The day the aerobarges arrived

The robbers hasten their liquor store evacuation, the day the sky barges arrived. Turns out, there was no need.


Effie was aset at the burled wooden desk, plate of blackberries, the culprits bleeding on her fingers. The barges drifted past. She heard them before she saw them. The cat had been fretting all morning. This reduced her surprise at the surprising.

She heard old music. Old timey. Pressed for phonograph. Tinny music. The kind men in fur coats would Charleston to, while drinking: alumnus attending the homecoming game of his alma mater. Girls twirl like it is the 1920’s. Reservedly untoward. The dance is all in the eyes.

This flashes in her mind, a daydream of orientation. Her curiosity piqued, she makes for the front room, with its huge picture windows, framed by newly painted, unadorned white walls.

Picturesque, but now the Douglas firs partially obscure her view of the aerostrocities. They move at a painfully slow knots per hour.

Ima grab those blackberries. They are not in rush and I’m hungry as eff.

She pops them ala popcorn into her mouth, watching. Her neighbors begin to venture outside. Some voluntary evacuation necessitated by a craving for speculation. The steely comfort of hearing someone else acknowledge the surprising, and then say, “I think it must be…”

Their words crackled like burning logs, the freezing air making every word they spoke become the smoke. Hazy veil from the heat source warming their fear. Tirefire.

Effie watched them, too. Actors on the stage.


To call a stone panther.

The braches on boughs broke.

Lying lifeless. Casualties of the white out.

Lost soldiers, abandoned by their unit.

Under the weight they could not withstand.

Only now revealed

Sheets melted.

Perfect circle encircling more circle.


There is a blackstone panther, she re-enlivens each night

A path of sprawling

Stalking prowl.

The little girl awaiting her bus told me so.

She tugged my coat and pointed as I passed: I see her at night.

Does she have a name, I ask?

She just nods and waves.


I smile and turnaway.


Exhausting Dreams

I’ve been consistently sweating in my sleep.
Dreams in the same neighborhood as the swaying structures
Only now we are not pedestrians.

Nor roof top runners.

The vans return.
Mass panic.
Drunk, drunk rednecks.
And, disenfranchised swarming points of public services.
No one seems rich.
Or perhaps the rich are unseen.
Alee and safe from our strife.

The previous night, the riots/disaster broke out.
Some truth revealed of which I discovered myself involved in
Through familial inheritance. clandestine.
Unaware until that moment.
Strange feeling of alienation.
Now that I know my involvement, my allegiance, must change.
My family has implicitly caused the suffering of many. With at least a bit of awareness.
<With too much intoxication?>

We leave a keg party in the woods.
A young man, Hunter

I went to high school with this blonde

Son of a politician [in the dream].
We were not friends.
He was in a higher clique, multiple levels.
That said. he was always kind.
I am by far the sober one.
But have the deepest of dread about driving the
Super drunken party.
As in, if we get pulled over by the cops (sic. American cops midst a crisis….DANGEROUS) it is more important for me to ditch the carload and make for this public center. That looks like the Tuscaloosa Library

(ed. note: before ‘tuscaloosa’, it was called Druid City. Point in case, the biggest hospital is known formally as DCH- Druid City Hospital. Quite magical considering the Magic City is only 45 min. NE.)

Hunter offers, kindly yet foolishly to drive us in his huge red truck.
Within two minutes we are clearly going to crash and hit a metal solid post. I think:
1. Hunter’s father has the sway and motive to save his son and the party to the crime. That is if we/they ever make it to trial. Which is questionable. The state of AL is in shoot first question later mode.
2. I will bail from the truck before impact IF impact is inevitable. I have great confidence in my ability to time and gauge this.
3. Amy is the only one in the truck I feel loyal obligation to. I fill with dread. We have not spoken in years, and she feels like dead weight that I am responsible for. And I intuit she may feel the same way about my own prescence.
People begin to reach up and try to snatch the wheel. This is ok by me.

Somehow we avoid crashing.

Amy bails.
I bail.
We freeze

And look at each other. We did not plan to bail together.

We apparently were just similar minded in how to handle the problem.
I indicate with eyes: I’m going my way. Do you want to come or go?
She crosses the road towards me.
Before she finishes, I’ve started running toward my destination.
She cannot keep up.
She arrives later and is pivotal in assisting me help the people my family

tacitly, indirectly, hurt.
(Ed. Note: she loves her family. They have never truly hurt her or even let her down in waking life).

We save the day after a protracted dance of:
She distracts and alludes the vanmen outside through camp.
I evade them inside while finding and sneaking people.
From this multiple story structure that winds horizontally.
It seems to grow ampersand sprawl.

The people often resent my help.
Some refuse it.
An armed faction of the people I’m trying to get outside decide me a hostile enemy.
Complicating my evasive action.
They change forms. An elite force.

At one point, í beat a crow to death, over and over it came at me, with a tennis racquet. When I looked on its lifeless body, felled upon the second step of a staircase, I fill with dread.
I killed it in fear it was a transformed enemy. In retrospect, I cannot be sure that I had not just beaten a confused, agitated bird to deæth. Maybe it was just a bird. Then the whole question stops making sense. I feel confused but on the run. Time, survival.
end: successful but incomplete.

Cut to last night.

Same place, same time.
Only, I embrace the role of driver.
My car.
Interstates flooded with water and cars.0
I dodge and weave impeccably.
But, I feel exhausted and stressed.
Then, I know when/that I should/ to

pull over and rest.

The panic inside me ceases.

The disarray outside continues.

I drive people in and out of the city all night

(I would not describe it as a nightmare. Not even as a bad dream.

Just a tiring, surprisingly self re-affirming dream)


I Tense My Neck

With back straight,

Í asked you, “do you try hard too?”

The snow reduced me to pencil,


Bleeding out my pens proper.

Wondering about that table of six í auto-gratted

in the Tavern five years prior.

My lead cracks.

Mark darker.

And then í find,

one pen left in my fold.


Between run and go.

A dash of dalliance

Unconcerned with with prose that came before

Or wilt

Would be.

Her hands would shake?

Ledges are not only

but also for leaping.

They told me “no.” Which is always within rights, but í was left confused.

Í cannot remember asking anything

Lend a

Hand, right?

Play your vinyl

Remove the album sleeve.

Put your diamond down, glasscutter.

45 rpm.


I see none involving nengk.

I feel like a chemist when I boil water.

Astood upon three toes.


now four.

And the sky matches the ground.

He told me we ought to blow it up.

The snow.

Cuz of the moon.

An allotment of the ailment is being carried

By wagonmasters & confronters.

I pay attention to your punctuation.

Sometimes my teeth bend but don’t break in my bad dreams.

Of getting ready for Gertrude’s party

That never happens.

Disproportionate response.


Receive the rowen.

We worked double overtime.

And looked into your mother’s eyes.

She could not smile then but she does now.

As assiduous as inexorable is

My final defenses are indeafsible.

A prerogative disinclined toward extravagance,

As much as the silver sliver of

The new moon is caustic

And the lurdan lurid.

The succubus and incubus work in tandem.

One pulls rope and the other gathering eggs.

No small surprise they work in sleep’s misty revue.

A dæmon to a dreamed of demon that never derived from the proper diabolical.

A small child born.

A mom and dad.

And suddenly you stroke your chin,

And I miss my train

Of thought again.

Scraps of yellow bits scatter my room

And I sit indian style.


Bow drawn. Arrows all a’quiver.

Quivered and quivering.

Set asleep amongst the Ingessana Hills.

Children recover souls they did not know

They missed.

We are the doctor-diviners with a sleepy second sight.

We dream the dreams the sleepers cannot fathom

Until awakening.

There is no need to fear.

I see none involving nengk.


A Concealment of Collective Nouns

Morbid effery from the monkeyed,

Landed gentry.

Luxurious as late night coffee with heavy cream.


All the crawfish fixing to get boiled.

Cloves of garlic

Resting on claws

Coalescing correlations.

Corrections to iterations

Deshelled and /de/tailed


Silver eyes against armor-alled all red

Whiskers a’faced to

Terraced tails.

Rampant mud and bug

With a dropped bouquet.

The slow crawl of the limited engagement

Leaves above my head.


Í will make you look up and remember the sky.

You forget your breath


You lose a life.

I forged injunctions

Duplicitous & with steely reinforcement.


The pleasure of the written word. Consummate.

The change in our handwriting over time.

Fingering out your new font

Of pen scratch.



And my rhythm dictates a tempo for our saraband.


You should always carry a handkerchief.

Cotton is fine. Print or naught.

It is not you that will use it


So remove from that top drawer.

Overly ajar.


A black rectangle

Framed in an indigo field. Ræching.


What do we know of destruction?

Or why the paper need be canary.

Elongation in enunciation is

A mispronunciation.

Two blankets for the two ankles outside


Headed stones of fuzzy beasts


Atop footed cherrywood.

Vascular knotted circuitry


A slip of the hips,

a flick of fingers.

Full affront of the suites

Merely one of a sort of resorts available

To your privy.

The pluck of pages.

Should they dissuade?

Is it prey to the præter-?

They said some really mean things about some really mean people. What do you suppose that means?

Felled and befell.

Sometimes it is hard to tell an l from I from a 1.

But no one ever mentions this.

A notice noticed. Even if misunderstood.

I drank the coffee to stay

Sharp in my sleep.

I sleep with a steno


Petrified enfossil.

A sordid seizure of a hardened fruit pit.


Where countenance meets disposition.

Heavy like

Wet denim.


cassette à fleur

I shift shoulders,

Crackly, a’tængled.

