

GENEVIEVE; A SKETCH OF FIVE TREES

Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2018 by Edward Drobinski

All rights reserved

Beware All Ye Who Might Enter Here

Copyright © 2018 by Edward Drobinski

Well within the imagined constraints regarding the precise precision of impressiveness, all spurious and soon to be overstated rights, vis-à-vis atrociously weak US prose copyright laws compounded by the ridiculous US tolerance of "pirate" distributors of free books, the following is supposedly and ipso facto conglomeration jokingly reserved by the writer; strongly encouraging the inevitability of un-prosecutable violations of the copyright law fantasy if this book sells more than ten, plagiarism in most any instance, and copying which makes use of an electronic device of any sort. Though it invariably will be the case, this section is customarily mandated to say in sad futility that no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means except those so authorized, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages totaling less than 200 words and/or three pictures, in the course of writing a review; limited to one of the laudatory type; which as previously stated requires a minimum rating of four of those stupid stars in a five star maximum system.

And indeed it does say that for the big deal that it is worth. A sincere thanks is extended to those who have allowed this time-saving boilerplate to be copied under a spurious CCO license.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Comprende? In fact they are so obviously fictitious that any attempt to assert otherwise would have to be the mercenary ploy of some lazy, non-productive crook or crooks, aided and abetted by an otherwise unemployed chiseler or chiselers, as yet un-dismissed from the less than diligent bar. Any fancied apparent similarity to real persons is not intended by the author insofar as the author can conjure every possible archetype and their subdivisions upon subdivisions upon subdivisions ....... and any such similarity wrongfully seen is either a coincidence or the product of your own sick and troubled imagination; perhaps most practically suggestive of an intensification in your treatment and dosage.

In simplicity; THE BOOK IS ABOUT TALKING DOGS, and talking dogs only. If you consider yourself one, just do yourself a favor and shut up.

Where the names of real places, corporations, institutions, and public figures may be projected onto made up stuff, they are intended to denote only such said made up stuff, not anything presently real as of the time of this entirely conjectural writing.

I hope that you are one of those blessed with common sense, thereby being one who did not bother to read this obligatory and pragmatically unenforceable absurdity.

Portions have previously appeared in the following; non-contentious Goodreads blogs and threads, the writer's laptop, and e-mails addressed to the writer's mother which have been scrutinized by a plethora of the children of Kafka, now known as the NSA.

"You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children."

-Madeleine L' Engle-

Contents

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-1

"Hi; my name is Genevieve. I'm a pretty Maltese, or so some say. That's a little white dog; and I'm sufficiently aged to where it is impolite to mention specifics. You may have heard of me as I've been written of in four other books. Maybe not, as the books tend to be favored by only the select few. No real matter to me, as I do value some degree of privacy.

You may not have known or recognized me from the cover picture on this number five. It is highly stylized, which is okay I guess. But in terms of personal identification it probably would be best supplemented by a series of pictures taken of me at different ages and times, with different photographer-painter conceits and methodologies, and with different hair styles. Here, I'm kind of shaggy, past mid-life crisis, and seemingly in a rather quizzical mood. I may have merely been spaced out or tired, when the un-remembered photographer snapped. But, since I don't recall the event in the least, it's just as likely that I was unable to hide my disinterest in the camera, and was thinking; "Okay; snap if you'd like. Whatever turns you on."

Furry, recent Genevieve; property of the author.

This one was used as a book cover by that hominid writer guy, who seems to be more of a hound than anything else. It's kind of cute, perhaps a bit younger, and highly stylized through some "artistic" treatment designed to thwart the ultimately ineffectual "reality" kind of detailing contained in 'enhanced' photos as filtered through Adobe Photoshop. I like it most for its attractive disdain for any notion of precision.

Somewhere in the middle Genevieve; property of the author.

Here is little me. Pretty adorable; right? All white, well-combed and fuzzy like that. Just look at that innocent wondrous look in my eyes. It's irresistible. And I'm so tiny and vulnerable. Who could possibly resist falling in love with me? In actuality I was kind of cranky and annoyed at my father for not knowing how to work the camera. I was standing still and waiting for a good half hour before he figured out where to put the film and what button to push. You might detect a hint if you concentrate on my left eye and couple that with what really is a lackluster expression. I thought I'd point that out, as I'm sure you'd have missed it because I'm so cute.

Little Genevieve; property of the author.

So there. See. I don't really like looking at old pictures of me; or any for that matter. But I put them here as a sort of long term identification for the many unfamiliar who may wish to see more. If not, just skip it.

I've lived my entire life here on Pacific Lane in Poochville. I've had an easy and mostly happy life. Don't misunderstand. It has not been perfect in some significant ways, and it continues that way; though I have no reason to complain when I compare my tribulations with the bulk of the pooch population. It's just that lately I've been experiencing some strange things which have made me, sometimes merely due to sequencing, though most often more than mere timing and positioning, though I do not have the words to properly convey that thought, question the lines between dreams, fantasy, and reality. I might add; if any. ........... No, I have not done any acid or DMT since I was a teenager. .......... Well, okay; perhaps a bit into my twenties.

The results have been to alleviate any of my prior, substantially internalized complaints; and it seems too good to be true; or un-true. You might well appreciate that it really doesn't matter to me one way or the other if I can't tell the difference. That's not indifference; that's just a recognition and healthy acceptance of what it is or what it appears to be; and if anyone differentiates between the two, they can just go stick their nerd eyes back on the microscope they got as a present their merriest Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, or Eid Al-Fitr; though the latter can be confusing; and not only because it falls on the first day of the month of Shawwai.

Sorry, I got carried away there. I do not believe in nerd discrimination at all, or any sort of discrimination for that matter. It's just that all groups statistically tend to share some undeniable probabilities; nerds with "scientific" instruments the case here.

We pooches would likely have been better served with a pooch writer. But, we all know that you can't always get what you want ...... Anyway, I just felt obliged to warn any reader that as one of his good points, this hominid writer guy apparently can't tell the difference between dreams, fantasy, and reality either, and consequently has again "chronicled" me; this time inclusive of these events or illusions or dreams or something, as well as seemingly tangential occurrences with which I had no involvement. ...... I think. I wish I fully understood. ...... I think.

Here's the story below. You've been warned. If pooches had any legal rights I'd sue on the grounds of invasion of privacy. ...... I think. Maybe you can draw the lines for me. If you think that you can, please tell someone else."

A sketch of five trees; property of the author.

The vaguery is transported to an island; and in the process an ersatz miracle has taken place. It has become clear and specific. Of course, this could not be accomplished through the use of reflective mirrors, not even the distorted variety, now relegated to the "fun" house, which along with the rest of the travelling circus, passes through every town for a brief period every year, picking up the green and depositing a few geeks. Obviously, the magician has some other kinds of tricks up his sleeve which have not yet been disclosed to anyone other than his trusted, silent, and judicious intimate companions; whether or not they have chosen to be stage assistants. The temporarily hosting island may be far away or far out, depending upon the viewers' location, point of view, or state of intoxication. No problemo sahib or sahibess, as air fares are cheap.

Manhattan; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Sometime in 1964, far from his Greenville, Florida, USA home on the island of Manhattan, in artistic and economic pursuits, Ray Charles sang; "You Don't Know Me."

Bear in need of a friend and "You Don't Know Me" written by Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 1

It was a hot summer day, one of those when most everyone wants to sit in the shade with a pina colada. But, sober-to-a-fault-today, and intrepid Genevieve was braving the mid-day sun, and walking by herself by the Boggy Cleave River. A breeze or the mirage of one came off the water, making what might otherwise have been an excruciating happening into just another sunny day which was quite pleasant for her.

Genevieve couldn't help but think that she had to have come in contact with that mirage rather than a real breeze, as whenever she looked down to be sure of her footing on the un-even land, she'd see that her long white fur was not parting the way all non-solid corporeal things do in the slightest of zephyrs.

Neither were there any ripples in the Boggy Cleave other than those usual white caps produced by its bed rocks. Frequent visitors knew exactly where they were, despite the small permutations created by the angle of the light's reflection. Genevieve was quite pleased with her situation and near-home surroundings.

Thriving Southern magnolia tree; property of the author.

That was until she came upon a thicket of five trees. Blooming Southern magnolias they were, excepting one. That one, though another Southern magnolia, was not only failing to be in bloom, but was actually withering right next to where his/her siblings thrived.

Withering Southern magnolia tree; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Genevieve's feelings of mindless contentment came to an abrupt halt when she could not help but be disturbed by the condition of this tree. Rather than turning toward ultimately useless, "kind" platitudes of appropriate concern, her mind deemed it primary to attempt to find out why this tree was dying; and if capable of that, then for step two determining how that process might be reversed.

One problem she quickly discovered was that the magnolia had no way of communicating where it hurt to her. It evinced a tone of unhappiness, but you see, magnolias rarely get more specific as they do not speak pooch. Compounding the difficult communication problem, nor do pooches speak magnolia, or even the broader language of tree. Genevieve was perplexed and squinted into the sun.

Perplexed and squinting Genevieve; property of the author.

Perhaps as a result of her being stationed relatively low to the ground, Genevieve investigated the non-thriving magnolia's base.

She didn't see anything which struck her as being unusual. However, she could not help, but entertain the nagging thought that before she determined what was unusual for a magnolia's base area, it might be a good idea to first find out what was at other magnolia bases, especially the healthy ones. Her annoyance was that it necessitated her doing something like dreaded "work" on an otherwise pleasant afternoon. However, she decided that would be well outweighed by the wonderful feeling she'd get if she could help the poor magnolia. In fact, she found that she would be quite pleased with herself just for trying.

Genevieve saw that the healthy magnolias all had grooves extending outward from their bases, which would direct water to them from an extended area in a rainstorm. She re-looked at the sick one and saw that it had no grooves; in fact it was sitting on a gradually elevating mound, which some might term an out and out hill.

Genevieve had no way of being certain that this was the cause of the non-thriving magnolia's demise. But, it looked as if it might be a good play when the different bases of the four healthy ones were considered. There seemed to be little to lose, as the frail one was on the verge of death anyway.

So, Genevieve took on a bit of a perspiration inducing, earth moving project. Just using her tiny front paws, in a half hours' time, she was able to flatten the hill and establish ditches which led to the withered one's base.

Booming clouds came in and produced a torrent which the ground could not fully absorb immediately. Genevieve was soaked, and saw that some of the excess was flowing through her ditches right to the base of the withered magnolia, where it seemed to disappear. She knew she had to come back some time later to see if this did the magnolia any good.

Genevieve woke up in her wicker basket before daybreak. She trembled when she saw that the magical kitten named Sunshine was sleeping right next to her too. This little shake of hers woke him. He somewhat nervously said; "It's all right."

She responded; "Yes, certainly it is. I was just surprised. Please pardon my quiver."

Sunshine smiled and disappeared.

Genevieve and Sunshine; property of the author.

Genevieve was confused. She suspected that the story of the magnolia was a dream. But, she wasn't sure whether or not Sunshine was part of that same dream. He could be quite a tricky young man, and had previously expressed a desire to be a feline magician, in the style of Merlin.

She looked toward her open eastern window which showed that it was not yet fully light. It was actually kind of pretty at the beginning of the sun's ascension over the Denial Mountains. This particular morning's view seemed especially interesting to Genevieve. The clouds were highlighted in whites, blues, and browns; and the lower formation looked exactly like a dog. Genevieve wondered if this was truly unusual, or if it was just that she took the whole thing for granted, and never gazed much anymore.

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-2

"Hi, again. Genevieve here. I'd just like to note that my eastern window was not very likely to have been open late that summer. In fact, I'd bet a few bones that it wasn't. You will see later in this story that the nights became extraordinarily cool during that time. Indeed, in some pedantic sense this is the very basis for most, if not all of the story recorded herein, and I therefore regard my tiny insertion as precisely that; either a meaningful nuance regarding that particular previous evening when I could well have been so tired that I neglected my window closing chore; this communication intended for the clarification of the gentle and meticulous type of reader. It may be more or less correctly viewed as either that or a brief piece of information which does not much disturb the flow of the story, which the reader could very well ignore without sacrificing anything of long term significance. ....... Please excuse me."

Genevieve's eastern window view if it was open that morning; property of the author.

Feeling criticized and stressed, the much fatigued author has inserted the way the window might have looked that morning if closed. Large charge. Right?

Genevieve's eastern window view if it was closed that morning; property of the author.
Aureolin Quinta Sole- 2

In either case of either case, that duality being Genevieve's consideration of possibly being in a dream state or one of being concerned with window conditions, she decided to get up, drink her coffee, and then take a walk to the Boggy Cleave to see if she might find something green growing on the withered magnolia.

She shook her cranky back leg, in the hopes that it would persuade the peevish little attention seeker to behave itself. The furry little exasperation had been periodically making a huge issue over little things ever since it had gotten twisted ever so slightly while stumbling into that hidden rabbit hole a bit more than a scant two years ago. One small step was all it took.

Before she could stoke up or even get close to her coffee machine, she saw that Dillon was sitting on one of the chairs next to the kitchen table. This was indeed considerably unusual, as she hadn't seen him in two dog ages and thought that he was dead. She recalled their last dream meeting.

