Inutility
And lo, a teatpouch flieth through the window and falleth also upon the floor at his feet.
And Old Fornicus taken up the teat, made of lambsbelly, and found it heavy with whey. And in graditude he clutcht and swiveld and bow-ed, spooning out sequences of throe more oft attending dysentery. And he pusht back his tears and confesst, saying, No more guesses, no more maddend whir of merd’rous iron from this old poacher. For I reck that I am this night visited by the Real Dealer, Coder o’ th’ Dices, Cast for Keeps & Ever Odds-On. All About the Bizniss, Wholly Hoss, the What-an-Art-Thou-Art. Excellent Lurker, this night come a-lurking o’er and laying me down a
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visit. Well, visit on, Topjob. Forsooth; alway supposing that someday mightst Thou arrive to laud my righteousness, I only would that when it came, ’twere in the full of day, before a millien envius eyes. But. They all will see this (and with his shark-cleft hand he hoisted up the babe), and will know the know.
And unto him said the voice, Rejoice now that thou mayst, in finding me out; for the voice of my next coming shall caper & flick in some tongue scrambld against thee. On that day, ’tshall be as though thou hadst never lern-ed langwidge, so abstruse shall I work it up.
But Old Fornicus hath ne’er playd at worry, nor steept him self in concern of the fewcher. And he said, Excellent, excellent. But prithee Lord, answer unto me one thing certain.
And the voice posted up and left off, icing the air with a season of absence. For is there not a certain craft in enigma as practist by divinidy?
And Old Fornicus cleard his thote and spake again, just so: Listen here. I say prithee answer me a thing. If an my parlance be acerbated with certain vapors of patience waning, ’tis merely of local custom, and not of special disrespect. Thou hast given me so much, up till now. Surely, then, one answer more.
And the voice taken its sweet time, and at last answerd and said, Come with the thing, irritator. I swear, this is not mine usuel order of process. But ask.
And Old Fornicus relaxt down upon his shreddend bed with the babe. Then grimace-ed he; and finding in his straw a nettle, and drawing it out, he murmurd, Here is that damns thing which hath been poking me nights, put here by the hag. And he flippt away the nettol, which flew like as an unseen arrow into his netherdrawers that he hath shuckt till the morrow. And he resume-ed in his intercourse, saying, What is that wager concerning me, which Thou hast taken up with the divvel? I know the old Trick Triplesixer, and give not a piff for any of his feints & shennanogons. The wise ones keep from his path, they do, for he can beat a man right down. Now, what is that wager?
And the voice answered and said, I oughts not to tell, lest in some busting gusher of partisan zeal thou move inequitably to my favor, handing me hollow triumph that maketh me to hang mine head and cry foul profit. Yet of course, ’tis but old Two-horn that we cozen; ’tis no tall crime to leak thee a drip of confidense against him, I reckin. Now, e’en as the devol hath two horns, so hath his wager two prongs. For with that Glad Damner, no thing is simpol, but all things are made hellaceous. Along with Duplicity cometh Multiplicity all upon him that trucketh with old Two Horn Babboo, for sure. But say; ’twas I that daddihammerd out of the universe and screwd it into convolusiens; and I can certain handol two prongs of an envious challenge, if an that be the devil’s game. Handol them, and mess him all o’er afresh. For he stinketh hot, and I am the cold quenching douser.
And the first prong of the wager with ol Hairyhoofs (saith the voice) playeth so: What mete of torsion might ride thy countenance and put it twisting in mis’ry as things from the devol begin to happen? He shall have the lease of thee for quite a winter. Will his treatments ratchet and redden that face of thine? There is an index of facial skew that is knewn but to the dhevhil and me, a flesh-
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measure of psychosomal dilapidasion that speaketh louder than a thousandt groans. Already, thine aspect is well up on the register, for that thou hast been a generol messabout, and hast been perturbd by every thing, even taking agitasion in the affairs of other men, wherein thou hast no good bizniss. ’Tis my stance that thy weatherd visage, grated by time & tumult, hath packt its self so firm into ruts and lines that upon’t will no further torque manifest, no matter the devol’s pressures. But sure it will, saith Hornhead; he can twist so tight thy grievous mask that it will pop innerds-out, by chaotic spatial mathmaddix that I have barrd from geommetry. Now, that would be a thing to see, the inner guts of a face; that is worth a big bet with Scratch.