Naught not knotted.

Capacity and current

Contained by my spine.


Runs amok until

Corrected to both

convex & concave


Back braced

And arching.



To arrow.

Column of my chord.

Given immobility put to good use

In postures

Not posturing.

Posing but no poser.

Calf cramps

Paces inside

In sides.

Sidling as slides.

Sliding the sphere of my cəntər


And əntərs.

My abdomen to

My solar plexus


To my head.

Red , Terracotta , orange

Yellow , Green, Indigo.




All then red.

When cultivating a rose, they account for size, form, color,


Stem & Foliage




(but wə can turn anything into a competition, I’d wager)

An ugly rose?


Birds and bees do not notice.

Lao Tzu or The American Rose Association Rule Book.

Misnamed. Mislabeled.


Dont let the roses pick up on that vibe.

Or the glass embracing it might break.

The rose and the vase.

This translates to a title.


Watch “INXS – Never Tear Us Apart” on YouTube

A recent conversation left me reexamining my mental (re)collection of the 1980’s music scene. I came from an acoustic, Martin, early 1960’s to gritty 1970’s household, ya see.

Now, I was a young `un during the `80s, not even alive for the full decade. I write from sloppy memory & unresearched timelines.

To wit. viz. My first memories of favorite songs (years before-gasp-receiving my first cd/tape player boombox) include:

1. Phil Collins (solo, post Genesis); Groovy Kind of Love

2. The Beach Boys (see Surf’s Up not Pet Sounds. Giggle); Kokomo

3. Don Henley (solo, stag de La Eagles); All She Wants to do is Dance

My radio cassette player allowed me to record radio to cassette tape. I took great advantage of such a Tape OP.

The draped-on drum production kinda kills me.

Insta-musical carbon dating.

Not necessarily standing the test of time.

Remaining revolutionary.

But hindsight blahblahblah.

I know I’ll take Tears for Fears, INXS, and George Michael (see also The New Radicals 1990’s) most days.

But I thought real hard about what song with which to start a Pressed review.

The 1980’s have some spectacular introductory pieces (ala Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain).

Songs that mesmerize you before they truly begin.

Donnie Darko previously re-popularized Tears for Fears Head Over Heels. Same band, Sowing the Seeds of Love continued a pop sentiment that trickled down to Oasis, Space Hog. REM.

But, as far as knock out 1980’s intros that I can immediately recall, I had to land here with INXS. Vaguely Antish?

P.s. an exemplar par excellence of the use of a 1980’s sax. Too often wrecking a track.



Awhite awit. De-lis

Whirling padded fan blades

Belt around in circles.


Edifying eddies of easy breezes

Above me.

Pink & blue light

Nearly a wishing sky meandering on my wall.




Everyday reaching one more yard.






Someone fell down?


In front ampersand behind.

(All a front for)





Red rocks the remain

chilled & a’cold

/Des-/In spite constant sunshine.

To spite.


Bell Rock



Belle appealing.

Upturned. Un toward.

A forward.


Word afore

A nameless, unspoken




The server dropped the tray of glasses

Right after saying, “Don’t worry I’m a professional.”


Could not out plates down fast enough

Before picking up new ones.


Feet bones cracklin

Pork ears

The following morning

IT sent an email.

Meanwhile, the coil leaked.

And my hair sits flat today.

And I smile.

At a memory.

You said noodles used to be tradeable.

(Funk & Wagner photo)




A light



A bit lit.

Branches bumble and shake snow on me.

Wet, excited dogs preparing to come in after a romp.

I slip about on tip toes.

Inside ampersand outside.

Hamhocks hog tie knots.

Due to recent disuse.

I disabuse them of their notion of stiffness.

To remind.


A sun barely seen still strikes the sheets

Too brightly.

So much light.


A sun pokes through

My appendenages blanch the blankets.

My duvet is a pacific northwestern grey sky.

I wore it in my flip flop dance of toss and turn all night.

Third pillow fastned tight between legs and arms.

A downy company warmed then warming.

Vigil in anticipation.

Of the bed not being an ocean, but perhaps a sea.

The release of tides of sheets leaves me drenched

In cold morning. I do not mind.



The cat begs attention and food.

Stalking her way into my awareness.

The snow play of last night is a black and white still.

Outside my window.

I replay it in my mind’s eye.

Then a sun appears

And everything shimmers.

Shivers of strings

Of colors falling

On blanketed.



On pointe

With winged feet. Mercurial.


Balanced unbalance.


Bodies made by and into ratios

On pointes of feathered circles.



(Indignant and tall)

<Contained by pieces nearly too small>



The chain letter of et al. saluted the Dear Gentleperson.

Lines of lives that move as

lilt, lag, loll.

Silicon sand and office rebrands.

We measured the sheets of snow in ankles,

While the neighbors line stood-up dominoes in rows.

And we all leveled latitudes,

gauged by arcing sways.


Hard to describe dream

Time was askew and this manifested in the way I viewed things.

Things moved too slowly. I moved faster than the flow of the world.

Intermittent whiteouts/color bursts of vision only to return and have missed a few scenes.

I was caring for a young boy of about ten. There were no words exchanged.

He looked sallow, yellowish skin from poor nutrition.

Deep set, big dark saucer eyes.

It was an informal, novel arrangement for the short term.

He asked me there for the night?

His mother. His mother was aweful and possibly maleficent.

He lived in a trailer home, that connected to others like an aluminum apartment complex.

One story.

My cat kept plying at doors, as always.

The door to the connecting abode. She kept opening it and running inside.

I kept sneaking inside to retrieve her. Worried I’d get the boy in trouble with his neighbors.

I finally met the daughter girl of the neighbors. She was about 20 years old. Beautiful.

Suddenly, I’m her age too.

We attend school. We are friends, but it is hard and dangerous to have friends in this place, so we are very quiet.

Her home is immaculate and in the Thai decorative style.

Her mother wears very traditional almost ceremonial garb.

The mother watches me and her daughter but says nothing to me.

Never formally acknowledging me, but I feel comforted by this. Welcomed nonetheless.

The mother talks in mutters to her husband in a language, presumeably Thai, that I do not understand.

Those are the only words.

Me and the daughter never speak.

We draw geometric figures on the hardwood floor with chalk.

I notice a discoloration that is dried urine on the floor.

I worry my cat did this.

She writes, “my brother.”

I never meet him.

It stays grey outside, but now it is darker.

I return to the boy.

He and I take off running into the night.

Frenetic, nervous. Running. Like animals nervous before a storm.

We run for hours through meadows in dim moonlight.

Sparse trees here and there.

Everything is an aqua teal green.

You can feel a building electricity.

Like the accumulation of major internal static charges.

The boy stops. Freezes.

I’m running so hard I almost do not notice.

I stop, turn heel, and tear ass to be at his side again.

I make it to his immediate proximity.

The earth tremors. Isolated to the area immediately in front of us.

The earth tears open like a ripple over water.

A slight scar forming.

It is his mother.

Aweful. Pure force and energy. Intuited.

The boy is now catatonic, stood upright behind me.

There is a surge of fear followed by the security of knowing exactly what you are supposed to do.

Even if you have no idea how to do it.

Just do not let the boy touch anything.

The mom comes up from the ground in colors and consistency the like of a nebula and the root structure of an old tree. Explosions in the air like fireworks.

I just watch. The task is easy, if you do not panic.


It may snow today.


Poly-sal’ went acourtin’: Orientation Day

The tradition of Courtly Love in literature comes in three types: allegories, lyricals, and romance (aka færy tales).

In prudence of full disclosure, be aware that Richard Wagner’s opera was tentatively titled Parzifal (just as WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH had titled the protagonist) until 1877, when he switched to the handle Parsifal. This change was informed by one theory about the origin and etymology of the name (Perceval > Parzifal > Parsifal).

Vidēre licet the name as of Persian order Fal (Pure) Parsi (Fool).

At this time, your historian has been unable to validate any other origin theories for the name.

Though we shall encounter, virtually, every story ever told within Parzifal, a breakdown of the tradition of Courtly Love and Chivalry during the High Middle Ages as Eschebach tells it is justly prudent.

We concern ourselves, as the reader, with (1) Provençal troubadours, (2) French trovères, and (3) minnesänger.

I’m Wolfram von Eschenbach. I’m a bit of a minnesänger.

Note that Eschenbach states that a Provençal called Kyot (my research suggest Pyot to be a correspondant name in other texts) sent ” the book” to him.

Of keen interest to your historian is the patron enabling Eschenbach to afford the luxury of his composition. Wolfram was under the patronage of Medieval German Mæcenas Herman Landgrave of Thuringia.


The tradition of Courtly Love and Chivalry during the High Middle Ages as seen from the Critical perspective:

The overall gist, to be concisely reductive) of works concerned with courtly love seems to be the romance of self-perfection in knighthood, where both the chivalric and the spiritual receive their due as part of Love and Sensualism.

Parzifal had the knowledge of chivalry concealed from him until he was of an age able to think for himself.

In C.S. Lewis’ Allegory of Love, he presents the literary tradition of courtly love to include four basic characteristics: humility ; courtesy ; adultery ; Religion of Love.

A feudalization of love.

We will consider the meaning of the above shortly.

The genius of the above description will be revealed in history of words.



Metatext (analogue ; tape ; printed to paper)

Light falls upon pages.

Back light shines from digital pages.


Labyrinthal Laboratory Conditionals

Knecht leapt years ago into the black water of the river.

A leap of faith made in the face of a numinous bemusement.

A mæstro professing the art of conduction.