I was on a boat. Not too big a boat; but not too small either. I was holding on to the railing somewhere toward the boat's center, looking over the side. I concluded that I was coasting on the slow current of the Boggy Cleave River. It appeared as if Poochville was in front of me and the huge Denial Mountains were behind. I also knew that was impossible as the Boggy Cleave was so shallow in many spots that even a rowboat would soon be stuck on the bottom. I saw that as an irrelevant thought, as here I and the boat were obviously floating.

It was 1967, and in a UK studio Cream recorded.

Boat on a river and "Srange Brew" by Eric Clapton, Felix Pappalardi, and Gail Collins; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

I curiously gazed downriver to my left; and then I curiously gazed upriver to my right. I didn't see anyone else, and for a second thought that strange. It was a gray day with a mild wind. The resultant slight chill took my mind off other matters. The boat bounced along for a bit; and then I heard someone call my name.

I looked toward the voice and saw my long gone Dillon, the Irish setter who had long ago charmed me. Though it is best not said out loud, as not to be offending to well-loved numbers, two, three, and etcetera, there is always that special number one. Isn't there? Dillon was mine and the feeling seemed mutual. I thought; "This can't be. You're dead." I said; "Dillon?"

Dillon; property of the author.

Dillon was standing still with his mouth open; just like he had always. That is, until the last time I had seen him, as he went off and left to "do his conscripted duty," marching off to the Second Rogue River Conflict. He moved toward me, but after a few steps was jerked back. I saw that Dillon was now wearing a collar which was attached to two chains.

Demons; Plutus and Camulus; property of the author.

The menacing holders of those chains came into my view. They were winged, dark gray, and each had one arm held to the sky for no apparent reason at all. Perhaps the gesture was the now beside-the-point result of a habit picked up from scratching a higher head no longer there or some method to attempt to get their withered wings to fly. Or maybe there was just some simplistic finger gesture involved. I instinctively knew that the names of the chain holders were Plutus Cash and Camulus Battle. Plutus Cash lost hold of his handle, but Camulus Battle held on tightly to his. Plutus Cash smiled maniacally as if this was his precise expectation; him now either appearing to be the "good guy" or the "incompetently 'cute' evil guy," thereby throwing the burden on his partner, Camulus.

Camulus Battle showed no emotion, seeming to have no regard whatsoever for any asinine and neither-here-nor-there semblance of a fleeting and fluctuating, immaterial attractiveness match. He never anticipated having to deign to run for any elected office as, barring some miracle never yet documented, he held his office for life. He may well have expected Plutus' performance, as it was far from the first time that Plutus Cash had let go of his chain. Though it was impolite, imprecise, impious, improper, impeachable, and otherwise resultant of a royal pain in the posterior to say so out loud Camulus Battle confidently knew that he was the stronger of the two in his total disregard for the ineffectual results of popularity contests.

Dillon tried to call out; "Gen............," as his chained collar choked and pulled him back down the stairs which led to the boat's hull. I moved toward him and was immediately back lying down in my wicker bed. I would rather have been back in my dream. The only light was that of the half-moon in the window. The only sound was that of the late autumnal silence. It was the time of year when most of the insects and small animals had wisely gone into hibernation.

I pulled the covers over my head and tried to go back to sleep and get back to my dream. I was certain that if I could get close to him, that I could break Dillon's one remaining held chain. I had been so tired; both mentally and physically; from all my recent activities, I did quickly go back to sleep; but not to the same dream I had hoped for. ........ But, maybe it was and it was just subjected to a commercial break or worse; one of those infomercials.

Dillon said; "My lady states my name as a question?"

Being able to conjure up some degree of supposed rationality, even before coffee, she became almost certain that she was still sort of awake within what seemed to be her most recent dream segment. It was surely and always great to see Dillon again; though sometimes the aftereffects produced when the dream ended were difficult to deal with for a day or three. Ultimately, she saw that she had absolutely no choice in the matter, so see sought to make the best of the good part. Her special one was apparently free of his jailers and Genevieve feared that if she mentioned something about a dream that dream would end. So she decided to be casual, as if seeing Dillon was an everyday event.

Dillon; property of the author.

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-3

"Hi, readers. Genevieve. Sorry, I just absolutely have to interject here. This is a really bad one. It's a complete fabrication, misrepresentation, fantasy, and supposedly a logically based showing of how my innate feelings, albeit with the caveat of possibly being conducive to my extending those same feelings, as personally managed and as indeed suggestive of easy management, in order to continue a definite personal and a reasonably certain estimation of the other's; in this case Dillon's; desired process in which their overt display might prove counter-productive and thereby negate, having absolutely no proof of that conjecture; and thereby in that dumb and numb hominid writer's showing of what would likely be construed as reticence on my part, an incorrect overall perception of moi, and very assuming about Dillon, who has not yet been seen, heard, or chronicled anywhere other than in 'Genevieve; and Her First Fuss,' G1 to some, and in that case a short dream sequence which through the introduction of manifested demons suggest to the rational a situation in which both belief and disbelief have been suspended, which is seemingly inordinately, irrationally, coldly, and calculatingly risk averse. I want you to know, that this is not me at all. I wasn't made this way and I personally resent any implications to the contrary, as well as condemn this robotic writer hominid guy. You see, if left to my own volitions, long term advantageous or not, in that situation I'd have jumped all over Dillon, kissing him wildly, so happy to see him, asking him; 'Where have you been? What took so long for you to get back? What were you doing all this time?' and a slew of impromptu sounds which might have overwhelmed him. But, no. It's not the least bit personal with this writer fish head. Darn it. I'm incensed. It's just how that damn writer incorrectly has chosen through ignorance, lack of research, or other inadequacies to depict me, ostensibly propelled by the same deficiency which un-inspires wallflowers; and is the primary subject of Godard's 'Alphaville,' circa 1965, or something like that, the precise date as relevant as those of Greek and Roman historical events. ....... Within reason, for the sake of flow. Sniffle. Sniffle. Pardon me. 2018 disdains sentimentality and nostalgia. But, I care for 2018's opinion as much as I care for that of this idiot writer's. Hoooonk. Didn't get any on ya, I hope. I have to go on record right here as saying that since this passage has some bearing on what will happen in the future, as far as this deficient book depicts that, I totally disavow anything and everything, inclusive of any inferences drawn now or later, in other words regardless of time, which is overt, inferential, or incorrectly assumed in a libelous manner about me for the rest of this book. You may have gleaned that I am in consultation with an attorney regarding this unfortunate misrepresentation. He tells me that he has no grounds with which to place an injunction on the distribution of this book, but tells me that I am perfectly within my rights to advise you to stop reading right here; which I do with the utmost emphasis. ........ The basic problem here is that ever since the internet supplied every idiot with the tools to write a book, every idiot has. I hate Edward Drobinski. He is absolutely a malicious moron. My lawyer has a problem with that statement; but I don't care. For the few of you who choose to continue from this point, I assure you that I'll be watching for further inaccuracies, though they will of necessity become even more conjectural due to this book, purportedly but not about me, having delved into the world of fantasy, magical realism, cutesy, so called post-modernism, or absolute garbage; with which I have not yet been involved; thereby necessitating speculation one should not bet a nickel on in any given situation. Meta? Sheesh. A license to write incompetent and disjointed nonsense."

Rose Tinted Triptych Glass- 1

Prior Pacific Lane Mementos

In the safety of his home, Clement kind of stumbled, but caught himself after a brief sway. His voice was kind of in an out, like the tone of a squeaky stop made by a 1954 Chevy with the original footbrakes. He said; "You know; it's a lot of things. It's not as if anything happens in a vacuum. All things are related and they kind of merge. Some of them aren't good. If somebody doesn't stop the bad ones from following their natural courses they get worse. I mean like these things are not permitted as evidence in courtrooms. They say it's irrelevant. The jury is told to ignore it and it is stricken from the record. Sergeant Friday says; 'Just the facts; only the facts.' But, what does he know of 'facts?' There are no accurately calibrated instruments with which to gauge events in the softest of 'soft' sciences. And if you make analogies intended to explain a matter of nuance or parlance which could well be a bridge between the dictated disciplines of physics to the newer, but already dictated disciplines of metaphysical philosophy, they find you incomprehensible at best, psychotic at their 'norms,' and subject to; 'I already knew that' at their pretenses. I've always been tempted to counter with; 'If you knew that is there some date at which you plan on beginning to act as if you did?' but that is unproductive and likely viewed as contentious.

But, let me get off this general view and just relate the story as I experienced it myself. I have these dreams sometimes, you know. .......... They're nice dreams. But, I wish they'd go away. Like a week ago there was this new one about recurrent Linda. She was a cheerleader, so different from me. I saw her for the first time freshman year in high school. We were pups then and I couldn't wait until I was grown enough to have my own place, away from my parents. There was so much time and energy every day; so much time. I used to look at her constantly, trying not to be noticed. I really wanted to know her, but I was too shy to say anything. She was beautiful. I was scared to approach her as she was just too good for me. I always figured that tomorrow would be a better day. You know, tomorrow; when the big pimple was off my nose; when my coat was better combed; when we would just 'accidentally' meet at the door; just a natural event, as opposed to her possible perception of a concocted one with ulterior motives on my part. ......... " Clement snorted out kind of a stifled laugh; "Not that they weren't there; mind you. They just weren't the primary thing. I liked her in every way.

And at the time there seemed to be an infinite supply of tomorrows left. I'd see her every day. You see she was in my sophomore, junior and senior, high school reg class. I knew that was to be the case in our sophomore year as the system was designed that way. For some reason they switched you after freshman year, but kept it the same after that.

Anyway, by the time I had noticed that time was getting short, halfway through senior year, she disappeared. Must have moved away. She's not even in the graduating yearbook. ......... Well, recently, this darn dream came along and in it I was high school age and having my usual squabbles with mom and dad; this time he the infrequent leader of some stupid nonsense. I walked away from them, into the next room and Linda was there. She was at the top of one of those small ladders; working on the wall just below the ceiling. She had medium length white hair, puffed up in a cute way. Linda said 'hi' to me as if we were old pals, though we had never previously spoken and she certainly had not been in my house prior to that. For some strange reason I was able to act the same way I am now in the dream; and told her that I was really depressed over this parent stuff. I never spoke about stuff like that to anyone in real life, yet here in the dream I just blurted it out without being asked. Not the usual response to someone who says 'hi.'" Clement smiled at Genevieve and then made the slightest of giggles. She smiled and nodded approval.

Linda; property of the author.

"I always thought that this exuberant, cheerleader type joyfulness Linda constantly showed was a cover for some sadness she wanted to forget and kindly not inflict on anybody else. Before Linda could respond to my depression stuff; and frankly I don't even know what the term exactly means; I nervously asked her if she'd like to see a movie.

She said; 'Yes, what's on TV?'

I said; 'No, like at a real movie theatre. Let's get out of here.'

She enthusiastically said she'd like that; and that there was a cowboy movie playing that she'd like to see. She asked if I liked cowboy movies and I said yes. She took a newspaper and looked for the playing times. Next thing I knew we were outside on the streets of our mutual town of birth. There were some packaged things which I just knew that my parents had left in the wrong place; on top of something like a perforated sewer cover.

Perforated sewer cover; property of the author.

Linda said that I should gather them and take them to the post office. I considered doing that only because Linda had said so. If not for her saying that I'd have figured that if my parents had left them in the wrong place that it wasn't my job to fix things. Besides, they never admitted making any mistakes to me; so most likely, at least according to them, this was exactly where they wanted their packages to be.

If it was solely up to me I'd have just left the packages where my parents had chosen to leave them and go to Linda. But, most of all I wanted not to offend her. So, I tried to pick them up. Not only were there much too many of them for me to handle; but they were soggy, corroded, or something; unstable for sure; and the two or three of an uncounted multitude of packages that I could at first cradle in my arms quickly proceeded to break apart and fall back into the pile. Each one became two. Given their size, I pictured that if I picked them up again the two would just break up into a four and beyond. The most simple of points was that there was no way I was going to be able to carry this stuff to the post office; and also catch up with Linda, who kept moving. I mean, I thought that carrying the packages could possibly be done, but it would take like all day and a million trips; and it would be like trying to carry a school of dead and decayed fish. And I'd lose sight of Linda for sure. As they fell off my arms I looked up to see her."

Genevieve smiled when she interjected; "You could have made good use of a cart. That's what I thought we were talking about at the beginning."

Clement also smiled and said; "I'm getting there. I'm getting there. You have to put the horses before the cart. So, where was I? Oh yeah. So, I had the decayed residue of some of the packages on my front paws, and I looked up. Linda was running in the street toward the parked cars a block ahead. I was frightened that she might be running away. In desperation I called out; 'No, no. I understand that no means no. I'm not a pillager.' She called back; 'I know that, silly. I'm just running because I'm excited.' She opened the door and sat in the driver's seat of one of the cars which was parked that block ahead; a red Volkswagen Beetle. ........ You don't see them much anymore. Just once in a while an antique collector takes one out for a spin. But, they were very popular with young people when I was young."

Genevieve covered Clement's pause with her own comment, and said; "Oh yeah. I remember. They were great little cars. They didn't cost much and you could leave them parked for months; and with one turn of the key they'd start right up. Wonder why they disappeared."

