' acapella, thuswise:

		Oh...the...sun came out today
		Came out to jump and play
		His mind may rot but he will not
		Renounce his right to flay.

		Ohhh, Ohhhh, Ohhhhh...
		The...moon came out today (cha cha)
		Came out to slash and slay (rah rah)
		My throat's been cut 'cause I'm a slut
		Now leave me to decay. (ha ha)

while Old Granny Alzheimer sits in her nursing home, bathed in a dustbeam,
staring stonily out (or at?) the picture-screen window, rocking, rocking, 
while across the street in the university's physiology building, undergrads,
three minutes before a mid-term test, quiz one another worriedly or 
frantically scan their lecture notes: "24/0 h photo/scotophase-acclimated 
Sprague-dawleys maintain an endogenous circadian rhythm of epiphysial 
indoleamine synthesis whereby serotonin (precursor: tryptophan) is acetylated
by NAT, then methylated by HIOMT to form melatonin; however, following pineal
denervation or bilateral ocular ablation..." 
while across campus in a residence 'cell', yet another truant, spurred by 
biofloccinaucinihilipipification, has experimentally tested--employing a
suitably ligated 50/50  polyester/cotton nocturnal apparatus--the tensile
strength of human cervical vertebrae, and has left the recording and
interpretation of the results to others...
while downtown, a chronic skid-rower takes up dipsomaniacal rhabdomancy with
a serendipitously-discovered cruciform wheelwrench, confabulating to beat the
band; classic Korsakoff's?...
while throughout this great land, all living people are purging themselves
through common activities experienced in some combination by everyone except
those in hospitals, who must suffer through (holy propriety!) seborrhea
diaphoresis rhinorrhea lymphorrhagia suppuration regurgitation micturition
egestion emission epistaxis catamenia lactation parturition lacrimation and
emesis instead.

  From big oscillating bangs of plasmic strange-flavored proto quarks, 
through melding nucleation in quasars streaming nebular-like, to revolving
spiral galaxies, each one being a Black Hole-centered stellar factory and
supernova graveyard, housing in the interim, numerous oblate spheroid-bound
wanderlings whose pre-embedded ontological status reflects, like gegenschein,
with a low albedo growing ever dimmer on and on though anthropocentrism rides
at the shoulder of egoism insofar as autonomously-ciphered luminous magnitude
is concerned, giving rise to those dubiously doubting Thomases without whose
skepticism every whit would be okey dokey, but that, like banning the bomb
ex post facto, is obviously so inevitable as to be a never-you-mind kind of
thing, the same as chronic dearth or rampant criminality or reciting 'The
Radioalarm Is My Zeitgeber--I Shall Not Be Tardy' or me not understanding 
what 'Je ne comprends pas e que vous voulez dire' means, nor Von Neumann's
catastrophe of the infinite regress nor Bell's theorem nor metaethics nor
Godel's imcompleteness theorems or what-have-you; the whole shootin' match--
it's all of an undifferentiable homogeneity whether your neocortical DC
oneiro-fantasy engrams are currently plugged into your AC dream video display
unit for future leisuretime viewing or you're feeling sorta both here and
not-here, shilly-shallying in a familiarly strange place tomorrow and now
simultaneously, or those ol' reflexes o' yore are goin' fer good and tryin'
to tells ya that that silverfish yer munchin' on's probly yer last--though ya
mustnt ferget Nostoc's a delicacy too but Oh God chlorpromazine Ack!--or yer
jes sittin quiet with a chow-fed kitty on yer lap lappin his chops where's
everybody's and dog is walkin n skippin over this warm sun meltin after snow
colds gone 'sept youd be two if yer feets'd matchd yer boots wheresevery
they wented maybee them cubburd or frig or frij in cubburd same diffrince but
wanna choklit cooky all likkin middel out in smeerin kitty tungs feel oooh
ticklings funnee theres rrrrrrr sound yow! shocksy fur more milk wanna cup
pretty pretty uh-oh Mummy waaaah coodint wate smell no Bad! what? cold smooth
yummy goodlikka goo goo-- gluon/glia --goo goo oooo ooo oo oo

  A moth at the window, with the flick of a glass-darkening lightswitch, 
ceases its fluttering, deceases--momentarily--and receases (again).  
Cry, decry, recry.

Mark Mosby