Cantos ; stanzas ; quatrains ; sections ; headings ; chapters ;

The function of any value such as x wilt result in a set of potential solutions.

f(x) : {set}, {set of the set}

yields Sentence G.

Godel’s lyric.

Taken from a song called Settes.

Cantos: sections dividing long poems.

– ORIGIN C16: from Ital., lit. ‘song’, from L. cantus

Dante sang poems in one hundred cantos.

The infernal first album of nine is the only one that hit the record charts.

Bemusing that he still writes lyrics and songs after his exile from Florence.

The courters and patrons of knightly chivalry frenzied in feigned, immodest outrage at the song of attack (quite poorly executed too, it is said) that

he played his Lady.

But he keeps on playing.

A fine equestrian he would have made.

Socrates and his diatribe will be with Dante shortly

Cursing Odsyyeus again, malifacent Man in Black: agent of injustice to Ajax.

The fellow-temple servants redeemed Parceval just yesterday.

Maestro Virgil’s rock n’ rolling opera

Nine lines feed nine recorders.

Eight channels receive live feed.

Three mixers temper.

A music master architects.

The 1 audits the confluence of the Take Stream.

The 1 who will stop the band,

called And the Band Played On,
only long enough to

allow them to listen.

Players eager to hear themselves.


Feedback looping.

The impetus of the 1.

The effect of showing the parts their whole.

Any system aware that is under observation is changed by the very act of being observed.

An axiom accepted and admitted to be a theoretical, not practical, concern.

In theory the results may be nullified.

The axiom is ad hoc. Improperly derived.

Invalid even if accurate.

As Wittgenstein’s Mistress, it behooves me to ask this

Question for the Vienna Circle:

Now that you have observed that the act of observation changes the observed,

Do you ever worry for the assured changes in your method, institutions, experiments, results, or selves?

As you observe the knowledge of this observation affecting your observations and that which you observe?

Or is that just another theoretical problem too?


Just an observation from this lovesome dummy.


Watch “Neil Young Inducts Paul McCartney into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductions 1999” on YouTube

“Well, maybe I could do this too.” Neil Young after hearing the Beatles.

Wittgenstein is proud. No doubt.

“Neil Young Inducts Paul McCartney into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductions 1999” on YouTube

In this six minute clip, he shares early experiences as a musician, as a musician going solo and the impact of The Beatles, particularly (along with many other musicians) his appreciation for Paul McCartney’s bass playing (“He played it left hand,” says Young. Just like Ziggy!).

As a Southerener (Deep South, to be clear) for over thirty years, The Rolling Stones album, Exile on Mainstreet, Neil Young’s Harvest most closely express the energy of the Dirty South, US. Amusing given neither outfit is American. Whatever an American is. <We were founded on philosophy, not history.>

I still remember the silly outrage I felt, when my father explained Neil Young was from Canada.

Canada?! They already have Joni Mitchell, though! I was so jealous. And disappointed that Young was no longer like me in this sense. Typical adolescent stuff, right? Giggle.

Southern Man and Alabama were outsider views?! Impossible. These had been Songs of Lament I could share in. This owed to me imaging that Neil Young’s perspective arose from living in the gothic American South. Whatever that is.

Suddenly (and without warning. Giggle), they were Songs of Condemnation.

Akin to the this sentiment:

As an older sister, I relentlessly hassle my little sister, but if anyone else so much as looks at her with crossed eyes s/he will be destroyed. That’s my effing sister!

Now I’m older and see the error in my thinking

He still sang the Song of the South.

Genius transcends and understands without experience. He’s in my pantheon of geniuses.


Young understands Wittgenstein’s concept of “the duty of genius,” which, as I read it, boils down to two things:

1. To believe there is no true or real difference between you and the great minds we celebrate (e.g. Abraham Lincoln, M.C. Escher, Johann Sebastian Bach, Umberto Eco, St. Augustine, etc).

2. To try to do your best at persuing a more robust mastery of abilities. Should you find a great passion, engage it and enjoy, but do not be discouraged by the heights others achieved.

It is not that you’ll never be that good. It is that everyone has the potential to be that good.

You just gotta try.



Calling out for collection.

Just a collect call or two through conductive cables.

Throw me a land line.

Far too tangled as between

the trident’s skewers under this sea.

I woke up here,

From a saga of the strife-filled dream of another.

Am í of this dream?

Nave, Knave, Navel, Novel

In this sphere, am í finally loųe unfolded?

I have already been so many things.

I feel weary from all this dreaming.

Again. Rising ignorant and beside myself.

Alone, in barbarous prudence.







Litle blue polka dots over my ivory stretched canvas.

Pyramid built for a moth.

Knights vainly going to nowhere fast, keep passed.

You Pure Fools will do fine if you do not hide your eyes.

Troubadours, minnesängers, trovères, you already made a feudalization of loųe

Diabolical idiotēs, you are well-endeared.

Venus stays near as my ally.

I carry but a cordon as an ornament of beauty.

My other hand holds a lamp.

Needing enkindling.

Pyramid for moth.

Conducting that underground current into specific key sites.

Where lode-stones are meticulously fawned over through ritual, mysticism and magic. Pressing them firmly into earthen mound prepared.

I feel as though a hermit knight tonight.

I feel like Persephone waiting for the weather to change.

And now I am Kore: Made. Maiden. Mistress.

But Babylon awaits. So I shall abide.

In lovesome patience, heavy.


Moony Movements

I stand up.

I sit down.

I look for something.

I think of something else.

I forget what I seek.

I still look for the forgotten thing.

It is not what I wanted anyways.

Where did I last see my attention?

Oh. I have left on it on you.



Parsigal Proem by A. Ladder

The words really do get curious and capricious. I am Alice Ladder; and even the hair on my arms stood on end. Hair-raising. Un baffoon ambulent I must have appeared on my walk home.

Parcigal is lovesome, diligent, loyal and kind. But the gal is also lewd and licentious. A real hærlot. Engaging in all sorts of hærlotries, and what not. She is a complete philolofile. Thinks she’s pretty funny.

Vitz. She really likes words and is a lovesome dummy.

Before we meander Hear I make three formal remarks below. The rest is simply me doing my best.

Alice Ladder

Carroll, VVündųrlvnd

TIMESTAMP: 07/09/10 15:00

》All knowledge is nothing more than symbolism.

》》 Word is bond and magic. Be impeccable. Do not use it against yourself either.

》》》What you see inside the mirror is just an image of reality; which means it is virtual reality. It is a dream.


i. surprising disclosure of a previously unknown

ii. remarkable thing

iii. supranatural ; præterhuman ; divine ; daimonion

*remember that we must distinguish between a homo dormien (sleeping human) from a homo vigilance (waking man).

“A private individual.”


Just a “fellow temple-servant.”

Homo-doulus with the swans kuknoi.

Word has it that Socrates believed his master [despotēs] gifted him a prophetic capacity [mantike] not inferiors to that of swans.

Metathesis: transposition or interchange.

Metastatics: change and shifting

Metatithemi: interpose, change a meaning.



Pure Fools talk freely.

So listen closely.

Everyone’s gonna shout.

Babble on anon, anon.


Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.: Birmingham Campaign/Project C



“When the history books are written in the future, somebody will have to say, ‘There lived a race of people who had the moral courage to stand up for their rights.  And thereby, they injected a new meaning into the vein of history and of civilization.’   And we’re gonna do that.”

Martin Luther King Jr. @ Bus Rally in Montgomery, AL. Dec 05,1955

That is how you speak in a mythos that all can understand.  

Magic City


Five Points South water fountain. Five city streets converge into one confusing intersection.

I lived on the same Birmingham city block as Dreamland BBQ (2nd location) across from Wilson’s Market. The University of Alabama at Birmingham (go Blazers: best mascot in the state: dragon!) is about four blocks away. The ‘professional downtown’ area took about 4 minutes to drive 3-ish miles, over bridges with railroad tracks below. It is a shell of almost-skyscrapers. Sky-risers. Many blocks look forsaken.  A seeming majority of professional spaces in these older buildings sit empty and yet, next door you will find the home offices of several major American Banks, Insurance Companies, etc.  (Circa 2016 from memory).

All or nothing. 

Sloss Furnace looms like an industrial dreamscape an installment of Clive Barker’s Hellraiser universe.

I also lived quite near a number of historical sites that witnessed the struggles of social revolution. I lived in this area 30+ yrs since childhood. I went to public school. The memory of this time is very much a still a live, shared cultural memory. A work in progress. The future needs some magic, leadership, and kindness. 

Birmingham incorporated in 1878. Already, there were 20–25 major iron and steel producing blast-furnaces and companies in the Jefferson/Shelby county seat. The name ‘Birmingham‘ was picked to correspond with Birmingham England (the center of that country’s iron industry.) The new Alabama city boomed so quickly that it came to be known as the “Magic City.” It later became known as the “Pittsburgh of the South” after the Pennsylvania center of iron and steel production. Jan 8, 2008 downloadThis tribute to local deity Vulcan looks over the city and protects the workers.  Many, many moons ago, his arrow would shine at night: green if there were no casualties in the steel/iron mills & red if a person died working.  This was discontinued after the number of red light nights began accumulating to a simple majority of the time.  The citizens found it distressing.  The light was removed.  I cannot be sure, but assume this resolved the problem and decreased the number of deaths substantially. Ahem…..