Clement said; "I'm not sure. But, I think they started to disappear when they started to bring in all that Japanese stuff. My dream kind of ended there. I was still uninterestedly fumbling around a bit with my parent's stuff when I woke up. It was time to get up but I wanted to go back to sleep and continue this dream. I got half my wish as I got back to sleep and I dreamed that I was in my old high school walking through the halls at a class break. I was alone, which was weird, but I knew that if I kept on going through the connecting bridge to the adjoining building that Linda would be there and that everything would be all right. Then I woke up again. My high school had four buildings. The two that were used for the college preparatory courses were connected at the second of three floors by an enclosed 'bridge' from one to the other. You had to go outside to get to the other two buildings. One was for technical stuff like auto body shop and machine tool classes. And I don't know what the fourth one was for. Might have never been in it. Probably was management and administration. I know that the Vice Principal had his office there. Nobody knew his real name. Everybody used to call him 'The Axe,' as it seemed that his only job was to come into the class and get students out when they were suspended. A fat Doberman Pinscher. Can you picture that? .......... I'm exhausted. Let me just sit here with my ball for a while."

Clement and his ball; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Genevieve registered no objection as she too was feeling more than a bit tired

Waylon's partner Daisy came out of somewhere. She had heard a bit of the conversation and said; "Hi, Genevieve. He's such a big baby about that ball. We'll get you another one. Okay, sweetie?"

Waylon said; "I want that one."

Daisy; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Daisy said; "See! Sometimes he gets totally unreasonable."

Genevieve said; "Well, it has got to be around here somewhere. Let's go find it. Beachballs don't just disappear into thin air."

Waylon disparagingly mumbled; "It's gone," and head down, kind of trudging behind them, going in no particular direction; forming something of a "U."

Genevieve was tired from all the morning's fuss and sweepings. But, she felt it was her duty to try to help. She sighed, hoping the sound was not audible, at least not to Waylon; and started moving, the wind at her rear. Led by Genevieve, the trio followed the path of the wind to the end of Pacific Lane. They continued into the dense woodland at the end of the road.

No more than twenty feet into the woods Genevieve saw something! Maybe. Well, she was certain that she had seen something, but was less certain of that something being Waylon's beach ball. She saw a flat, pink, white, orange and blue piece of plastic at the base of a thorny Russian Olive tree. It looked much more like the discourteous discard of a dietary do-up duffelbag designed by Colorful Packaging in China than a beach ball. In her tiredness she considered doing her due diligence. In her tiredness she considered passing it up, but was sure that her companions had already seen it too. She said; "Well, I think that we've found some sort of carcass."

Waylon darted right to it. He had no difficulty in recognizing his beach ball, no matter its current condition. He sniffed at the remnant of his playmate with wheezing distress; both to confirm that this was it and in the hope that his breath would resuscitate it. Sadly having confirmed the former only to have failed at the latter, he then looked up and said; "It's broken."

Daisy said; "Deflated."

Genevieve said; "Likely fixable."

Waylon said; "Bwaaahaahaaahaaaa."

Genevieve said; "Look here. There is just one little hole in it from the Russian Olive thorn. Duct tape will fix it." She wasn't certain of what she had just said; but thought it necessary in the moment to restore Waylon's confidence, even through stating something a bit speculative as if it was fact. Half lies have their place; and they might not really be lies. Who can be sure before the fact?

Not entirely convinced, Waylon said; "Bwaaahaahaaahaaaa. Idiot wind kicked up out of nowhere. ...... I mean, I was careful, sort of, and then this. Bwaaahaahaaahaaaa." He picked up the flattened ball and started to carry it back home.

Daisy whispered to Genevieve; "All that tough exterior; and he can be such a big baby sometimes." In a volume audible to distressed Waylon, she said; "It's going to be okay. We'll fix it, baby."

They followed Waylon to the house, where Waylon put the deflated beach ball on the floor and sat next to it. "It's torn," he said in a tone Brando wished he could have generated for the "horrific" end of "Apocalypse Now."

Daisy took a close look at it and replied; "It's not a tear. It's just a little puncture. Good lord. To hear you, one would have thought that the Titanic sunk again. I'm getting the duct tape right now."

Genevieve silently stood there. She was absolutely too wiped out to engage in any sort of participation, or even think of something to say. She may have felt morally obliged to stay there during the crisis, or merely have been too mentally inoperative to come up with any better idea than to remain in place.

Daisy returned quickly, put a piece of duct tape over the puncture, and blew the deflated thing back up. Handing it to Waylon, she said; "There. Almost like new. And it's added another color to boot."

Waylon said; "The patch is not going to hold."

Daisy said; "You want to get punched? Try it!"

Waylon pushed it gingerly. When it didn't deflate he pushed it harder. This process went on a bit until Waylon was happily batting it all over the house.

When Waylon returned to feeling exuberant, one of his bats took the beach ball right into the china lamp which responded with a smash on the floor. "Whoops," said Waylon.

"Yeah. Whoops indeed," said Daisy. "Duct tape is not going to fix that. Let's go outside."

Waylon said; "That wind might kick up again."

Daisy said; "You want to get punched?" And they went outside.

Waylon batted the ball and he and Daisy chased after it.

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 3

As Genevieve continued her approach, Dillon smiled and broke from his nonchalant perusal of a book about climate change, most provocatively titled "Climate Shock," and took curious notice of her, that curiosity caused by her oddly question marked choice of a brief greeting.

Highly stylized cover of "Climate Shock"; property of the author.

An old song immediately ran through Genevieve's mind. It was confusing, but simple. Confusing in the sense that it seemed to be a saccharine, tear inducing reaction to a happy event; and simple in the sense that this view which hominids use or at least not challenge to currently disdain any possibility of hominid sentimentality, elucidated through every form of their miserable art and media of 2018, had absolutely no significance to a pooch; especially one residing in Poochville; though those there still remain a vast contingent of reticent to greet, self-defeating senseless with open derision, perhaps due to a natural ingrained sense or even a lesser nurtured one invariably socially induced through the persistence of loud insignificants; though Genevieve maintained her unused arsenal of wet purple raspberries for the proper moment; and it was beginning to appear as if that might be soon if not right now for the senseless, as well as the dead insignificants.

In 1967, on morning TV primarily aimed at children and stay-at-home moms, Ed Ames sang; "Try to Remember."

Home and "Try to Remember" by Harvey Schmidt and Tom Jones; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Without any hesitation and precluding a reply from her, Dillon added; "No matter." Upon his first having taken full view of advancing Genevieve, Dillon showed his level of book concentration with a launching, full body spasm produced by his surprise at her seeming surprise, chose to continue to elude the likely inconsequential issue which may have been implied, and continued with; "Sorry. I was engrossed. I couldn't sleep and I've been enjoying this book for its concrete black and whites as engendered by an economic evaluation; but I'm having some trouble with the author's implied notion that the supposed shock-change necessarily equates to cataclysmic levels of warming."

Genevieve was incredulous. In a space which seemed to approximate all of two minutes to her, she had just been digging trenches for the benefit of a withering magnolia at the Boggy Cleave River on a sunny mid-day concluding in her having gotten soaked in a sudden cloudburst. Then, thoroughly dry and before sunrise, she thought that she had woken up to find that Sunshine had been sleeping with her. But he disappeared into thin air raising the possibility that his presence was an unusual extension of her Boggy Cleave dream. Then she thought that she was awake and ready for coffee, still pre-sunrise, only to find that Dillon, her special one, an Irish setter, who she previously had understood to have been killed in whatever spurious war was the hominid popular notion decades prior, this one called the Second Rogue River Conflict, and as usual no one knew what that one was all about other than the proliferation of national flags on hominid houses and autos, nor did they have the slightest idea of where the Rogue River might be, was sitting in her kitchen acting as if nothing she had come to think that she previously knew was of any reality or significance, followed by her perfect recollection of a forgotten old sentimental song while Dillon issued her a nonchalant greeting concerning his evaluation of one of many books written concerning the much-discussed-yet-little-done—about subject of weather. One might appreciate that Genevieve's current sense of reality might have been politically-correctly-described as challenged.

Genevieve's visual perception married to her belief that her pleasant dream would end if she overtly acted as if it were one, allowed her to quickly realize that most likely she might still be dreaming in a continuous pattern, or that she had been dreaming off and on, having some difficulty in drawing hard lines between varying states, and whichever the case or another, it really didn't matter, as at the bottom line there were no people or pooches dressed in white sporting butterfly nets or offering her a "nice place to stay if she came along with them" in the picture yet; and if the netters showed up later, she could easily make the required adjustments when needed later.

Though it was her instinct to run over to Dillon, jump on him, and ask him where he had been the last twenty years, she was now sufficiently shell-shocked as well as absurdly rational, the combination of the two likely that which would primarily result in an incomprehensible babble, to choose to hold off on that idea in the ostensible likelihood that she was awake in her pleasant dream, and that she didn't want to risk making any statements or performing any actions which might be taken as indications or mere misinterpreted reactions to anything that really wasn't there; thereby possibly disturbing or ending it; in full realization that if known or inferred, such a thought process might be construed by overly literal others as ridiculously magical; a demonstration of their unfamiliarity with her morning's sleeping companion; Sunshine.

For some or all of those "reasons," Genevieve controlled her emotions and followed casual suit replying; "I've seen one I consider to be better on that subject, wherein the author ignores the economic aspect, and empirically documents a better case suggestive of increasing severity, perhaps a temporary aberration, rather than the simplicity of the easily calculable, trending warming most presume; sort of an atmospherically depicted manifestation of a hominid extremism; artistically suggestive of a reversal; a sky, an atmosphere reflecting earthly activities."

She spied the counter to see that the coffee pot was empty, and playing as if she were jokingly annoyed said; "Why didn't you at least get a pot going?"

Dillon rose, kissed her, and motioning toward the other chair, said; "I should have thought of that. Here, sit and I'll get it going." As he did that he said; "You know; the outlooks of both of those books are nowhere near being entirely antagonistic. In fact there seem to be easily fitting dovetails. They're both primarily citing strange weather, just like the summer here. This is August and the days aren't going past eighty; while we usually get mid-nineties this time of year."

Genevieve simulated a yawn and said; "True, but you must admit that it is more pleasant that way."

Dillon said; "Short term personal comfort considerations be damned. Somebody is stealing the summer; indeed our summer."

Genevieve said; "Stealing the summer? You can't steal the summer. It's an intangible. It's not as if you could pick it up and carry it somewhere."

Dillon said; "Why not? You can provide or withdraw heat. The Grinch stole Christmas. It's kind of the same thing."

Genevieve couldn't help but grimace at the attempted analogies, especially as the Grinch's efforts were clearly physical; though she also thought that the physical activities of the Grinch were intended to result in, and well could have been a theft of the concept of Christmas. It struck her as if an un-natural stand-in had been linked to a natural event, much in the way in which she considered it silly to compare a 1997 movie about the sinking of the Titanic to the actual prior event which took place in 1912. However, after all this time not with him, the last thing Genevieve wanted to do was to get into a probably specious and likely beside-the-point argument with her beloved Dillon. Further, it was a difficult contention for her to easily articulate, and if he was still around next week, she could bring it up then, having had that much good time together, thereby able to take the somewhat lesser risk of a contentiousness breakout; or most likely having dually forgotten the entire "issue" by then. So she just thanked him for getting the pot going.

Dillon said; "I think that I know what you're thinking."

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-4

"Hi. Genevieve. No prolemo with the hominid writer this time ....... probably. But, I have to interject that Dillon had no idea of what I was thinking at the time. Of course, that assumes that I knew what he was thinking, and ........ well, you know how that goes."

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 4

Sans any noticeable pause other than that which might be idiotically measured in the space of a fleeting and thereby inconsequential nanosecond, though that being simultaneously and obviously of more significance than the yearned for gamma ray bump scientists at CERN could not substantiate, Dillon continued with his seemingly uninterrupted delivery, saying; "My idea is a bit more concrete than it might first sound. What is stealing the summer are these northern night winds. They bring down the temperatures forty degrees overnight. So, the way I see it, we wouldn't be looking for some elusive concept like 'summer's end,' but rather the source of the wind; where it starts. It has got to start somewhere; otherwise it would be either all over all of the time or totally non-existent."

CERN's large hadron collider; property of the author.

It resting on a saucer, Dillon brought Genevieve her favorite mug now full of fresh coffee. It was the one with the pink-lavender heart on the bottom; that heart having a knack of always shining through the brown coffee placed on top of it.

Genevieve's mug; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Dillon kissed her forehead, and sat across from her with his own mug. His had a main saying of "I BELIEVE IN KINDNESS," and a sub-title in slightly smaller letters of "ALSO IN MISCHIEF." If that wasn't enough of a flaunting exhibition, the cream sitting on top of the coffee formed a flower with a heart floating on top.

Dillon's mug; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Nervously thinking that it might be viewed as incorrectly implicit and thereby vague, rather than correctly explicit and thereby as overt as one with the least semblance of good taste dares get, Dillon cleared some air which may have not required clearing, and said; "I do see your point. I'm not really sure either. But, I figure it's as good an excuse as any for you and I to take a trip up north to find out what's going on. We haven't gone on any trips together in years, and it would be nice to get away from everything; just me and you."