And the second prong of the wager with that Prince of Leaks (saith the voice) is just this: Whether thou hast some sudden crushing end with me, and with all mine onerous testings, at which limit thou mightst set to dredging the sludge canals of thy mind for curses against me, tho that ill indulgence cost thee my fondness and any hope of parking in the manna by-&-by. What perverse gambols doth the devil conjure! And yet, I am intrigue-ed in each prong, just enogh to take him on. Thou hast been a right steady sort along thy path of pricks & stitches—tho like as a dog, not beyond suspicien. And so I told the devol—knowest thou, that I made him?—I tolt him thou wilt bear his bangs, and johnny forth a-grinning. He just shaken his head. And I poke-ed his chest and tolt him that he is packt with offal; and he said, I know it.
And Old Fornicus considerd these things, scoring further ratchet upon the index of facial skew; and for a moment, he lost his lid on fear of the future. And he said, In Thine highheaded humer hast Thou constituted men plumb fragile, prone to break & flail. (Tho, none of that hath e’er had play on me.) ’Tis no place of mine to frown down and quiz wherefore. But Thou seest us in our copious floundrings, and even can number in us the seeds of error, which we cannot detect ere they burgeon to trip us in our stride and choke us green & senseless. What an I fail Thee, Lord? What an I cave to the devol, that he come gloating in vict’ry before Thy visage, and scaring the anjels off their chorus? Should I falter and succumb in wager-prong One or Two, shalt Thou then lift me up, administring puffs of consolasien, and patting out disappointaments? Or shalt Thou hawk upon my carcass and consign her to the permadust, and draw then offen my neighber, saying, Next?
But the voice answered and said, Go and be a man, Old Fornicus. Hip-wade amidst thy misgivings, pitch thy lines, reel in horrers and delights. Come not a-frisking the dank folds of the Judge’s negligee for intimot scrapnotes on the dispositien of thy case a-pending. Fall not into the fool’s follyhobby of fantasy-mapping the fewture, graphing into botch logics far off my schemata. ’Tis that I hate, when men go mapping up the fewcher, chalking out their tomorrows, playing Eighty Fates. I have for each man a Millien fates; what then is he about, in his guess or eighty guesses? Pray be not he; just wait and see.
Yea, man (saith that voice). The ol Fewcher defieth all the playbooks. ’Tis best playd out in days and dealings, while the Tomorrowfool messeth in guesses. Only do me this, Go out and be a man. Pick up thy pole and go a-vaulting, leaving thy landing to the wisdem of the wind. That is best. (And the voice coughed and spat, and took an few moments; and then it came again, but in the quieter pitch of a matter concluding.) Now go and win me out. When I tolt that old devol that he is packt wit offal, and when he said, I know it, there wafted in his tone a scent of accusatian, as like as hap I, as maker, had with mine own hand crammd that offal in. He is like that; he getteth into things, and droppeth the blame on others. Vast weary am I, of listning to his mewling mantra that with him
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I was O-so-happy to fail. Of course I did retort, that I am all about success. ’Tis no fault of mine that he made him self mad and rotten, and I had to pitch him out.
I pitcht out that whole bunche, saith the voice from far away.
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| Copyright 2007- WJ Schafer & WC Smith - All Rights Reserved |
| -----------------------Chapiter | Thou Art |
| 1. A Old Battler Rousted Outen His Sleepf pp. 1-3 | |
| 2. That Voice Cometh On Like As The Very Lord! pp. 4-5 | |
| 3. Investiture In The View That The Voice Is Lord pp. 5-8 | < hookt in |
| 4. Rapture In The Sweet Symphony Of Living p. 8 | |
| 5. Fraud & Blasphemy: The Art Of The Voice Player pp. 9-10 | |
| 6. Final Price Of The Package pp.10-12 | |
| 7. Indectic pp. 13-14 |
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