1963, Birmingham, AL USA: QUICK FACTS

  • “probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States,” according to King.[6]
  • city’s population nearly 350,000: 60% white & 40% black,[7]
  • unemployment rate for blacks was two and a half times higher than for whites.[8]
  • the following professional limitations existed
    • no black police officers, firefighters, sales clerks in department stores, bus drivers, bank tellers, or store cashiers.
    • Black secretaries could not work for white professionals.
    • Jobs available to blacks were limited to manual labor in Birmingham’s steel mills, work in household service and yard maintenance, or work in black neighborhoods.
    • When layoffs were necessary, black employees were often the first to go. 
  • The economy stagnated while the city shifted from blue collar to white collar jobs.[12] 
  • Fifty unsolved racially motivated bombings between 1945 and 1962 had earned the city the nickname “Bombingham“.
  • A neighborhood shared by white and black families experienced so many attacks that it was called “Dynamite Hill”.[14] 

Project C

download (1)

Protest organizers knew they would meet with violence from the Birmingham Police Department and chose a confrontational approach to get the attention of the federal government.[22] 

“My theory was that if we mounted a strong nonviolent movement, the opposition would surely do something to attract the media, and in turn induce national sympathy and attention to the everyday segregated circumstance of a person living in the Deep South.”[21]

Wyatt Tee Walker, one of the SCLC founders and the executive director from 1960 to 1964, planned the tactics of the direct action protests, specifically targeting Bull Connor’s tendency to react to demonstrations with violence:

 He headed the planning of what he called Project C, which stood for “confrontation”. Organizers believed their phones were tapped, so to prevent their plans from being leaked and perhaps influencing the mayoral election, they used code words for demonstrations.[38]

The plan called for direct nonviolent action to attract media attention to “the biggest and baddest city of the South”.[39] 

The final day the arrests totaled 1,200 jailed protesters in the 900 person-capacity Birmingham jail. 

King wrote his essay “Letter from Birmingham Jail“. It responded to eight politically moderate white clergymen who accused King of agitating local residents and not giving the incoming mayor a chance to make any changes. Bass suggested that “Letter from Birmingham Jail” was pre-planned, as was every move King and his associates made in Birmingham. The essay was a culmination of many of King’s ideas, which he had touched on in earlier writings.[55] King’s arrest attracted national attention, including that of corporate officers of retail chains with stores in downtown Birmingham. After King’s arrest, the chains’ profits began to erode. National business owners pressed the Kennedy administration to intervene. King was released on April 20, 1963.

The facts of the dogs and hoses, bedlam, and barbarism is imprinted.  But King’s language and lyricism during his lifetime would feel right at home alongside the best strings of words that world and classical literature has to offer.  

“The right to protest for right.”

“When you are forever fighting a degrading and degenerating sense of nobodiness…”

“Grim and bold determination…grim and firm determination.”

“If we are wrong, justice is a lie.”

download (2)

Many public domain documentaries can show you the footage immediately following the rally.  Here is my summary of one of the most poignant documented parts of this entire Birmingham campaign.  


In an attempt to handle the anticipated volume of arrests of public demonstrations, Birmingham authorities brought in the big yellow school buses, proudly proclaiming Jefferson County School on the sides, 

Dr. King Jr. fills the Birmingham jail with arrestees from demonstration activities enacted over the past few days.  2,500 people were arrested in total and held in the 900-capacity Birmingham jail.  Genius. The arrestees were very nearly in number severe enough to overwhelm their captors physically, should they choose to.  They did not, of course, but Bull O’Conner saw what could have happened. 

The city at stalemate.

“Laying the issue before the conscience of local and national communities.”

While arrested, King very clearly defines that for which the movement campaigns.  He calls them “requests”. Adept.  The very reasonable nature of these requests and the disproportionate reaction by segregationists shocked the country.  It turned out it was VERY different in Alabama.

  1. Desegregate restrooms, lunch counters, fitting room.
  2. Allow employment access: “have black clerks, salesmen and women.” 
  3. Drop charges against those arrested in the demonstration.
  4. Appoint a biracial committee to solve bigger issues with time-table settings     
    1. Desegregation of schools.
    2. Reopening city parks, integrated.
    3. Maintaining compliance with federal court orders
    4. Fair hiring in municipal organizations, including the police.

With great fluidity the demonstration rapidly disperses from the church, issuing onto the public sphere. No yelling, no first pumping aggression.  People stream out politely; there is no human spill over into the road way; there is no trodding over “other people’s grass.”  It is orderly and almost like a formal dress code was needed to join the campaign.  People looked sharp.  Jackets and slacks with ties.  Dresses, hose, small heel, nothing immodest. The Birmingham authorities wore collared, short-sleeved pseudo dress shirts. The police uniforms aired of casualness in uniform.  They were in uniform. That’ll do her well ‘nough.  My assumption is their time was spent mobilizing shields, gas, hoses, dogs, practice runs and meetings to review.  That was their focus. Such a large number of people dressed decorously makes even the smallest wrinkle in uniform, the slightest slag of an unpressed pant, the casualness of the collared, short-sleeve work shirt, tie-less, top button undone, highly noticeable and suspect.

As a lone policy car siren wails upstream this human river current, it is able to drive easily along a defined and unobstructed roadway. The car might feel encroached upon, but not infringed on by the demonstration Mass; most of whom now smile, broadly and even wave a joyful hello to the cameras which are taking them to living rooms all over the country. Even the little kids know it is ok to be excited–after all the nation just saw. 

There is no yelling or antagonizing from the procession of the rally Mass. There is music audible and sung in sincerity.

Then the camera pans back. The police encroach the scene.  They are already certain physical violence will break out when the Mass gets to the streets. 

This explains why they bring weapons, dogs, body armor and shields.  They expect and planned for various eventualities in preparation.  They are nervous.  They are being filmed.  They are scared to engage. 

The first two or three police show up on foot “to see what’s going on here” and generally “just wanna make sure we aren’t gonna have no problems, here today.” The Mass gets antsy at their presence but does not provoke. Nods and waves of hello become bitten thumbs, emasculating mocks before a television audience.

The first handful of cops seem to struggle with identifying who exactly should and should not be arrested–appearing, at times, to choose indiscriminately. Then they brought out the dogs and simply let them choose.  Now, a smooth river of people flowing turns into a stewing churn of confused particles. 

You have heard the sound of what follows as more cops arrive: frenzied barking, panic of voices, whoosh of water bursts. in. spurts. Monsoon pouring onto concrete for 15 seconds. Ceasing. Beginning again.

You can fill in the blanks.  That part of the story is very well-known. 


Supranatural Feedback Fields Looping

Together. We magnetize electricity, 
The charges of our respective bodies.
Look at our electromagnetic field, our maven meadow to run wild.
Your masculine contains electric force. 
My feminine contains magnetic force.
See, we are different manifestations of the same phenomenon. 
Together we erect
Electro-magne-magickal fields that extend indefinitely throughout space.
Producing charges and changes with and within our bodies.
A tapestry interweaving the force of your electric field to my magnetic current.  
When our electromagnetic meadow is viewed with Classical eyes:
We seem smooth and continuous.
Issuing out and propagating in the manner of a wave.
Quantum field researchers will see our creation as quantifiable, a function of individual particles.
Your electric charges are stationary points making your field solid.
Fierce and indignant.
Much stronger than mine
My magnetic field arises from moving charges.
My capacity and resistance tempers the strength of your charge and can curb or accelerate you.
We are force and current.  Stationary yet ever flowing.
I am current and capacity.
You are charge and station.


When we combine our bodies,
We become one of the four fundamental natural forces existing in nature.

Lovesome Foreign Words Keening

Up and down, I will look you…

a capite ad calcem-head to heel.


And, I remember, last time, how I whistled.


Accessit-he came near

ad captandum-for the sake of catching or pleasing


Do you recall the ancien régime-the ancient of order of things: esse quam videri-to be rather than to seem?

The light espièglefrolicsome and waggishness-in your eyes fades even now in recalling the stifling restrictions of your last courted life. 
You, sugarfoot.
Dignus vindice nodus-a knot worthy of being loosed by such hands like mine, small but strong and soft-enough.

My penchant for sophisticated espièglerie-coltishness becomes an irresistible mystery to men. 
I am ‘femme fatale’, without intent to be and unknown until too late.  My girdle disarms and gifts unto me gratia placendi-the art of pleasing. 

I refuse the pointed finger of shame.  Entirely. 
Men, women, Us. are not guilty.
Women are as we are. As we found ourselves to be. So are men.
Once upon a time, a certain group of men weaponized our bodies against us, in order to protect their lack of discipline.
They want to control her but find themselves out of control in their attraction to the ‘thing’ they wish to control.
They fail because what they seek to control is a dynamic being in constant flux.  A person can be considered a ‘thing’, but s/he is never the same ‘thing’ moment to moment.
Pan-fatale: a person, of any gender, that is attracted to the self-created fantasy of the desirable person ; or attracted to s/he exactly as s/he is now. Such a type of person when struck with physical attraction sets themselves up for trouble and strife.  People cannot become your invention of them. People will not be who they are now forever.  These are impossible things to want from a person. 
Attraction wants that.  Wants that what is.
Love adores that. That it is what it is.
What causes trouble or unhappiness in men is of their own creation;
much like the same is true of women;
because woman and man are one and the same;
 A person beside themselves. Divided to be united. 
I am a Maneater, when the right one presents.
But man wants devouring. 
We do not hunt him like prey, we ask him if he’d like to dance.
She. We dance to live and survive. Dodge arrows and coax partners to the ballroom floors. 
His hunt moves in steps, to tempos, to ensnare his prey. Make what he desires his.  
Danse Macabre.
Most often, he dances for us before we even see him.
Stalks to smite, woo, court, enrapture, and even swoon.
Life dances in our bellies to the tempo of tides.
Life tickles men’s settes.  Ammunition locked and loaded and ready to be shot from the firearm’s shaft.