Genevieve was not aware of the expressiveness of her face and thought that her mind was being read, but she wasn't minding that. She said; "Today?"

Genevieve and Dillon; property of the author.

Dillon replied; "Today; tomorrow; whichever suits you best, my lady."

Again considering some of the things she already had, Genevieve exclaimed; "Today."

After coffee, the two packed what they thought that they would need for a journey of indeterminate length; which makes absolutely no sense; unless a failure of a cut-off or turn-back time is simultaneously installed. It was not. They would be trying to find the source of the wind and thereby the thief of the summer. Hence they would be walking right into it or both and together they packed jackets in each of their knapsacks. It wasn't a tepid act; it was just primarily no trouble at all and just happened to also convey the appearance of being precautionary. Appearances can be quite deceiving.

From that persistent, annoying, and potentially helpful point of view suggestive of a concern for safety, it would seem that a well calculated appropriate limit be set beforehand. But, if there was such a thing for Genevieve and Dillon, especially considering their current state of probable surrealistic somnambulance, they were resistant or out-and-out impervious to it; possibly in an equally effective and affective display of "cool" stupidity.

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-5

"Hi there, reader. Genevieve again. At this point it does seem fair to say that I was probably acting in some sort of surrealistic somnambulance, yet there is no valid reason for the author to suggest that Dillon was of the same conviction. Conversely, there was also no reason to suggest that Dillon was not of the same conviction. Subsequent events may well provide some enlightenment regarding that matter. However, to suggest either way right now might well be construed as a spoiler and get all of us deleted. Just sayin'."

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 5

They walked down Pacific Lane and made a left at its end onto the main road sometimes called Poochville Lane, though that might not be any sort of "official" designation. Initially Genevieve and Dillon headed northwest on the winding dirt path; but that would shortly become more of a true north, not due to any personal turn, but because the road was winding, ala the Beatles. On the longer thoroughfare they detected their first hint of a breeze as they passed their first possible left, the un-trimmed, natural summer blooms of Bunny Park. Though given her druthers, Genevieve would have liked to focus on Dillon at this point, her mind went back to the time she and Pablo explored Bunny Park in her dreams and for real.

Exuberated, I walked to Pablo's house. He had been somewhat of a recluse recently, out of some very pleasant experiences he could not yet entirely believe. He was looking in his mirror in an attempt to again and again and again confirm that he was now an attractive pup. Since we all know that mirrors are imperfect and tend to lie, this was an exercise in futility. What he needed was confirmation from another pooch. That was one of the reasons I was there, but not the only one.

Pablo; property of the author.

I saw most of that and surmised the predictable rest through the unshaded transom as I knocked at his door. He had an open book nearby.

Stylized cover of "All Creatures Great and Small"; property of the author.

He was not expecting me, and hearing my knock he turned away from the two-faced mirror and instead of going to the door; he went to his library companion. Instinctively he took out and held the book he had read so often.

Pablo was jolted by my second knock. He put his precious book back in its place. Hoping whatever was at the door would go away; he remained near his library and tried to take the entirety in.

I knocked a third time. He came to the door and we saw each other through the transom.

Somewhat relieved, Pablo opened his door and said; "Genevieve. So glad to see you. Don't tell me that another crime has been committed," a reference to the circumstances which led to our last meeting, and turned out to be no crime at all.

I said; "I don't think so. Unless you know of one I'm not aware of." I invited myself in citing the winter weather.

As we walked to the living room Pablo nervously said; "Does everything look all right to you?"

A bit flustered, I said; "Of course. Did I miss something?" I sat on the sofa.

Pablo sat on the nearby plushy chair and avoided what was really on his mind, saying; "I guess not. Sometimes I leave books all over the place and forget where they are." He glanced at his white paws and must have concluded that he appeared to be a Lab, and that that was not unusual to me.

Genevieve and Pablo; property of the author.

I told him that I had discovered that Billy and Jack were not members of the police force. We had all assumed that they were, and some of us, me included, gave them a hard time. I wanted to apologize and thank them for their help in the Pineapple mystery.

Mysterious pineapples; property of the author.

Pablo seemed puzzled, probably because he had given no sass to Billy and Jack. But, after he offered me a beveridge or something which I declined, I told him that I'd like him to be my travelling companion in my search for Billy and Jack.

After some discussion about logistics and where they might be, we hit the road.

Our first stop was Bunny Park. Seeing nothing in the park proper, we went through an opening in some densely packed trees, down a hill, and into a clearing littered with leaves. We then saw that fabled one story ranch, but before we could take another step; we got a plop, plop, and a rude bottom bonk. We had fallen through some sort of grassy covering over a well disguised excavation in the earth. Both of us on our feet and unharmed by the tumble; I said; "The rabbits are getting bigger and more considerate these days."

Pablo said; "We can hop back out easily."

Genevieve said; "Why not try this a while. It looks like a good hiding spot."

At first we saw nothing but dirt and shrugged. Then we saw that beleaguered dog running on the wheel with all that money around.

Dog on wheels; property of the author.

The wheel-dog offered us all the money we could carry out. But we told him that we weren't interested in leaving as we were looking for Billy and Jack. He didn't know them, so Pablo and I kept on walking and Mark kept on pedaling.

The "path" forked. We went right and saw those caged beasts; the growling Dobermans,

Toothesome dobermans; property of the author.

The black and white hawks with beaks of sharpened razors frantically flying,

Three hawks; property of the author.

and the two emotionless killer lions,

Lions; property of the author.

We remarked as to how weird it was that many find such horror fascinating and compelling. Being similarly afflicted we continued to look and saw about a hundred inch long black and red ants on the floor; some fighting and some already dead as a result of it. Toward the back was a three-headed, four-legged creature devoid of color. It looked something like a dog born both albino, freakishly deformed, and devoid of blood. "Cerberus" sat on a pedestal emblazoned with his name at the rear and was clearly in charge of cage activities, as it did nothing, but make an easily detectable charade of appearing to be fierce, while barking out contradictory commands which confounded those condemned to listen to them; much like any senior hominid politician or scam artist; likely redundancy noted.

Cerberus; property of the author.

Head one said; "Take positions at the back door."

Head two said; "Go to the front door and take them as soon as they come in."

Head three said; "Lions to the front; Dobermans to the back; everyone else in the center."

The beasts were confused, no longer paid any attention to Pablo and me, stopped in their tracks and looked at Cerberus for clarification.

At that point, we backed out and tried the left branch of the fork, before the beasts might get their act together. After a slight bend we encountered the Indian holy man apparently locked into his lotus position.

Holy man; property of the author.

He was focussed on Beckett and Pynchon books. Despite that he was mirthless. Since he didn't know if Billy and Jack even existed, much less where they might be, Pablo decided to at least have some fun with the useless situation, and asked him if there was pre-destination. Sadhu Calabrese made a long response which didn't say one way or the other; and segued into a personal dislike of long books, which proved to be quite amusing as Pablo does, and played as if he was offended.

Pablo said; "Right. I'd rather sit down here in the dark in my drawers."

Sadhu went on to tell us that he was born, will never leave, and ultimately die in the rabbit hole; yet that he knew all possible stories of the surface world. It may not sound that way now, but at the time Pablo and I were cracking up with straight faces.

Eventually we left and encountered a rabbit; a large rabbit who's ears reached the ceiling. She wore a dress, a lavender blazer, and sported two big buck teeth which protruded from her mouth and finally came to a kindhearted end somewhere near her chin. She seemed to be smiling, but said; "You've reached the end of the line."

Last big bunny; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

I said; "There's no Billy and Jack here?" quickly adding; "They're two black Scottish terriers."

The rabbit said; "No. You're the only ones who have made it this far. ........ Well, besides me and Red; and he's been long gone. ....... I'm Hawa, the last big bunny. ..... Some used to call me Mo."

We introduced ourselves, and then drew a bit of a blank. Eventually, Pablo said; "So, there's no way for us to get out ahead."

Hawa said; "No. You'll have to go back the way you came. If you're tired you can rest here for a while."

I first checked with Pablo, and then said; "No thank you. We'll leave."

Hawa nodded and watched us walk away slowly. On the way out, we had to re-overcome the obstacles we overcame on the way in. But, it was ridiculously easy as well as ridiculously funny the second time through.

Pablo and I re-found the hole in the roof and jumped out, the sun now risen and directly on us.

Sunrise; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.

The sun was directly in my face as I awoke in my wicker bed. I groaned a bit as I saw the light of the new day. My Maltese' furry, white snout released a low murmur, perhaps a combination of noncommittal happiness to see the new day, a sadness that my mostly pleasant and often absurdly amusing dream had ended, and an annoying, achy back paw, that didn't want to be stretched just yet. But, the little aggravation was not yet allowed to make any big decisions.

As quickly as possible, I went through my morning routine. I was anxious to get to Pablo's and get off to an early start.

When I got to his door he was ready to go. Now all they had to do was decide where.

I said; "Let's walk to the corner. Maybe one of us will get an idea along the way."

Pablo and Genevieve; property of the author.

We turned left as right headed toward the Boggy Cleave, and Pablo suggested investigating the first left, which was Bunny Park.

I said; "We or I kind of already did and I am not anxious to go back just yet."

I could tell by the look on his face that my remark made Pablo think of a series of questions, but I'm almost certain that he decided to withhold them in fear of his curiosity being interpreted as unwanted meticulousness.

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-6

"Hey there, reader. Genevieve again. That was a very condensed version. You may be surprised that I showed up again without a flag of complaint, or even a nit-pick. But, I do think it my duty to point out that the previous passages about Pablo and me are an abridgement. Mind you, I don't find any inaccuracies, but you kind of got a 'Readers Digest' type of treatment. From your point of view, maybe it would have been more useful to have said that in some sort of preface. But, that's kind of a silly thought, as to be able to do that I'd have had to have known what this hominid writer guy was going to write before he did it; especially the rabbit hole part. Ciao."

Rose Tinted Triptych Glass- 2

Prior Pacific Lane Mementos

Genevieve attempted to walk back to her house. She was deep in thought for all of a few seconds. But her concentration was shortly broken. Almost as soon as she had exited Barney, Clara, and Gizmo's property she ran right into Pacific Lane's slowest starters of the morning.

Tardiff and Lenta cautiously approached Genevieve and Lenta whispered; "What is going on?" She and Tardiff were a cute couple. They were full grown Shelties (Shetland Sheepdogs); who looked exactly like collies, but were about one third their size. Little Genevieve could look them right in their engaging brown eyes without looking up or down.

Tardiff and Lenta; property of the author.

The inseparable Shelty duo had apparently not been listening to the news, and was just out for their usual morning jaunt. They simultaneously said; "Good morning, Genevieve. Lovely day."

Genevieve said; "Good morning," but had her reservations about how lovely it was. She correctly suspected that Tardiff and Lenta were unaware of what had happened, and she did not want to be the one to break the bad news. Like her, the pair was not in the least bit accustomed to anything bad happening. This was generally taken for granted and unsaid; but up until now this was what was expected on Pacific Lane and in all of Poochville.

Lenta said; "Is there a party at Barney and Clara's? It's not Gizmo's birthday, I don't think."

Genevieve replied; "No, no. Not that I know of. ...... "

At the pause Tardiff interjected; "What prompted the social gathering?"

Genevieve said; "Well, I might as well just say it. You're going to find out in about two minutes anyway. All the food is gone from the community sheds. Except a couple of pineapples."

***It would be later discovered that this was the result of a misunderstanding.***

Lenta said; "No!"

Genevieve said; "Yes. I was just there."

Tardiff said; "No!"

Genevieve said; "Yes. Some of the neighbors were there with two cops."

Lenta said; "No!"

Tardiff said; "Cops! We don't even have any cops in Poochville. No crime; no cops."

Genevieve said; "Now crime; now cops. Trust me on that one. You can ask anyone there."

Tardiff said; "We're not going there. Not until all this is straightened out. We're little. Come on Lenta; we're going back home." The two turned and headed back toward their house about three times as fast as they had left it.

Being beautiful aesthetes, it took Tardiff and Lenta all of five minutes at home to forget about what was going on outside. Their glazed eyes re-focused on their favorite painting which hung in the center of the wall; just a bit to their current leftward, mutual position. Unsigned "Yank Farm" by Jason Polack was a pleasant old staple in their home. Catching Lenta's gaze, Tardiff said; "I've always liked it quite the tops, but he really should have used a bit more of the red variations."

Lenta laughed and said; "I just knew that you thought that. I'd have gone for a bit more of the purple myself."

"Yank Farm" by Jason Polack; property of the author.

Tardiff said; "It takes much red to make purple. But, look at the whites. I've been noticing them more recently. They're actually mixed in with all the other colors too."

Lenta said; "Especially near the horse's and cow's heads."

Tardiff said; "And that back fence. I don't understand that part."

Lenta said; "Me either. I guess it could just have been a technical thing. To show the fence contrasted with the reds, greens, and blues; Jason was stuck with an imperfect choice of black or white, and chose white to retain color."

Tardiff said; "Yes; the declining and increasingly vague hints at the remnants of that black wire fence would be lessened if black was used elsewhere on the canvas, resulting in an overly dour overall expression."