I am glæd it is what is. 
Au plaisir de vous revoir,
til I have the pleasure of seeing.
This furor poeticus
poetic rage
this furor scribendi
mania for writing
this Scribbling and Scrawling, ecstatic, continues until a posse ad esse. 
from possibility to actuality.

Sweet man, you are adscriptus glebæ-bound to the soil as they used to say of serfs.
I am mare clausum-a closed sea not open to or accessible to more than one land.
Be the realm upon which my waves break.
I am dapes inemptæ-victuals not bought from market
Grown and Handmade at home.
Kindly remember: ignortum pro magnifico
whatever is unknown is held to be magnificent.
But, by you I would learn and want to be learned. So I tell you my open secret x: the thing that you cannot put your finger on but find magnetizing.  May you either decide me not magnificent upon knowing; or, decide me more magnificent upon being told.  Time is all I want from you; and I would not waste it.
My Tao is simplex munditils. Plain in neatness; simple in elegance. 
I astound when I do not confound.  I render dumbstruck. I do not stupefy. 
My impetus is lovesome loyalty. 
And while loyauté n’a honte, still, I take care to not be impetuous.  
The impetus makes me want to rush, so I must not be impetuously loyal.


Breath deep, sugarfoot.

Redolet lucerna

It smells of the lamp


astra castra, numen lumen

the stars my camp, the Deity my lamp.


hine lucem et pocula sacra

from this source we receive light and drafts of sacred learning.


Ours is Via vervorum

The Tao of Words.


Watch “The Isley Brothers-Ohio Machine Gun” on YouTube

Back to back hits from The Isley Brothers.
For decades, white rock acts covered the most famed material of The Isley Brothers, particularly, “Shout” and “Twist and Shout“.

The Isleys decided turn about was more than fair play and decided to do the same to music made famous by white artists such as Stephen Stills, Eric Burdon and Neil Young.
The artists they chose to cover were not musicians that were apt to cover a song by the The Isley Brothers. In fact they were contemporary artists with unique voices and sounds they developed themselves. I like that these were the artists covered on Givin it Back. So many ways to interpret Giving it Back as an album title.

Slyly, titling this album Givin It Back, the Isleys prove they can re-enliven the music of others, thoughtfully. Distinguishing “a cover” and “a reinterpretation”.

Ohio/Machine Gun is my favorite gem.

CSNY might as well have written Ohio for the The Isley Brothers to perform.

And, I like CSNY’s version but when it is stood aside The Isley’s version, a certain, subtle social commentary forms. The songs speak to one another. The Isley’s version casts a subtle irony on the earnestly enthusiastic tradition of white protest music. Now, a naïveté tints the original.

The original release of Ohio, topical to the very hostile American political climate of the time, intended to make a statement, to shine light on injustice in order to produce change. It purports righteousness that slides toward self-righteousness when considered with The Isley Brothers rendition.

Among the songs they covered were “Spill the Wine”, “Love the One You’re With”, the social commentary medley of “Ohio” and “Machine Gun” (from Jimi Hendrix), “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor and Bob Dylan‘s “Lay Lady Lay“.

Their covers of “Love the One You’re With”, “Lay Lady Lay” and “Spill the Wine” became charted hits. Bill Withers plays guitar on the Isleys’ version of his “Cold Bologna”.

In 2015, Givin It Back was remastered and expanded for inclusion in the 2015 CD box set The RCA Victor & T-Neck Album Masters 1959-1983.


Watch “The Isley Brothers – I Turned You On” on YouTube

A good man first introduced me to this jam, and I wanna pass on the soul power!

Turned you on now I cant turn you off.

What a good, good feeling

A great sensation.

Oh you and me, baby, a good combination.


Background Research on the Parz/sifal (original Perceval) mythos


The story of Parzifal crossed my path while reading a Sufi meditation manual. It stated that Parzifal failed because of an incomplete mantle of light, leaving him exposed. He had gone it alone and did not have the band to back him up. And much like every new word, once uncovered, I see this mythos everywhere. So what up with that, huh? I did a little digging. Relax, more like playing in dirt. No one has to do real work here!

Within the mythos the following name variations exist

Percival-Knight of the Round Table in the King Arthur legend

Perceval-romance written by Chrétien de Troyes

Parzifal-romance retold by Wolfram von Eschenbach


Parsifal-Richard Wagner’s opera based on the written poems.



Parzifal is the retelling (ending included this time) of the unfinished romance of another, the Perceval of Chrétien de Troyes whose poem is the earliest extant narrative, known from its prologue as Li contes del graal or ‘The story of the Grail,’ though he claimed that his own patron Philip, Count of Flanders, had lent him its ‘book.’

Wolfram von Eschenbach is heralded as the Medieval German narrative poet. Not too much is known about his life aside from things like how long it was (b.1195 to 1225ish) and other ticky tacky information such as his being born into a Bavarian family of the lower nobility. Mystery and intrigue do appear: He may have served a Franconian lord but as a ministerialis or ‘unfree’ knight bound to serve a lord. Qua knight, he defended his honor anywhere and was also able to change patrons, as he ended up finding his main patron not in his hometown but in Thuringia with its many Mæcenas, like Hermann I. Knights ministerial were the main bearers of the great efflorescence of secular poetry in Germany. Poetry emancipated from clerical domination during the first half of the Hohenstauffen period.

“Many passages of the original have virtually no syntactical structure–Parzival is definately no book–and so the bare act of translation has inevitably tidied them up.”

Translator A.T. Hatto (org.1980; reprinted 2004). Parzifal. Penguin Books. London, England. Foreward p12

Born to Louis II Landgrave of Thuringia & Judith of Hohenstaufen, Hermann I was born into Ludovingian nobility. He welcomed societies of letters and Minnesänger to his castle, the Wartburg. From 1172 to 1211, the Wartburt (‘watchtower’) was the most important princes’ courts. Eschenbach, in 1203, wrote part of his Parzifal here.

Minnesang is German for “love song.” This tradition flourished during the period of medieval German literature starting 12th century continuing into the 14th.

Minnesänger (aka minnesingers) referred to people who wrote and performed Minnesang.

A single song was called a Minnelied. These names rooted from minne, the Middle High German word for ‘love,’ which was the Minnesang’s main topic. This reflected part of a larger movement occurring during the High Middle Ages which included the Provençal troubadours and northern French trovères: a written lyrical love poetry, concerned within the tradition of courtly love and chivalry, sometimes vulgar, funny, intellectual, formulaic, even metaphysical.

For the French trouvéres, ‘courtly love’ expressed erotic desire as well as spiritual attainment (and all the spaces between them). A love at once illicit and morally elevating; passionate and disciplined; humiliating and exalting; human and transcendent.

Eschenbach asserts he follows the one “Kyot the Provençal,” sender of the ‘true version,’ that supplied additional material drawn from Arabic and Angevin sources. Many scholars consider Kyot to be of Eschenbach’s imagination, thus part of the fictional narrative. This ignites a controversy. Should the remarks be taken at face value or was he speaking in the way of scholars initiating paradigmatic change: not impassioned against his predecessor as much as being ironically respectful of the ones who came before him, even if he essentially mocked them while recapitulating them to his audience.

German composer Richard Wagner loosely based his opera in three acts, Parsifal (WWW 111).

Wagner’s spelling of Parsifal instead of the the Parzifal he had used up to 1877 is informed by one of the theories about the name Percival, according to which it is of Persian origin, Fal Parsi meaning “pure fool.

Unger, Max (1932-08-01). “The Persian Origins of ‘Parsifal’ and ‘Tristan'”. The Musical Times. 73 (1074): 703.
ISSN 0027-4666



A Spanner in the Work

First, we drove close down by the river: just to look up at the the truss bridge monolith.

With unbothered eyes, we traced along the interconnecting triangles that criss-cross and distribute mass in motion.

The Parker Truss took the standard triad of members: chords, verticals, diagonals.

But this Parker camel-backs with the upper chord and consists of exactly five segments, not three.

The triad but with a pair of camel humps to top it. Accessorized.

Stressed sometimes with tension, sometimes with compression, and sometimes both, in response to dynamic loads.

“It is almost a full moon?”

Untarnished by the rust of daily practicum and edified on precipice and to edge, the bridge is high-sided as though set to plummet.

Just a scaly spanner anchored in a bit of wet water, hydrating ferric oxides on wrought iron.


A little shunt allowing red-blood cell autos to flow, permitting the heart-engine dry passage so it can cross over, neatly, without going all the way under.

“An old design and cheap.”

“The physics of statics.”

“Fancy way to say that it works, huh?”

Then we climbed the steep hill by the river: just to look down on varicose vein highways zig zagging over dirt legs.

Without the clean shave of hot asphalt pressed tight by the compaction of Caterpillars, tires tire along dusty bumps.

Yet, the paved jet-streams below us back up.

Multiple bottlenecks and arterial traffic jams clot the circulation.

Blood pressure rises under this cellular road rage.

[ Court etiquette deserves a modicum of decent civility.

Coquette or not, it is not about dress, but language (un)used.

Courters do best by being dumb(founded), but not stupefied, together.

Stupid talks a big game and sings with precious, unnatural affectation.

Dumb keeps quiet and abides.


Like windows. Still.

Without dressings.

My temples tighten, feeling the impetus but not wanting to be too impetuous.

“Good, huh? Can we go dancing now? Kiss hard like we did last time. Get felled and sleep?”

“We came here so you could show me what it was before. The part prior to this now we presently share. So tell it in words out loud.”

I wonder at the time:

“I worked hard; so he could get one degree more. I arranged to rearrange. But new arrangements required rearranging. Then a couple of years later, I prepare to rearrange again.

Because when I wanted out of my hometown, the question got asked:

(Good prospects out west.)

He prospected jobs.

Deeds are not always actions. Sometimes just unimbued words.


He asked the cashier to break a twenty and change one dollar into four quarters and nineteen into ones.

Automated doors. Artificial wind.

Plunk. Twist.

Black cat.

Pink elephant.

Costume piece with a bit of black cord.

Lost as easily



“Now I remember why we came back.”

“It looks different through new eyes, huh? Let me be charmed.”



Then we climbed back down the steep hill by the river: just to flip on the car’s radio, turn on the headlights, and sway. Spotlight dancing on grass while crickets chirp ambiance.


Shiny new Par/z/sifal Reasearch: dictionaried

The above is incorrect. Just my opinion, in light of the below.


Prettification per Parcigal

Parcigal learned the powers of personal appearance, nearly two decades past. She learned its ability to exploit and/or to be exploited, nearly a decade ago. Hell, all gals did where she was from, Alabam, the Dirty South. Personal appearance stood as the primary source of feminine efficacy (next to blood kin).

The place where they raised her never addressed that which she regularly pondered: the long game for pretty lady face.

This type of prettification during youth resulted in an aged-self prettifying to remain relevant, as a new generation of beautiful gals arose.

The true Tao seemed to be finding Beauty unmasked.

Bare face.

No jewelry.


She started to let her face be as it is. Washed it, moisturized it, but that was all.

She became the appearance of the female she was.

She did this, going about daily public interactions, until she knew her face,

Became the female she is.

Then she wields the power of makeup’s masking properly. Not defensively.

Parcigal lived her dream of Art. She reinterpreted Myshkin anew, unbound to previous ties made.


Of course now, books are more often quoted than read.

The once enumerable is now innumerable.


Parcigal recoils from monastic traditions. It is being one a crowd, faceless.

Initiation required heavy control over the individual’s entire life. Gives very little free will. They seperate sexes, assuming gals are even allowed at all. It imparts a tacit intent to shame the sexual nature of the h. sapien mammal. She does not doubt the resiliency of these traditions. But, her energy does not run properly in their circuits.

She recoils from secret societies and erudite traditions, because she distrusts agendas she agrees to but cannot fully see. It feels, in her mind, like blindly giving away power.

But she is wary. She is also extremely lovesome.

A lovesome nature required diligence.

What was the use of sensualism with a resonant partner?

Why was this primal magic so hidden?

Magnetism and electricity.


Conductive bodies are conducive to utilizing each resonant body.

By nature.

So, in her Fool way, she left her Ewer the note below.

The morning after she spent her first night in the handmade.

Before she snuck out (after two minutes of hard doting on his sky-eyes) without rousing him.


If these Rings Spoke & Salmon Sang Electric

The sun begins to make cameo appearances.

The trail crew came through.

Cutting back.

Below is tribute to felled ones.

Ready to be reabsorbed into the ecosystem.

No waste.

The water rose.

See the fish (salmon) ladder flow from both sides


Í dræm of swaying structurez

The first night, I dreamed,

We three ran roof top to roof top of the dilapidated neighborhood.

There for the wrong side of the tracks [sic. haven] provided by Amy A’s abode.

Mary C. ampersand Julie Ann B. (two grace filled people who took a sharp veer on the Christian side to which I’d never relate).

We ran atop house `o house til the abrupt end o’ the block.

Four stories high was the final structure, condemned, that used to house god knows what.

Mary C. at the far edge.

Me at the opposite far end.

Julie Ann B. cheated away from my edge like a 1st base runner poised to steal 2nd.

The house does a pendulous sway.

We all freeze.

Having seen Amy A. (a few hours prior) make an untested, brazen, leap,

resulting in a ten foot multiple tumble into a rocky canyon.

We could not see her, but her howl could curdle milk.

We quite and in quiet acted in diligence.

Holding the space of the present tense

While immediately looking to one another

And then the other.

Are we in harmony? How are we distributed?

Does the outfield (us) need to shift?

And then we three dance and (re)distribute our weight.

Slowly and gracefully descending to the ground.

With a hand and help from one another.

Leverage exploited.


No words exchanged or needed.

In perfect peace and health.

Hours later we reunite with Amy A.

I cannot gauge her. In health or worse for the wear?

Rode too hard and put up too wet.

This much is clear.

Amy and I wait tables under a skinny, reformed Cody B.

I keep forgetting that is my purpose.

No one else cares. My tables moan but move on unfazed. Not angry, despite slow service.

The following night, I dream.

Mary C. (far on one side) , Julie Ann B., again, nearly cheated from my position on the polar, more precarious, side

We, all three, find ourselves (precariously) alit.

This much is clear:

The ledge will withstand two of us, not three.

My edge is the most likely to give way.

I feel tired and glad.

Like my path does not follow theirs anyways.

I tell them to shift their weight toward Mary C.’s edge while I test my edge.

Julie Ann B. sees my intention clear.

She pivots across the broken plank making my edge the most lethal.

She and I now share the same bit of ledge.

She hugs me.

Her back to the ledge

Her feet pointed to mine.

My heels pointed barnward.

She is now poised between me and the free fall I was glad, nearly excited to make.

My life now hangs with hers,

Instead of alone.

I feel sad, but loved.

And yet she increases the likelihood of us both dying.

With her additional mass

On the already precariously split wooden plank.

I feel deep disappointment at having to take her mortality and life into consideration.

I’m not committing suicide, mind.

I’m moving to a new plane. I’m more than prepared for it.

But what was proper for me (letting the plank split, myself fall, into the mystic. Unafraid)

Was not proper for her.

She was still here.

It occurs.

What I mistook for wood is cheap alloy

Perhaps. I think,

I could smash the back of my head into the barn

Until the alloy gives

And we could three slip in.

Reverse Head smash one: alloy gives several inches.

I am encouraged.

I look at Mary C. on my far side.

She sees my intent.


No words needed.

Julie Ann B., still clasped about me in a hug,


She has a much more frightening perspective than Mary C., or myself.

The quicker I do this the better.

I think.

She will panic and inadvertantly pull us off the ledge.

I’m fine with this, but it is not proper for her.

Reverse headsmash 2

Reverse headsmash 3

None hurt me.

Each produces more give in the alloy behind us.

A shadow encroaches from over our heads.

Pressing forward.

From our backs.

The back of the barn

Directly behind us.

Directly overhead.

All encompassing.

Reverse head smashes, without pain, continue.

No panic in my mind.

No true bravery either.

Just a desire to get JAB inside the barn.

My mind fears the shadow is from a UFO.

The biggest airborne ship I’ve ever seen.

How could it not be alien?!

Panic for the haven of the barn’s interior now.

Reverse head smashes continue.

Sans hurt.

I feel a wet trickle

I feel scraping, like forest branches, from behind my head.

Cutting my temples, face, neck, and shoulder tops.

Nothing hurts.

I just feel blood run on my face and neck.


I realize I’ve broken us into the barn’s interior.

I twist and fling Julie Ann B.

into the hay loft immediately behind us.

Mary C., who has never weighed more than 100lbs, jumps across

To my ledge, I catch her hands and propel her inside the loft.

Still on the ledge. but safe now,

I turn to see the fearsome shadow’s progress overhead.

I realize it is just a regular commercial jet

But it is about to crash into the field ten feet away.

We have hay behind us.

I worry the heat of the explosion’s backdraft will ignite this dry material.

I expell loud nonsense in an attempt to say all this as a warning.

The plane crashes.

I wake up.

I’ve been sweating hard in my sleep.


Narratory Recall (Thought)

Æ am a/the word. And a/the word is not only, but also, glad/ly.

The recounting or slight reprise of several (re)countings falls to me.

Í endeavor to do my best on this, your sojourn.

But(t < giggle >), í am a Fool, a bit of a cad. And proud of my wide-eyed wonder.

Please, bear in mind that what is “down for me is up.”

What the sisters did in this sphere marks history. Of course, time perpetually does this to history, so long as there is one conscious, sapient, vantage point to see it.

Cassandra and Echo. Aphrodite ruled Cassandra.

Cassandra knew it not until she reawoke from her latest dream.

Unselfishness went far. Embracing laughter and not war did too. Now, such names reach above and below.

There is a beautiful naked woman symbolizing this sphere, allegedly it is she.


Failure, futility, debauch and valour. Her titles and attributes.

One who loves roses as well as the name of the rose.

She sometimes takes the form of the íynx.

The wryneck.

Has the power of beauty triumphant. The meaning of this is not to be taken for obvious and it will become clearer in your imagination as we progress.

She took but two weapons. One was no more than a long bit of cord. Her girdle. Atypical. Her lamp. She carries her own. While she loves to sing the Song of the Goddess, she has yet to accept Shakti theology officially.

Amusing given her role. But then again, she is a fool.

Of course, Rādāh took most of the heat.

~ But, now í get ahead of what passes for my mind these days.

Your merry narrator has an acadæmic background. Outside.

An able learner keened up into a gifted child. The tradition of empiricism, many empiricists think, has become a large collective comprised in majority by a bunch of pretentious prognosticators. You may add my name to the list. I would not deny it.

We do have a methodology to which we may aspire; although í’m not sure we understand it anymore.