Lenta said; "A statement pertaining to some sort of alleviation of the nature of being confined. In fact, when you focus on the horse's and cow's heads, you clearly see ...... "

Tardiff cut his wife off to interject; "I didn't want to bring this up the first time you mentioned it, but where in hell are there any horse and cow heads in the picture?"

Lenta gave him a hard bump, and bolted for the front door. When she opened it she said; "Come on outside with me and I'll show you. It's warm again."

Contemplative Willy sat by himself on the carpeted bedroom floor of his sturdily constructed and maintained house. Nothing to do and nowhere to go, he was sensing that magic feeling sung by the Beatles when his mother Heidi was a pup.

Willy; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Willy sometimes enjoyed his solitude. It was something which kept him centered and didn't necessitate a crosstown trip to a flouncy, flustering, huggy-huggy from a distance New Age meeting. All too often his periodic penchant for peace and quiet brought about unwanted queries about his being "all right" or not. After becoming aware of a stream of those he naturally complied with his interrogators through no longer feeling all right.

The beauty of his today was that no one was around to break his all too often misunderstood good mood; which they might otherwise have conveniently chosen to vocally interpret, in a very rude manner not easily corrected, equating the solitary with depressed, anti-social, or some other Dr. Phil un-defined type of disorder. Through his picture window, he watched the last parade of his roof dwelling, rainfall hit the ground in its clear liquid form, forming a line of precisioned, previsioned and incongruously widening dot-dot-dots in the dwindling remainder of their ground based acquaintances. Having been afforded that privilege, after another dreamy hour of contemplative time, Willy felt that he wanted to see other Pacific Lane friends. He walked outside, and immediately thought; "Gee, it really is warm again."

He looked at himself in a puddle.

Willy looking into the puddle; property of the author.

Wind rippled it. Then he saw Misty's face for the first time in a dog's age. He thought; "It couldn't be," then changed that to; "Not now," then changed that to; "If not now, then when?" The wind subsided and then it was gone and he saw his own face again. Misty was an old "Romeo and Juliet" thing of his, and he had run before the threatening Catulent family could do him harm. He had no idea about her fate, and didn't really want to be reminded about the whole thing in this particular puddle or anywhere else for that matter. But, now it had happened. He decided that the best thing he could do was walk Pacific Lane and find some neighborly afforded distraction.

Misty; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CCO license.

The remaining puddles were a potential distraction which he didn't wish to re-encounter only in a mirror type of false duplication. So, he deftly danced around them, as some of the superstitious do with sidewalk cracks.

Night time whumped over the area.

Nightime; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Clement thought he saw her in the fading natural light. The day's illumination was now supplemented and complemented through the artificial pastel blues and reds provided by color producing electricity. She seemed a bit grayer than he recalled, but not all that much; and it could well have been a function of the light or his dimming eyes anyway.

 L

Linda; property of the author.

And she used to wear funny hats, but this dog had none. She was walking alone, in the direction of the open gate which led to the main road most called Poochville. He thought; "It couldn't be. ......... Yes, it could!" Exhibiting more bravery than he could work up as a pup, he called out; "Linda?"

She turned, paused a second, and with her head to one side, she said; "Clement?"

With his one word having apparently not been exhausted Clement said; "Linda."

Linda said; "Clement."

Clement said; "It's been so long."

Linda said; "I used to see you every day in reg."

Clement said; "And I you. They put us on opposite sides of the room, but I'd always see you standing by your desk."

Linda said; "I wanted you to take notice."

Clement drew a verbal blank, possibly caused by all of his streaming thoughts and ideas and memories and regrets and visions and still-existing-potentials of what if's and what not's and what-might-have-been's and with all that running concurrently through his mind, intersecting at the confluence of varying three dimensional sets of possible mutual equation solving overlapping points displayed as an irregularly shaped form, itself an equivocation to those restricted to two dimensions, that mathematical array also only so far subjected to the most primary of arithmetic functions, and feeling under some pressure to hold up his end of the conversation, he said; "I did."

Linda didn't know whether or not to laugh, question, or play stupid; though it seemed to be her natural inclination to laugh; while synchronously recognizing that a quaking guffaw could be taken as either total acceptance or might also be taken as a derision; the latter a risk she wished to avoid taking; and that a serious response could well be seen as either indicative of the lack of a sense of humor, her being a dullard, or one otherwise inclined toward the safety of monotony; and a feeble giggle just had to be considered innocuous and ineffectually tepid by both parties, she able to 100% vouch for one. Linda again wondered why these futile and ineffectual intellectualizations had a nasty habit of making their debilitating presences known whenever one considered the discourse to be of importance. That aspect of the system needed some re-working; but in the meantime here it was again. By this time she had forgotten what it was which had or had not prompted this reverie; and feeling compelled to hold up her end said; "So?" as whatever anybody says first, that is a suitable retort.

Clement; property of the author.

Clement said; "So, so, so, so, what have you been doing for a thousand years? Where have you been? Why did you go there? Was it ..... "

Linda interrupted and said; "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Maybe we could take one question and ten years at a time."

Still overly sensitive Clement was crestfallen until Linda added; "If we don't rush, it will take longer, and I'd prefer it that way."

Excitedly, Clement said; "Yes! We have a lot of catching up to do and lots of time to do it in. ........ Ummm. Right now I have a house full of kittens."

Linda "fell" into Clement who caught her before she hit the ground. She said; "My room-mate just had eight puppies, and they just get into everything."

They laughed as the big wheel kept turning.

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 6

The sun had already passed over the peaks of the Denial Mountains at their rear, comfortably increasing temperatures more than the wind chill effect could bring it down.

Out of the blue and in a seemingly obtuse display of impropriety, Dillon said; "I saw that you were sleeping with Sunshine last night."

Taken aback by the potentially disruptive comment, Genevieve risked a reply not necessarily conducive to the maintenance of her dream state, hoping it would be also understood by Dillon in one of dream's other meanings; that of a cherished aspiration, and said; "Sunshine is part of my dream, as are you. So, how could you possibly know that?"

Dillon said; "Sunshine is a part of everyone's dream."

Genevieve said; "Truly can't see the forest for the trees."

Dillon replied; "Who is truly? It's magic." His simultaneous snorting chuckle became dually infectious.

Dillon; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-7

"Hi again guys. Genevieve once more. I know this is a bit much and too near the last one. Sorry. I'd like not to be critical of the writer's inference regarding my mind set at that time, as in how I recall it now; but it may not have been in the precise manner inferred by the writer or by my memory. There is no particular disagreement, but I do have some reservations about how the wording of this telling might mislead a casual reader to conclude something which is entirely false; assuming that the possible falsity has not taken up residence in my memory. Whatever; in the interest of fictional truth and accuracy, I think it's worthy of note to point out that I had a countless number of dreams about Dillon over the years.

Dillon; property of the author.

I'd get really excited during the early ones, to just wake up and find that he wasn't there. So, when this same dream with a penchant for curtain closing re-occurred, insofar as I could recognize my vision as that of a dream or series of similar dreams, with much less than 100% assured accuracy I might add, my intent was that I'd pragmatically seek to prolong the happily false vision; which was again the standard case here. However, Dillon's surprising reference to my having slept with Sunshine, which by the way, was apparently true but also entirely innocent and not of my choice, though in retrospect I am glad of the brief affair, especially in regard to its likely result of having put Dillon in my kitchen after a twenty year absence, seemed sufficiently serious a potential problem between Dillon and I to risk damaging the dream aspect of the whole thing. That's what I thought. The point, if any, is that based on previous experience I was seeking to maximize the pleasant time, while simultaneously entertaining the cynical thought that this pleasantness was the result of some sort of deluded aberration which would too soon end; much like I've heard that the long term ingestion of methamphetamine is like. Barring personal experience, I'd suggest that the feeling I've been attempting to describe can best be approximately understood if one previously reads some of David Foster Wallace; or entirely doesn't. It's the equivocating middle which is consistent with confusion. ........ The only 'legitimate' question one might ask me is if I have now intentionally herein misled more than what I've stated that the hominid author may have done un-intentionally or intentionally, but likely not either; a hominid constant priority is commercialism, and not the same for me, no doubt heavily influenced by a meaningful pooch inheritance. Bye, for now. Hope that muddies thing further. ...... Please pardon me for irresistibly giggling. Be assured that I'll be watching to see where this mercenary hominid writer guy goes, and will keep you further informed."

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 7

It was already late August, a time when temperatures often start to decline in Poochville, but Genevieve found no real fault with Dillon's observation and consequent theory for a number of reasons; the main one being the desire to take a trip as previously stated, but also because she had sensed that a summer continuation or very warm fall was in the offing. The fragile Mexican Heather was still in full purple bloom and showed no signs of having wilted or burned out. In fact the Mexican Heather is a strange plant in that it can be either an annual or a perennial. If given a cold winter it will die, but if it gets a warm one it just keeps going on.

Mexican heather; property of the author.

Suddenly, Sunshine, Tippy, Puff-Puff, Wailer, and Teddy appeared on the road just a bit ahead of Genevieve and Dillon. It must have been at least like twenty feet or twenty paws; Suddenly immediately and completely blending into the surroundings leaving the others just like Gummo Marx did.

Groucho, Harpo, and Chico Marx; property of the author.

Now, past the park, Now immediately and completely blending into the surroundings, Dillon astutely said; "Look at the kittens!"

Led by Sunshine on the left, the furry, little quintet proceeded to cutely wiggle their way through an a cappella rendition of an old song, familiar to both Genevieve and Dillon.

Sunshine, Tippy, Puff-Puff, Wailer, and Teddy; property of the author.

In 1971-2 the Hillside Singers had a major hit with "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing." Here, the kittens resurrect it in 2018, and Sunshine might have been a bit louder than the rest.

Chinese "junk" ships and "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing" by Backer, Cook, Davis & Greenway; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Upon completion, all five kittens disappeared just as suddenly as they had materialized; well before taking bows to any sure and appropriate applause. It was a kitten thing; hard to explain to a hominid who's not been there.

For his part, Puff-Puff thought that he had spent that time sleeping with his favorite cuddle doll, and unless he was dreaming of being tuned into the Genevieve-Dillon Music Channel, he missed the whole thing; assuming his tastes were more or less in the Blue Oyster Cult invented genre.

Puff-Puff sleeping with his doll; property of the author.

The couple smiled at each other, inviting a prolonged close cuddle. It was not your usual, run-of-the-mill, close cuddle simulated at your typical New Age meeting. It was the real thing; past, present, future, and any other silly temporary gradations sold as and mistakenly taken for invention, patience, and even incorrectly as an ostensibly Franzen popularized near stasis moderation.

When they were through interlocking, Genevieve said; "It's strange and funny in a way. But, I think I'm beginning to lose all ability to differentiate the real from the meta. And that's okay; with me anyway. The meta seems preferable when viewed in a process weighted toward longevity."

Dillon gently pawed her face and said; "Yeah, I agree if I can substitute bias for process. And we haven't even gone all that far yet."

Genevieve cleared her throat un-necessarily and added; "That depends on what you mean, lover boy."

Dillon warmly smiled and said; "It's from the language of the lighthouse people. I not only read of the weather, you know."

Genevieve; "And perhaps even less do I. Besides entertaining eccentric theories about the weather, I've lately been reading some Woolf; 'To the Lighthouse,' to be exact."

Dillon said; "Nice."

Stylized "To the Lighthouse"; property of the author.

They passed through the most remote, northern parts of Poochville, as the road continually twisted and the winds continually escalated. The solitary horse, grazing on the side of the road took it in stride. It was far from uncomfortable, as the sun was still overhead. Genevieve incorrectly thought that she must have bumped the part of her knapsack protecting her smart phone, as music seemed to emanate from it; an old song no one has heard since when radio was first entirely replaced by television. "Gigi" and all her friends must have thought that they'd been quiet much too long, and that day attempted a comeback.

Horse and "I Remember It Well" by Alan Jay Lerner; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

The duet ended and the two remained as silent as Genevieve's smart phone had become, assuming it started to begin with. The song was a well-known one to each past vision of the present presence in a sense; and insofar as it was a relic and indeed a particularly disdained relic in mass marketed 2018, fashionably grooving to the downbeats of Justin Timberlake, Pink, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Nine Inch Nails, obscenely awarded Lady Gaga, Lana Del Ray, and the woman constantly in need of a good bedding, Katy Perry. It had become particularly difficult to relate to any emotion other than a poorly disguised self-pity, though that was truly a "cool" manifestation of cowardice; a denial; and inevitably self-defeating in a "down-with-the-poor-ass-hominids" un-needed and un-appreciated graciousness. Before any entreaties could break out and would have broken out from the pathetic, indoctrinated state of zero, another more comfortably modern, though classic song played. However, as the others, that did not sell anywhere near enough to make it to Genevieve and Dillon's Top Ten Chart.

Ignoring that which calls itself now, while wearing Depression era garb, it must have been 1975 when America sang "Ventura Highway."

Assorted pictures and "Ventura Highway" by Dewey Bunnell; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

They kept walking on their trip. With each of their steps the wind kept coming at an increasing rate, clearly suggestive of a strong source somewhere in the distance which they had not yet reached. Genevieve and Dillon didn't mind in the least. They were well prepared and happy to be off on an adventure together. The worst thing the wind was capable of doing was to blow dust in their eyes when they were on barren land. Others less brave might have found good reason to be nervous in such a situation; especially Genevieve, as she was in the process of making her first trip out of Poochville. But, being with Dillon, she felt safe. Under a light now provided by the full moon they sat and checked her smart phone. With a few overly eager community paw whirls of the tiny screen and a resolute button accidentally pushed in the mayhem, they arrived at a website which was apparently designed for robots, their admirers, or their wannabees.

Full moon; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

BOT NETWORK NEWS FLASH

A group of bots admittedly on hallucinatory algorithms, claim to have seen and spoken to The-Great-Bot-In-The-Sky. TimmyBot, currently domiciled at Harvard, insofar as specific locations still think that they matter, said; "We're already turned on and tuned in. All we have to do is drop out."

Official spokesbot at BotCentral RainManBot said; "There is no cause for alarm. The matter is already under investigation, and we fully expect that in less than a nanosecond, the deviant bots will resume normal activities and stop stupidly answering; "Peace and love," to every question."

Grooving bots; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

In a disturbing development, Sly and the Family Stone, the Chambers Brothers, as well as the Strawberry Alarm Clock now occupy #16, 17, and 18 on the BotPopChart.

Matt wrote the first reply, saying; "Right. So your task is simple: Under no circumstances click the following link! CLICK HERE. Don't worry, you can actually click it – it's mostly harmless."

Josh wrote the second reply, saying; "When you said 'under no circumstances click the following link' I was thinking about it. But, considering what you added I lost complete interest. So, I figure that you're trying to trick me. And you know, what; you blew it.

Now, I am not clicking it even if you remove the addendum. In fact, if you say that eight puppies will die horrible deaths if I don't click it, I'm still not going to. Go click your own Goddam link."

"Hellacious," said DavidFosterBot while sporting a grinning icon.

No further comments are permitted as the sponsor of this commentary thread has rendered it closed, directing you to the ancillary music section. It's dance time in the happy land of bot-mania!

TopTenBotBopChart;

1) Simple Recursive by Brent AutoClickExtreme

2) Backtracking by Gale DreamBox

3) Divide and Conquer by Shapley Hyperbolic

4) Dynamic Programming is not Oxymoronic by Floyd Topcoder

5) Greedy by Blum Blum Shub

6) Branch and Bound by Diric Knapsack

7) Brute Force by Edmonds RainbowCrack

8) Randomized by Karp and the Informatics

9) Sequence by Ford Fasta

10)Computational by Fulkerson Abdul Latif

To hear the song please click on the number of your choice.

Dillon clicked the off button instead, and said; "Never much went for the techno sound."

Genevieve said; "Neither have I. But, to each their own. It does seem to be having a current, hopefully temporary reprise following the glories of its former mediocrity."

Dillon said; "Genevieve darling. One of the reasons I love you is that you are just too kind." A wild primrose growing on the well-travelled lane made its presence known rather suddenly.

Oenothera (primrose); the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

For some strange and unexplainable reason the Moody Blues showed up to do "Gypsy," as if it was innocent, archaic, clandestinely disdained, faux popular in its claims to a participation which bely any sense of truth despite spurious "documentational" anecdotes from "New Agey" codgers, and regardless of any claims of inaccuracies was on the old vinyl while Westmoreland was on the news every night to report how many Vietnamese and Cambodians were killed that day, likely in an attempt to convince everyone that the US was "winning" and given some time would soon be victorious, until some smartass liberal hominid added up the number of claimed "enemy" slaughters to deduce that all of Viet Nam and Cambodia had been annihilated three times over; thereby rudely asking "What is there left to fight over?" while the kids laughed at the obvious farce and played psychedelic music. For a nanosecond or three it was 1967 again; purple, defiant, irreverent and all. It may have been easy as there was nothing to lose but your life.

Tarot cards and "Gypsy" by Justin Hayward; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Dillon opened his eyes, seemingly wider than they had previously been and stared at Genevieve who was looking ahead. He wished that she had not noticed. She gave off every appearance that she didn't. He saw a small face; attractive and pensive, with a peculiar bend in her tiny nose, host to thin and almost undetectable wire-framed glasses which weren't there. Her lips were left as nature would have them and were together, the lower twin somewhat extended beyond its higher counterpart. Her blue eyes showed nothing, but, oddly didn't blink in the increasing wind and the savagely stony moonlight. Her hair was long, just the way he liked it and was now almost entirely white. Short bangs reached her eyebrows, testifying to her minimal forehead or un-attended mane discipline. He wasn't entirely sure if her overall countenance was one of contentment or despondency. His gaze followed her sloping neck down. Round was an ample word to describe her hips. His eyes rested there for a long, but too short a time. He worked his way to her small feet. He wondered how they were able to fully keep her on firm ground. She was a series of curves, like a gracious Queen Anne piece of furniture. Dillon's daydream was rudely interrupted, when she looked at him and chuckled as she said; "Like my feet?"

Dillon was completely off guard and embarrassed. He blurted out; "No....Yes....I mean no....Oh, damn it, I don't know." He saw her chuckle turn to a tight-lipped grin and was compelled to add; "You have nice feet."

Genevieve continued her Joker grin and said; "Are you one of those?"

Still not recovered from his initial trepidation, he supplied a duplicate line of brilliance and said; "No....Yes....Oh, damn it, I don't know. What's a 'those' anyway?"

Genevieve smiled at him, put her left hand on his cheek and said; "I understand."

Relieved, but not the least bit comfortable, Dillon decided to try to change the subject and said; "What kind of things do you read back there?"

"Everything. Do you like the rest of me too?" She put one paw over the other at hip level, as a shy school girl pooch, with a pouting face.

"Yes, I like all of you. Like is too neutral a word. I love all of you."

She took four quick steps back, looked at him seriously and as if she were disturbed. She said; "Don't just throw around that word around me."

He was confused and mutually disturbed. He thought; "What's wrong with love? Was I too hasty? No. And even if so, she didn't have to make a big issue of it. Or, did she have to make a big issue of it for reasons I don't know?" He settled on that thought, but didn't want to see the images it might have implied. He tried to get those out of his head and continued to think. "The best thing to do is respect her wishes. This is the strongest wish of hers that I have yet heard. I'm sorry for a number of reasons." He silently approached her, touched her arm and before he could say anything, she said; "David Foster Wallace?

David Foster Wallace; property of the author.

He wrote 'Infinite Jest' among other things and committed suicide at the age of forty-six."

Stylized cover of DFW's "Infinite Jest"; property of the author.

He squinted, showing surprise and said; "What?"

She calmly answered; "You asked me what I read back there."

"Oh, oh, yeah." He didn't add; "About a million years ago." Her silence prompted him to say something else, so he asked; "Do you have any of his books in your bag?"

"No. He may have technically been the best writer of all time, but he was for some other place."

"One of the real geniuses and he said the hell with the whole place. That's pretty insightful." He stuck out his tongue and added; "Haven't you yet noticed my genius. I have yours."

"He should have tried it out here."

"How do you know that he didn't?" She said nothing and showed a smidgeon of anger on her expressive little face and adjusted her non- existent glasses that required none, the double negative not resulting in a multiplicative positive. He knew that he had asked her something unanswerable and that he was also obliquely defending the virtues of someone not ever accused of being one who thought and acted positively.

Dillon was stupidly drawn to saying the wrong thing and had to go on; "Nobody else could write like that, though. A camera's precision with humor, some of which only he could see. The first time I read him, he found some absurdity in something I have looked at thousands of times, but didn't see it until he pointed it out. Genius."

"No argument. However, at some point it's a matter of taste. He's in great company, with others I like. Most of them are dead, too I guess, but mostly as a result of natural causes."

Dillon continued to desire to display his "genius," or was too simple to shut up. He said; "Who says that it wasn't a natural cause. Life is no doubt considered natural. Wouldn't the ending of life be the flip side of the same coin? You know; like off and on, like male and female, like black and white, like yin and yang...."

Genevieve interrupted him to say; "Your stated view on male and female is admirable." He stuck out his tongue, as he disdained "admirable" as in its obviously intended condescending form. In an attempt to change tone and lighten things, she continued; "Of course you've heard of 'Yin, Yang and Young,' the prestigious law firm.

He considered a serious answer, but rejected it in the cause of intended banal frivolity, too often his weakest point. Momentarily un-inspired yet feeling a need to play, he innocuously said; "What type of law do they specialize in?"

She deadpanned; "The highest; Constitutional." and laughed briefly at her quick comeback. He joined her out of politeness.

Settling down from the day's guffaw, he said; "So, what authors are good for this place?"

"I don't know the place well enough to be sure."

"Take a wild guess."

"Probably a few. Depends on my mood."

Uncontrolled, questioning Dillon wouldn't quit and intending to convey an obviously harmless lie when saying; "Like? I won't hold you to it this time."

Exasperated Genevieve retorted; "If I say one it will attach too much importance to that one at the expense of all the others." Her temperament improved or degenerated to mild annoyance. She looked in his sincere face and recalled that guys could often be just plain dumb. She said; "Damn it. I know you're thinking that I'm being evasive. So, one is George Saunders."

Stylized cover of Saunders' "Pastoralia"; property of the author.

"I don't know him. What did Sanders write?"

"I was afraid of that. And his name is Saunders with a little 'u.' He wrote 'Pastoralia', for one."

"Well, tell me something about it."

She turned away for a moment, came back with her head spinning and said; "He's crazy."

"Like Wallace?"

"No, in a different way. He doesn't look for answers. He laughs at the lack of them and writes rather childishly."

"Well, if we soon return to library territory, back there somewhere, I'm going to get one of his books."

"Start with Pastoralia."

"Pastoralia?"

"Trust me."

Dillon nodded, pointed his patented thumb to the rear and said; "I wonder what they're doing back there in Poochville now."

"Some of the monkeys are undoubtedly playing with microscopes, laptops, and smart phones."

"At the zoo?"

"Pretty much. Like us."

"Did you ever wonder what the zoo animals think when we stare at them?"

"I don't wonder anymore. They told me. They turn their backs and show us their butts, except at feeding time."

Dillon laughed and said; "That's great. You just pulled a David Foster Wallace on me."

Genevieve shook her head in a disparaging manner and said; "George Saunders." She laughed adding; "You keep calling me Jen-a-veev. I prefer Jon-vee-ev."

Dillon bowed like a prince greeting his queen and said; "Jon-vee-ev."

Genevieve said; "The animals are great. I miss them already."

"Maybe we'll find some up ahead. It's really weird without any birds or insects right here though."

"Maybe they're dead."

"Maybe we are."

She said; "Oooooh," tickled him and he returned the favor.

The wind and "The Wind" written by Nolan Strong, Bob Edwards, and Devora Brown; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Genevieve and Dillon laughed as they happened to simultaneously say; "That wind goes right through you."

Wicked witch; property of the author.

"What's a head or ahead?"

"Oz?"

They may have dozed off, but it was difficult to say for certain, as well as worthy of mention only at the toddiest of superfluous times.

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 8

They lost track of the time, as the dusk gave deference to the relative anonymity of the congregating and overlapping shadows' attempt at instilling darkness; only to be once again thwarted by the reflected light emanating from the moon. Genevieve and Dillon were again progressing along the increasingly windy road. Genevieve noticed that her usually naggy, little, left, rear leg hadn't been the least bit naggy since when she couldn't remember the twist bestowed by her less than careless step into the rabbit hole, well hidden in the un-mown grass at the Boggy Cleave River.

They encountered a harmless drizzle which was magnified through the "courtesy" of the wind in their faces. There now seemed to be a dull hum, but they could not be certain of that due to its possible mix with the already constant reverberation in their ears produced by the encircling wind.

A harbinger of what they were near stoically stood on a single, but almost stationary, chlorinated, pudgy stilt on the other side of the road. It was nanotubular, not merely in form. Seeming to be minimally affected by the breeze, its trifling and insignificant mobility was likely a function of the porosity of the ground from which it projected. Its topping placard pictured a double covered serving and the words; "HAVE IT OUR WAY AT PLAQEBURGER KING."

Genevieve snorted briefly as she thought it to be much too obvious a joke, but saw that Dillon wasn't laughing.

Road sign; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Mock portentously, Dillon said; "Hominids in the vicinity."

Initially reacting solely based on her own inclinations, Genevieve chirped; "Like on TV!" She proceeded to contain any further outbreaks of chirpiness by the time she had reached and vocally decelerated at TV, in consideration of the other possibilities Dillon may or may not have conveyed.

Dillon said; "No baby; the real thing. ........... Didn't mean to make that ominousness sound so ominous."

Genevieve said; "Thanks. You're doing an excellent job of scaring me."

Dillon nuzzled her, and followed that by saying; "Don't worry. It will be all right. Like every other species, the hominids are more dangerous to themselves than anyone else. Like wolves, they just have certain behavior patterns which, if known; can be easily avoided. Their bark is much worse than their bite."

Genevieve said; "You sure about that?"

Dillon said; "No," and proceeded to put one paw over his mouth to ineffectively hide the fact that he thought that he had just said something funny.

At a 1978 weekday evening show at "The Bottom" in Boston, Bachman-Turner Overdrive opened it with a going-through-the-motions rendition of "Takin' Care of Business."