Any work undertaken is going to address a research question. This general question will lead us to our object of inquiry. From there, we may begin our study by commencing with research.

Let us consider our object of inquiry here to be of Landgrave tradition.

This endeavor, like all forms of writing, will be an imagined experience. One that we shall undertake together.

Í will address conceptual and practical problems.

Practical problems predominately belong in the professional spheres. They address states of affairs in the world that are found troublesome. Much like a lazy eye, this perspective will ultimately depend on whom you ask: what is the “real” problem?

Sex, love, gender, women’s rights, men’s desires. These are not problems as much as potentially and periodically problematic. The difference akin to someone who likes the soup hot but not spicy. Modernity shuffles the deck of sex, gender roles, discrimination time and again; and these term fly like spaghetti towards the wall.

And yeah, it sticks. The pasta is done. While a new bot boils already. Periodicity. Embrace dont fear.

Conceptual problems tend to the acadæmic spheres, as they often have the luxury of not solving any real problem, but rather simply pointing out that what people currently think is wrong. Undexterous. Or else, they may point out some other version of not knowing [sic. differentiated from not-knowing].

While there may be no tangible cost to this type of problem there is a consequence: a particular kind of ignorance: a particular lack of understanding that keeps us from realizing something else that is even more significant.

My conceptual problem will address the problematic notion we refer to as Cartesian Dualism. To put it nicely. But we will consider the present social bifurcation existing between sexuality (pleasure, sensualism, hedonism) and spirituality aka soul power.

We will also review the practical problems of the politicization of love. Our concept of love and souls and spirit tethered itself to new stakes of symbology with the birth of nations. Questions of individual efficacy and empowerment. Evidence nature is not foisted by self organization, but birthed by it.

Perhaps nature dealt us the recurrent self organization that becomes Parcigal et al.

No 0ne knows.


A Confusion of Con-s

CONSILIENCE: con (together) + siliens (jumping) ; as in resilient (see Alabam native EO Wilson: jumping together of knowledge.

How beyond knowing feels

CONGRUENCE: in agreement or harmony; (geom) figures identical in form

Origin ME from from Latin congruent > congruere (agree, meet together) from con (together) + ruere (fall or rush)

That these bodies resonate

CONFLUENCE: flowing together of two rivers ; act or process of merging

Origin ME from late Latin confluertra from Latin con + fluere (flow together).

He and I.

CONFLAGRATION: combine into one

Origin ME (in the sense to melt down or fuse metal)

From Latin conflare (kindle, fuse) con + flare (“to blow” together)

(Alchemical giggle)

CONCOMITANT: existing or occurring at the same time ; agreeing or consistent

Latin concurrere (run together, assemble)

How I howl.

CONCOMITANCE: fact of existing or occurring with something else

MedLatin concomitari (accompany)

Howl We run.

CONCORDANCE: agreement or consistency ; an alphabetical list of the important words in a text

Latin concordare (agree on) > Latin concors (of one mind)

Howl we be came.

CONJUNCTION: an instance of two or more events occurring at the same point in time and space ; an alignment of two planets such that they appear to be in the same place in the sky (eyes).

Latin con + jungere (to join)

Howl we be come.

All cons seem like pros.

Weft, woof, waif.


Beginning to the Li(gh)te

Forget the í of

And cons/c/ider just the Camel.

reservoir avec Well-Ho(u)nd(ed) Companion. [snarrrrl]…

< c > was still. Used,

as in cir(í)ce, wrecc(e)a.

cniht ( knight < ni(gh)te > )

was subsequently changed to


adapted, possibly, from a/n (Æ)Egytian hieroglyph signifying

A Staff in the Sky.

3rd Century BC, a modified character was introduced for /g/, and ‘c’ was


For /k/

Parsigal > Pargical




Open secret x

The use of ‘c’ ( and its variant G (Kn<N>) replaced most usages of < k > and < g >


Hence, in the Classical period and after ‘G’ was treated as the equivalent of Greek

Gamma and <c> as the equivalent of Kappa.

This shows the n(r)ominazation of Greek words as in


Watch “Neil Young – On The Beach” on YouTube

Take in those yellow shades.

Toledo Bend, Texas yellow.

Water sheened in some smog, moist smoke.

Neil Young abeach.

Boots(?!) off, full leisure sans big lapelled (no doubt) jacket.

Mustard yellow

And, oh hey, what is buried in the sand?

Do you think a cowgirl is somewhere in that sand.


Cinnamon wafts in the íther.



Do you watch the colors behind your eyelids?

Before you sleep? When you nap?

Indigo circles appear for the first time in my closed eyes.

Like lonely little street lights switching on during dusk.

They come now.

She does not take compliments well. Which is usually no problem. People tend to give compliments to feel better about themselves. But not him, she felt. Lo siento. And mægen was not just confidence and will, after all.

Such magical realism required mysticism. True sense.

The relationship to a/the Natural Mægen required forging using mythology, ritual, and metaphor. Primal communication of energy, forgotten under the mesmorism of conversation’s lilting song.

This was a source of their power.

The simple act of lying in bed togrther transforms.

Empowered by a ritual of sleep and dream enhancing their souls.

She felt. Keening each other up, right and proper.

She apologis/zed frequently for no good reason.

Lo siento.

She foresaw lectures they would (had already) given

In Socratic circles.

Circles inside onlooking outter circles.

Issuing out into infinity.

Open secret x being the key from one circle to the next.

The Lovers leapt










Æ do word/(k)/s.

Ascribing NETZACH’s sphere with wandering fish hooks and and salmon ladders leading to the salvation found in spawning, and, dog loops with off leash areas, staying put in the middle of nowhere.


Parsigal Mind Meanders

His company she found scintillating. The bits of brilliance she saw have been addressed in reference to his effulgent nature. One that will gladly take the piss out of someone with a wit. He does woo a gal. Effing howl.

Wooed naturally.ìA broad is a abroad to come? At least to feel at his scene and situation. And return the favor. Thus, might they be put out of their lovesome misery; that is known as ‘you can look but you cannot touch.’

This seems prudent but is actually diligence. Parsigal is no prude. She circled and sniff long and deep. No rushing to be a direct object of the action of his verb.

Then she wonders.

Wandering abroad, as a broad. She would keep seeking her home. Perhaps it was in that incredibly Old World with its bewitching tales and colloquialisms. That would sure explain why she had never seen/scene it. If not, process of elimination gains one more thing to knock off its list.

The integral was aside.

To be. Aside him.

It re-sounds like fun. Honeybones and giggles.

If it sounded fun to him.

She sometimes knew that she was under the impression this was not her best-face.

Well. That is, she thinks she knows her own face. But none can look at their own face. She could stick it out. Without taking much too. Perhaps talking to much.

The ever-replenishing Fountain.

Effortless and endless demonstration of flow mechanics common to liquids. She could fill/disarm the emptiest vessels with a grin. But always they filled with her. Or did she insist it be that way? She could no longer remember. She sometimes called herself Alice Ladder in those days. Dogs knows why, so you would have to ask them. But if they are sleeping just let them lie. Please and thank you.

She was the Beauty Triumphant in gist. But not the iconographic one. Not the dewey rose expected. Prettification processes domesticated men and women in much the same way conversation conceals reality.

Pretty confounded beauty.




She was long-winded as well. Oftentimes? Anyways.

She could use mustered beauty to show others themselves as she saw them. She could finger someone’s (lack) beauty immediately if not sooner.


Quite a discerning perception.

But hark. Listen for the re-sound of Echoes.

Then she read him.

Then she wrote him.

The s/he wrote, each two, to each other, too.

And vice versa.

They came together.

They want to come together.

Wanton to.

Be held and beheld.



Probably in an aeroplane over the sea. At least one of us, right?

She thought she was funny. Fool and jester over knight right exactly now. Spark and drought field situation. She can work. To afford herself. She works. Well and glad. She does feel like a ghost in the PC. Outlook: tedium.

But remember, she could carry wood. She could run with wood for intervals. But, it was not easy. To rush and balance. Rush and balance. But efficacy and efficiency right? This is America after all. And she grew up in the Dirty South.

But she learned through sheer happenstance and fortunate misfortune that drugs while fun are best not best left for partying. But who doesn’t love two fingers of whisky? On occasion being the unspoken axiom. Moderation was movement between small changes. A beer after work. A smoke every couple of days. Communion wine (sold by the case don’t you know-just like discs, tape, and cassettes). Some people get drunk on the communion wine. Aw howl, I think I did that a couple of times. But it was a party, ya know?!

I do not w/ritely k/no/w. But would like shared experiences and shifting the attunement of my attention. Goals of glad. Goals of Tao. Way in method. Mystical magic.

‘Drugs’ are not the method for. Most.

But adepts. Diabolicals, Idiotes.

Most others are Posers. Seen therefore they are.

Of coarse “drug” needs disambiguation. It was too many connotations and denotes too much.

Catharsis is what is sought and received. In varying degrees.

It occurs in the mind first, seemingly, before issuing out and over the body like concentric rings displacing water. But the mind. The body. This is the same. The mind and body. Vessel and channel/ed. They travel together. Bond. Unbound.

The Empty Plenum and the Settes and Echoes that fill it with vibration, sound, and song.

Waves falling. Felled. Endlessly. On loop. On pointe.

She can work it. Methodically.

To the hithers.