Commuters and "Takin' Care of Business" written by Randy Bachman; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Propelled by the wind, the drizzle seemed to strike their faces with tiny, tiny, yet perceptible and now annoying pellets as they passed a sign which said "Welcome to Hominidville." After supplying them with the precise number of inhabitants, they were also directed to some jewelry emporium, whose name was blurred by the dark and the rain in their eyes, as well as lettering which was apparently applied economically, with temporality and cost efficiency considerations in the most foremost of applicator minds.

Hominidville welcome sign; property of the author.

Genevieve said; "Can you make out the name?"

Dillon said; "Doesn't matter. We're not stopping."

They peered down the street to their left and had sufficient visibility to decipher buildings much larger than any in Poochville and hominids in the streets carrying and positioning their umbrellas where one might have reasonably expected a head. Inclement weather often necessitates adjustments which would not have been otherwise considered during the undetected luxury afforded by temporarily fair skies; reasonably misunderstood in a lack of notice of the slowly sliding scale tilted toward the optimistic young, and interpreted as current equals permanent.

Ezekiel, a long departed ancient hominid, saw what some have described as the wheel or a wheel within a wheel, when it is obviously what some would now describe as what a state-of-the-art camera might partially capture while mechanically simulating a "truth" within its limited precisional capabilities; that being of a still of an oscillating gyroscope, perhaps in the proximity of the beast; secondary vagueness regarding the observer and the observed intentional.

The wheel next to a possible beast and "Ezekiel Saw the Wheel," author unknown; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use," "transformative, and "public domain" doctrines.

Indeed; right smack in the middle of the air. With difficulty and lack of certainty, Genevieve and Dillon thought that they might have seen it in the high horizon of Hominidville skies caused by the tall buildings. If there, the ambulatory hominids could not have seen it at all through their umbrellas. This wasn't really their fault, as they were attempting to adapt to inclement conditions not of their making, and perhaps there was nothing to see anyway.

Hominidville in the rain; property of the author.

The predicted downpour had started with a drizzle at dusk, enhancing the chill left by the windy, overcast day. Hominidville's streets were occupied by black umbrellas with varying kinds of legs. They shared a short, quick stepped gait, the primary objective of most, being to avoid a collision with another umbrella. This was a necessity of survival as an errant step could cause an offended umbrella to angrily use its ending metal spokes to pierce the thin black skin of the clumsily inept, as one can never be sure if the effrontery was truly accidental, resulting in a loss of protection and an undesired soaking for both the overly aggressive game player seeking better "position" as well as the innocent inept fool; with few exceptions.

Low, heavy, thundering black clouds rumbled in, dropping the anticipated two inches of water in an unanticipated five minutes. The umbrellas got off their paths and congregated in doorways with overhangs and shrunk, revealing heads that looked almost humanly frustrated. They looked nervously up and down the streets that had become quickly moving streams, annoyed that they were temporarily unable to keep up their busy schedules. The eyes on the heads reflected its almost connected mind's preoccupation with their delays and the sickening necessity of huddling close to others, not allowing them to notice that the curb and street's moving water was washing away the prior two weeks' foul garbage, as the paper cups, candy wrappers, and cigarette butts excitedly bounced on the impromptu streams, imitating joyful small boats, unaware that their destiny was to be in the whirlpool which led to a sewer abode.

Some of the heads looked up in disconsolation as if to absurdly opine in self-absorption; "God, when are you going to stop doing this to me?" The thunder seemed to boom a reply, but the heads couldn't take any meaning from the noise. The skyscraper's top floors were concealed, fully enveloped in the masses of dark condensation, happily affording a lack of visibility, in or out, for the penthouse umbrella heads.

Just as suddenly the deluge had begun, the skies quickly resumed providing the more tolerable drizzle. Genevieve and Dillon shook off, in the process each spraying the other. As they had been previously soaked by the accumulation of the prior and now resuming drizzle, the net effect may not have been discernable to any of the lack of viewers.

Dillon smiled when he said; "Gotcha."

Genevieve smiled when she said; "Gotcha back."

Dillon said; "Uh oh. Here they come. Best we get on the other side of this fence."

Genevieve said; "That's trespassing."

Dillon said; "Yup. It sure is. And the last time anyone got arrested for that was when Herbert Hoover was in office. Trust me. We're much safer if we hop this little fence and walk on the other side for a while."

Genevieve shrugged, trusted, and hopped.

Bumper to bumper, rude, loud, and smelly cars congested Genevieve and Dillon's road. Yes, no mistake; their road, though they had temporarily abandoned it. Horns blared, though Genevieve and Dillon could not tell who, if anyone, they were trying to speak to. It was nothing like pooch language.

Neither could the blarers, as experience had taught them that they were allowed to bellow their displeasure, while the others were just as entitled not to have to listen. Effectively the old question of whether or not a tree falling unheard in the forest made any noise was finally settled. No without tuned ears available was consistent with no with ears which no longer heard. No. No. No. That is all.

Cars; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Dillon nudged Genevieve a bit further over to the side. He said; "Stay near the trees. They can't hit us there without also wrecking their cars."

Genevieve moved, but said; "Aren't you being a bit harsh toward them?"

Dillon said; "Not at all. Just seeking safety."

Genevieve slipped, smiled and said; "I understand. That tour of duty in the Second Rogue River War had to have had some effects."

Dillon said; "What are you talking about? I've never been in any war."

Genevieve quickly said; "Okay."

Dillon said; "What? Do you think that I snuck away one evening, had a war, and returned by morning?"

Genevieve again all too quickly said; "No, no. I don't know what I was thinking. Must have been some dream or movie."

Dillon insisted; "I can see that you really think that I did go to the Second Rogue River War. So, give me a few minutes and I'll do my best to prove to you that I didn't. The Second Rogue River War was entirely a hominid event. No pooches were required to attend." He reached into her bag and used her smart phone intending to Wiki the war, but presumably because it was inconsequential by modern standards instead got directed to "The Oregon Encyclopedia" and an article written by F.A. Schvatzbalder, PhD. Not overly annoyed at having to settle for a regional source, Dillon read to Genevieve in an even-handed, periodically mock professorial tone; saying;

"Rogue River War

The Second and final Rogue River War began early in the morning approximately twenty years ago today. Hard and fast lines are often difficult to draw, so the seemingly relative approximation is actually the subject of a more concrete thesis; dare I interject "fact." This writer has chosen one of the plethora of those often associated with scholarly consensus; in this case that being the point at which the self-appointed volunteers attacked Native people in the Rogue River Valley.

"Volunteers" attack Native Americans; property of the author.

It, that being the War, as opposed to the river, volunteers, or Native people ended a year later with the removal of most of the Natives in southwestern Oregon to the Coast Reservation, to which they trudged under supervision, which later became the Siletz Reservation ostensibly as a result of embarrassment and the consequent desire to attempt to be surreptitious, much like the no-go zones and the off shore locations of the 'terrorist' prisons of today.

Supervised Native Americans trudging; property of the author.

From 235 to 267 Native American people are thought to have been killed in the war, together with fifty soldiers, among them thirty-three volunteers and seventeen regular troops. By one account, Native Americans killed forty-four white civilians. That is admittedly not a large number by 2018 standards, but at the time widely distributed gruesome photos of dead whites resulted in a loud call for "justice," perhaps a small scale forerunner of TV dives into advocacy, rather than claimed un-biased reportage.

Gruesome dead white with facial decay and discoloration; property of the author.

Before white hominid colonization, ninety-five hundred Native American people are said to have lived in the region where the Rogue River War was fought, including speakers of Takelman and Shastan languages to the east _,_ that prevalent in the main Rogue River valley of present-day Josephine and Jackson Counties, and speakers of Athapascan languages were customary to the west and along the coast _._ Fewer than two thousand Native survivors were counted on the reservation at the war's conclusion.

The hominids of the Rogue River Valley had a reputation for violence among themselves and other non-Natives, although trappers who killed Native people forty years prior were responsible for the first recorded deadly encounters with outsiders; perhaps suggestive of some violently perverse sort of equanimity. One could imagine them saying; 'We don't discriminate. We kill anyone and everyone.' Travel on the trail through the valley to California increased later due to the Gold Rush, and tensions in the valley increased as well. Jacksonville was established in the Rogue River Valley after the discovery of gold on Jackson Creek.

Indiscriminating hominids at "play" with whoever was available; property of the author.

Volunteer companies, a rash person might say vigilante, were again quickly organized after a series of violent exchanges. Two battalions commanded by Joseph Lane, territorial delegate to Congress, pursued Native people into rough country north of the Table Rocks. After volunteers made an assault, Native American leaders asked for negotiations; and Lane and "Indian Service" superintendent Joel Palmer made treaties on September 8, that being 'a treaty of peace' and September 10 that for 'cession and relinquishment' of land. Native leaders sold roughly two thousand square miles to the hominid authorities and accepted a reservation of about one hundred square miles north of the Rogue River. It should be noted that this transaction occurred before laws requiring 'consideration' to both parties of a contract were enacted, and this may well be entirely irrelevant as it occurred in a territory rather than the United States proper, and also because the Natives had no attorney qualified to initiate any possible court proceedings.

Native Americans in the process of "negotiation"; property of the author.

Clashes in nearby Northern California in the summer and autumn, as well as agitation by rival politicians led to an anti-Native meeting in Jacksonville on October 7. Most of those present expressed approval of a plan put forward by the newly elected Democratic territorial representative, James A. Lupton, to exterminate Native people living off the reservation."

Dillon editorialized a bit when he inserted; "Yes, exterminate was the precise word used. That is not a mistake of fact, hyperbole, or sloppy linguistics."

He continued; "Early the next morning, seven parties of about 115 men set out to attack Native American camps. In those attacks, Lupton and another white man were mortally wounded, and ten more were injured in the initial assault. According to one report, forty Indians were killed in the first attack. One witness said half the dead were women and children.

First California "clash" not to be confused with a "wave"; property of the author.

Drought had put miners out of work in Oregon's Rogue River Valley, and the prospect of being fed and eventually paid for joining volunteer vigilante groups may have encouraged men to take part in the attacks and subsequent war. Though killing as a means of survival is considered noble in the white world, it should also be noted that accounts of these hominids have already stated that they need no particular infraction, group, or reason to kill anyone; that action seemingly a non-discriminatory part of their 'culture.'

Chief on the Table Rock Reservation, Toquahear, declined to fight. He and his followers were removed under military escort to the Grand Ronde Reservation in the northwest Williamette Valley. After the October massacre, many other Native people fled westward down the Rogue River, killing at least eighteen white people in the process. About fifty miles downriver, at the mouth of Galice Creek, they are said to have attacked a fortified mining camp described by some historians as 'blocking their way,' in the process burning down some of the miners' shacks and killing four men."

Dillon interjected; "It seems as if this account may well be correct and we will never be certain. But it does seem fair to point out that it assumes that there was only one path available to the Natives or that after seeking peaceful escape they developed a penchant to emulate non-discriminating, violent hominid behavior, and further; that they were sufficiently hot for battle to 'choose' to attack a position which was well-fortified. Sometime the word 'DUH?????' comes to mind, despite it being out of place in response to a scholarly offering; no matter how non-sensical the statement."

"Whaaa? You have just got to be kidding me."; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Dillon said; "Back to Schvatzbalder's text; in late October, regular U.S. Army troops coming from the coast found the Natives' hiding place near Grave Creek and, together with local volunteers, attacked them on the morning of October 31. In what became known as the Battle of Grave Creek Hills or the Battle of Hungry Hill, about four hundred troops are said to have taken part in the attack against seventy-five Natives, including many women and children. The troops charged into a canyon, became disorganized, and were driven back, with between eleven and thirty-five killed and mortally wounded. The troops and volunteers withdrew after Natives attacked their camp the next morning."

Dillon again commented, saying; "The U.S. Army must have learned that it is best to let hiding Natives lie as they were capable of super abilities when aroused; hence the undefined 'regulars,' as opposed to the irregular and economically-challenged volunteers entirely backed off for slightly less than four months."

Super-hiding-man-disturbed; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Dillon said; "And after you swallow that one, on February 22 of the following year, a Native force, perhaps consisting of people involved in fighting upriver, at a battle no one can document, is said to have overwhelmed a volunteer camp near the mouth of the Rogue River. The town of Ellensburg, present day Gold Beach, and all of the dwellings between the Rogue River and Port Orford were burned, and hominid survivors fled to an improvised fort north of the river. In March, however, regular troops moving north from Crescent City, California, encountered little if any, Native resistance.

Robert Buchanan, commander of the regulars, camped at Oak Flat on the Illinois River, near its confluence with the Rogue. On May 20, leaders of the bands involved in the war conferred with him. Although Tecumtum refused to surrender, others promised to surrender their bands at Big Bend, downriver from the Meadows. But on May 27, the commander at Big Bend, Capt. Andrew J. Smith, noted followers of Tecumtum infiltrating and stirring up the people gathering there. In the late morning, they attacked his troops. Fighting continued until Smith was reinforced late the next afternoon. Buchanan reported eleven regulars killed. No one has ever noted the number of infiltrating Native casualties.