She had this one previous engagement but ended up being released. Let go. That is more apt. That one took no care of her spirit or herselfhood. But she was unspirited at the beginning when he swooped in and smited her with an arrow from the Archer. St\r\uck. Working harder on his account ultimately. He did not have the silicon compulsion at first either. Then came the television escape. And another secret one. He feels in love with the feeling of himself feeling good; and he fell for it. For dealer markup. For a chance, I presume, to feel that spiritual quintessence that many users seem to refer to when they say ‘high.’ As a bit of a cad, I feel qualified to speak of this matter of usage. My hometown being a veritable black hole from which very few escaped, and within which everyone drank and smoked. In backrooms and backyards and backs of trucks.

She felt relieved to escape all the things above, but still felt constrained and unsure in which way her life would take her nor in which ways she might take her life into the future of now. She took time for self. Because even now it feels as though this place is tethered to ghosts of a life skipped completely and ‘put in a pocket’. Everything she did felt as though done before. She felt deadlock with the familiar scene.

So many times this strange sensation akin to deja vu seemed to wash over her, and yet to her seemed no more numinous than the little toenail on her good foot. The good one. At times, it felt like a show. That must go on.

Why? For whom’s benefit? Says who? Philosophically she disagreed with inexorable, but if this was what it is and it refused to relent, she could lay down. Lay it down.

Her family often seemed like previous versions of themselves. Who they used to be, to her, at least. She was the lodestone about which to concern and worry were poured. Bless her little heart. For her (and her little ol’e precious heart’s sake), out of sight generally kept others out of her mind. Energy walloped her unyieldingly; she felt. Panicky at it. Heavy with it.

But he was well-honed. He was keening her up too.

The Silicon channel finally found something worth airing.

She felt frenetic and unstill/ed. Rash/ly enpursuit for some intangible goal. As life hectates things can/may vary/very well seem absolutely bizarre. Pan had come to her. Heard her ripe energy waves vibrate his eardrums with the jaggedy ends of their streamers. Shaking her scene.

He would instill. In stillness and stillness still.

S/he remembered how badly botched the effed results came in last. The time before now.

The times before.

Woo. She thought.

I’m smitten. She thought.

These are incongruent.

She thought.

Rapt. Wrapped in Rapture’s gossamer.


She wanted love. With great wantonly lovesomeness. A dreamy love. A diligent and efficacious love. An honest to god head over heels love. But she also felt a strange sense of embarrassment at this desire. Like a dormant muscle, asleep or atrophied. The heater smell created the first time you turn it on and run iìīLove. What metaphysical integrity remains with this exploited word?

He made her heart swell. Her stomach warmed. She ran wild and fast from him.

Found him terriying. A real beast she wanted to sniff out. Friend or foe? Fight or flight? Dance? Two-Step the Danse Macabre.

But he k/new how to pitch woo. Without striking a blow.

Some shot arrows. At the gal they took to be there beloved. The gal defeated. Conquered valiantly. Like an animal that was hunted down like prey. And she just really loved animals, you guys. Cupid and Arjana, huh?

To boot, such a method of felling a love lead to rapture. vb and n.

A paltry one. That seizes. Overwhelms.

If I am smitten have I been smited? That is some creepy old testament god shit. Not reminiscent of the erotic to this Parsigal.

But I was the one that said I was smitten.

And he woos. Thank god he had not come a’courtin’.

Courters. The worst. They’d sue her into affection for the purposes and ends of being married.

Woo from him solicited and entreated, but with no particular importunity.

She finds this exhilarating and enfuriating. What did he want to have come to her?

What was his angle of inclination? The inclination of the needle?

Was he trying to bring about something? Wooed to what end?

A bit fat swoony swoon.

A faint.


A faint pair of silhouettes tip-toeing from dream to the next.

Jumping across two shores of consciousness like they were puddles and they were playing. Suspended by the same node of pivot.

She was aware of the difference between providing someone a favor and giving someone a treat. It could be expressed in the difference between the following two sentences:

Glad to help.

Happy to help.

She considered the difference/s between the following ways to sign off the end of a letter you will post to someone to read.

Thank you,


Thank you.


The top is a statement. And the current stylistic standard of ettiquette. It thanks Casey. I thank myself. Thank you, Casey. Absurd? Foolish horseapples.

The bottom version says and

Reads. Thank You.


Parsigal Sketching

Perhaps the point eludes still.

The complicating neuroses of this day and age are illness. Cultural malady: part of our Civilization and its Discontents. Certain psychological “maladies” or tendencies have not pervaded all civilizations, just the increasingly modern ones. Or were perceived differently and not in the context of illness. Certain psyche-related phenomena do not qualify as illnesses anymore than the influx of pubic hairs at that-age does. But low-level, often chronic psyches that feel listless (depression), those in rapture and the enraptured (anxiety/panic disorder), those than that suffer overarousal through cascades of chemical reactions eddy in both members of the pair of nervous systems. Fight of Flight modus operandi. PTSD. Shellshock. Trauma.

Fight or Flight is a sign of good health. Exhausting. Yielding enraptured dreams behind closed eyes. Certain strange magic. Disorienting your relationship to the world. A la any number of means: light sensitivity, panic induced by loud abrupt noises, increased heart rate, vertiginal dizziness.

Vertigo. Choclear imbalances.

Aringing in the ear/s.

Powerful memory recall and impactful imagination.

Rationally irrational for a year or two (if not longer for many others) keens you in on how to wrap one’s head around it. Remember: realization of the irrational confederacy of elements which have rewired your mind, does not restore or correct the new wiring.

It can increase the symptoms displayed, both self-reported and observed. Emic and Etic.

Until you figure out

How to w/rap your head around it.

W/rap your head around it, bind the craven and the whinging and the pitiable with your head.

W/rap your head around the the idea of


Rapture. Transitive verb forms only exist.

So shall we characteris/ze as a noun, adjective or adverb.

Rapture is the Experience of

Whatever wavelength resounding back to another resonate body.

We shall dismiss outright the Christian allegory from our discussion. We shall also not use it by example frequently as this handle grows inflamed. This does not say that this narrator does not have the utmost respect for the traditions and ways of Christianity Your narrator does not dig ecclesiastical anything, really. No disrespect intended.

One way is to remain on the quiet side and attempt dispassion in actions. When you are a spark near a drought field know why you take to action or move to a new scene.

The Key and The Kingdom.

The King and Realm.

Symbiotic experience of a relationship.

Give and take. A rope tug of war. Required well-honed suitor to make the earth to him bespoke. Parsigal preferred impeccable. Used infrequently to describe the character of things, but a word frequently used when she found it so suitable to do so. To excess. Tiresome and demeaning to the intended integrity of the word to act as a meaningful descriptor at all. Our gal played the long game too. In an effort to live cleanly per se. The trick was that ten or fifteen years down a stretch of road often made people forget the glad moments. But upon hitting a rough patch on that highway, those memories catalyze the emotional content of our psyche and mind.

Catharsis through a sweet remembrance. She could do worse if this was worst case. Make him remember himself then.

By being a bit annoying about it now.

She argues this untangled mess began with Descartes. The very notion of Cartisian dualism is awkward, yet intuitive. Confounding. Body and mind.

Being. Howl, a cultural chemist might argue that we are nothing more than the balance of our pH. Should that even be what it is? Of course not, it (already) is what is.

Even so, modern science often mistakes visionary and engenius for morons, weak, prone to, indigent et al.

Misanthropes, fuzzy and fidgety creatures of mystery, fell (enbetweened)


Parsigal reads. Words. Transcribes written words and scratches n’ scribes out new ones. (Well k/new to her pen is.) Number system & written language. With occasional oral communication should requisite it provide.

Parsigal writ: Written words and verbal explanations reveal the mechanics of mathematical proofs. You cannot “read” mathematics without first reading its principles in words. Or hearing them.

When Parsigal was playing as Iynx, she learned from stalking her mother about the little green house how men fell in love with the words stirred in their own minds. Echo related her experience with Narcissus, in small snippets, with death and the lover. She learned from Pan the power of sensual, music, and the Impromptus.

Iynx was a nymph and a Parsigal was a bit of a cad.

Spirited. Enspirited of the mountains and the pastures by nature. She knew the word ‘panic’ derived, ultimately, from Pan.

She knew Zues liked to play with mortal lovers, despite having taken Hera.

Goddess and godhead. She knew her mother tried to shield and protect Zues.

After he commanded it of her.

But Hera learned of his triflings and used Echo’s intended, Narcissus, to hurt her.

In response, as Iynx, Parsigal cleverly made Zues fall in love with the Moon. The moon reflects the sun’s light. Zues surely loved a good reflection if ever a sentient thing did. This is where Iynx resonates: in her metaphysical reaction to the injustice Echo and Narcissus suffered.

Parsigal passed time. Contemplating lists such as this:

Consilience, congruence, confluence, concommitance, conjunction, concurrence, conflation, concupiscence, concordance, and contiguous.

With this matter addressed we accede to procession.

To proceed again.


Our Outréness & Control (disambiguation: outré)


; not confirming to traditions of:

; behavior ; customs ; style ; Usage

Outré adj ————————–(current English usage above).

,Strikingly-odd, Bizarre, Extravagant, Exaggerated,

Outréness n, [pl/sing] ——————-(Eng usage).

,Strikingly-odd, the Bizarre, the Extravagant, the Exaggerated,

Outrér v, [past participle]——————-(French usage-specific)

,To carry to excess,

Outrance n, [pl -s] ——————————(Eng usage)

*proper prepositional pairing = ‘at’ or ‘to’

,the last extremity,

Middle English: outré

not confirming to traditions of behavior, customs, style, usage

Middle French: outrer

to pass by and over come. SURPASS

Middle French: outre


Middle English: outraunce

À outrance






tour, out


Ore [amper-sand] Orer