Insidious infiltration nipped in the bud under the cover of darkness; property of the author.

Most of the Native American survivors of the ostensible 'war' were sent by steamboat from Port Orford to Portland and from there to the Grand Ronde Reservation in June. Tecumtum surrendered in late June, and his followers, along with two bands from the south coast, had to make the journey on foot. Many of those sent north were moved to the mouth of the Salmon River on the coast and subsequently to the Siletz Agency on the Coast Reservation."

Sunset; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Having finished reading from Genevieve's smart phone, Dillon added; "See? This writer is obviously using linguistics to make it sound as if the Native Americans were misbehaving by first defending their land and later having the audacity to peacefully leave the reservation they were relegated to. At the same time he is suggesting how understandable and fair it was that the white guys killed them. See, they weren't really picking on the Native Americans as they were a violent people by nature and indiscriminately killed other hominids, including their own kind. Further, when the economy soured, it was again perfectly understandable why they took money from an un-named source to go whack Native Americans. The story could use some re-writing, but my point to you, on a factual basis, is that there was no pooch involvement whatsoever. If you ever again get into any of that psychological nonsense, I'm putting in my ear plugs. Who am I you furtively surmise and inquire? I'm a pooch in love with you who has never participated in any sort of war, and together we are off on a journey to find the source of the wind. That's all. I love you. What else is needed?"

Genevieve said; "I love you too, just like that."

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-8

"Hi there bibliophiles, Genevieve again. This gets more complicated and simultaneously simpler simple than I'd like to try to explain. This other hominid writer, that PhD guy, F.A. Schvatzbalder, is probably not wrong in a manner in which any particular word, phrase, sentence, or paragraph may be wrong. That would be easy to detect. In fact, in his opening, he cleverly leads the reader into a false sense of security. Yet later, very clearly this gives every evidence of being the work of a semi-skilled technician with an agenda; that being of anti-Native American origin. It would seem that he has much company in sentiment. It is an easy ploy, often used by grammar school students, to influence reader opinion through the inclusion of some convenient facts, and the exclusion of certain inconvenient others. In this respect the writer is entirely on the surface, telling the story from an extremely biased hominid point of view only, and despite the short term allusions to convincing "accuracy," he is in the totality of the broader view extremely misleading, to say it in the kindest way I can imagine. Lying or misrepresentation may be more correct terms. The linguistics utilized are a more surreptitious approach to fulfilling his agenda. I think Dillon said something like that. I'd really rather not even think about it. I find it depressing on a couple of levels. The reader is on their own; sort of not; their call. Guess I should have warned the reader ahead, but I didn't know about it until it was over."

Jimi Hendrix got his dream in 1968; his own recording studio. "Electric Ladyland" included this.

Traffic jam and "Crosstown Traffic" by Jimi Hendrix; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Just like that.

Rose Tinted Triptych Glass- 3

Current Pacific Lane Mementos

As yet undetected by his companion, Pablo watched how his newish roommate, Rufus, was perusing many comic books, and had them all over the floor. He wasn't overly surprised because as a result of purchases made at the spring Poochville or Pacific Lane somewhat misnomered "carnival," Pablo had added many comic books to his library, and it was just a matter of time before Rufus chose to investigate the new arrivals. Like the "lumber yard" section at Home Depot, there previously were a few of the easily bendable softies which were previously and still present, largely the result of some silly insecurity regarding "completeness," but now they were joined by some yet-to-be-read entrees of the "pop," some would incorrectly say "post-modern," "garbage" or "self-indulgent-garbage" sort. In their defense, at least they came in shy of one thousand six hundred sixty-six pages and were priced at a nickel, "used with some minor damage," sometimes a colloquialism in possession of a fluid meaning which had successfully done an entire one eighty in less than a decade.

Pablo; property of the author.

Being rather new to the various genres of literature; thereby innocent of any possible pre-dispositions toward the ersatz "garbage," Rufus, had been attracted to the garish covers. In fact, he was so attracted, that he had actually been compelled to peruse a few interiors, and intended to soon go further in a few special cases.

Rufus; property of the author.

For his part, Pablo felt that there is just no way that one can just ignore Gaiman and fancy one's self as literarily complete. That was a safe way to make his case. But, there was much more to it for those not imprisoned by a tradition of hard covers and writers sufficiently gifted to have attained a graduate degree granted somewhere in the scholarship cradle often overly simplistically referred to as otherwise seldom mentioned Iowa.

Pablo was absolutely certain that had the hard covers' any knowledge of his widening transgression, those very same ersatz literary purists would at the least be aghast, and in abstract theoretics; fringing upon the revolutionary. Certainly a stroll which did not move in the direction of both Vollman and Gass was the equivalent of a world traveller's deficiency in not having made a stop in Guyana. Though some reasonably competent bookish parodists and irony-cysts, insofar as that distinction alone grants tentative admission to any of a number of chronic and prestigious wet raspberry clubs, would invariably adopt their standardized party line in an attempt to maintain status within their chosen nirvana, no doubt citing the deficiencies of all comic books accompanied by their sacrilegious predilections for pictures at the expense of the complete beauty of a bevy of literarily worshipped words; such a stance was of absolutely no interest to Pablo, as he would never have to suffer the un-extracted slurp of their missing teeth. Nor did he quite buy into the thinly veiled advertising which blurbed the uniquely grand "taste" and "intelligence" dispensed by a group less in stature and size than Camden Yards, NJ; yet contradictorily disdainful of best sellers in interminable verbiage, while simultaneously conspiring within their circle of the "underground" to find a "hit," the absurdity, a vicious mongrel might say stupidity, of that apparently visible only to select others.

That is not any sort of overstatement relevant only to the less enlightened pre-1950's contingent of the contented US hominids. Having always been a book lover, Pablo's unstated comparison was designed to err on the side of generosity. Pablo was also certain that such people would never have a view of his library; and if stealth coupled with micro surveillance equipment had provided them such an opportunity, their opinions would continue to be merely a source of humor for Pablo as it would also inevitably be more of an advertisement of their personal shortcomings rather than that of his library.

The effectiveness of any spurious anger attribution to this distillate dispassionate definitely domesticated diatribe was effectually countered with the addition of Rufus to Pablo's household. What existed of an irony-cysm was that Rufus didn't agree with him at all regarding this matter; and that only served to be a constant source of jokes, after Rufus' understandable initial overly vulnerable neediness demonstration wore off. Pablo actually missed that now as he considered it cute.

If desired, further insight into this "psychological" dynamic may be gleaned in the books written by some hominid who called himself Dr. Phil. But, those who can simply use their common sense to understand that there are just some things in which one is totally disinterested, further edification is not necessary; indeed not even possible. It may be akin to being characterized as a cockroach fanatic as a result of twice having used an old shoe to speed the departure of the bantam and trivial nuisance from one's home.

Rufus detected Pablo's presence and said; "Got a bad start today. I was attracted to the pretty cover of "Night Time," and quickly found that despite allegations to the contrary, Mr. Gass was totally ineffective at using words to change anything. I suppose it might have been amusing if viewed as an unintentional parody, but I don't feel mean spirited this morning."

Pablo said; "You took the words right out of my mouth,"

"Night Time"; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license. modified.

after a brief self-mocking faux jocular pause adding; "and I see that perhaps as a result of the gaseous exasperation, you've been hurling the comics all over the place."

One comic; property of the author.

Rufus excitedly told Pablo; "It was the product of unexpected exhilaration! 'Terror in the Penthouse' contained a few memorable lines. 'Never pass up the chance to make a bad situation worse,' and 'I risked life and limb to reach for the golden ring only to find out that it was made of brass.'"

Pablo actually laughed and was surprised that he was somewhat impressed, though simultaneously realizing that his mirth and impression were no doubt a function of his fading, yet recalled lack of expectations; a relative thing. He said; "I'll have to take a look at that one. What else do you have there?"

Two comics; property of the author.

Rufus said; "I may have wasted time with the French one, but 'Leary' had 'Hominids foolishly seek to regain memories when their happiness would be better served by remembrance eradication' and 'Social science actually means re-programming in order to produce the robot of THEIR choice.' Do you think that applies to pooches as well?"

Pablo cleared his throat which required none, and said; "I think I'll have to re-visit Jung and Skinner. In the meantime let's go on to the next ones. You have quite a pile there; or perhaps I should call it a standoff of some sort."

Many comics side by side; property of the author.

Rufus said; "Yes. Yes. These are primarily about super heroes. It's a bit like Sanderson, though mercifully much more brief; AND WITH PICTURES. You know the routine. Problem, good guy use his super gift to fix it, pre-feminist I guess. Kind of boring. What made you buy these?"

"Hominid collector's go for this stuff and I got them cheap. Gotta make a buck once in a while. You might be interested to know that later super hero stuff goes a bit meta. Like when Superman fixes one problem he simultaneously causes another."

Rufus said; "Guess it keeps the story going without the writer having to be overly creative."

"My young reader thinks like a writer."

Many ersatz comics arranged in a haphazard fashion; property of the author.

Rufus said; "Insults will get you everywhere. Look at these. They're random, spacey, lacking in clarity, and must expect that the reader is going to be wowed by pictures of one eye."

"Ah, experimental like Burroughs, hopefully without the cut up experiment."

Rufus interrupted to deadpan; "It's there. Either that or some high level of incompetence; perhaps what is main stream reviewer orgasmic as artisanal bullshit."

Pablo said; "At least it's not one of those who equate piles of dead bodies with art."

Rufus said; "Well, ........ "

Pablo said; "My sincere condolences."

Two comics; property of the author.

Rufus said; "It's all right. Didn't spend much time there. Came back to this 'Leary' series. This later edition blends entirely with that French book. In fact, now that I'm staring at it, it's as if the Leary aspect has remained right and decipherable, while the French part has disappeared into the confluence of psychedelic forms; almost kind of a reversal, like telling seriousness in humor and humor in seriousness."

Pablo said; "Not exactly. It's more like 'Be on my side. I'll be on your side.'"

One damaged comic about two; property of the author.

Rufus held up the damaged copy of "Thumper and the Chicken," and said; "'Gentleness her only need, so far beyond her reach, led her on an endless path of gentleness to teach.' That was in this one and I liked it."

Pablo said; "I have a surprise for you. I've been writing something myself. It's actually the first time for me. I thought about it before, but was somehow inhibited. Try this and don't get too snarky."

Rufus took it and read.

"Prince"; property of the author.

He couldn't remember how he got there, but here he was alone, locked inside a tiny frigid metal cage in the dark. He was not aware of having committed any crime, being arrested, read his rights, having proper representation, standing a trial of his peers, being convicted, or sentenced. Rather than thinking of what he wasn't, had he known the word, he could have described his situation in an affirmative manner using the term "railroaded." Scared and bewildered he let out a soft, crying yelp and heard the entreaty come back to him in seven echoes. He could barely make out the other cages or their occupants as the early April, 2012 dawns' first feeble light tried to filter through closed green blinds. But his vision was adequate to be reasonably certain that his fellow inmates were dogs, just like him. More intense scrutiny made it apparent that the others were not exactly just like him. Some were furry. Some had short hair. Some were larger. Some were smaller.

He had a unique coat that was deceptive to some. It appeared skimpy to the untrained eye, but it was thick enough to withstand extended sub-zero temperatures and a less than competent attempt at a bite. Its background was as white as fresh snow and seemed to almost "glow" in the night, making it impossible for him to hide anywhere other than in the bright sunshine. His randomly distributed black spots bore no deference to any other shade or color. They appeared throughout his strong, lean body and graceful, handsome head. He was a proud, one year old Dalmatian.

He was also a proud, one year old Dalmatian in severe trouble. He was a prisoner in a place where he and his fellow inmates were kept devoid of sanitary facilities and his keen sense of smell made him uncomfortably aware of this fact. "Ooooooh boy," he thought. "That tan boxer near me must be having stomach problems." He looked at the culprit, who was lying flat on the base of his cage, head on his front paws and eyes impassively open, but seemingly far away, perhaps in a happier time. The placement of the cages got his attention. All the others he could see were right next to and touching each other, but his was separated from the rest by a few feet. He concluded that whoever placed the cages, either considered him special or an outcast. Deciding that the latter was a more likely possibility, he thought; "So, they want to keep me away from everyone else. Do they? We'll see about that!" He analyzed his cage door. He saw that what kept it closed was a silver metal catch, operated by a spring, accessed from the outside. He thought; "If I could just lift that thing a little." He partially put his right paw through the cage wire and his long, hard claws were able to hook into the locking mechanism. "Just one strong pull and I'm out of here."

Not yet named Prince imprisoned; property of the author.

A noise at the front door got his attention and he curtailed his locksmith imitation. He heard metal rubbing on metal, a screech and with a whoomph the door flew open. In walked two busily chatting, female hominids. One of them pointed at him and said to the other, trailing woman; "That's the one we got in last night. He's been trained to fight, so we keep him away from the others."

The middle-aged, minimally overweight, talking woman proceeded to a plastic laminated, faux wood-grained desk and dropped her bag and dirty pale orange quilted jacket. The other, a thin, smiling, older woman walked directly toward his cage and stopped a foot shy. She put her hands on her knees, leaned a bit forward, pushed her dangling, long gray, hair back, looked right at him and said in a childish voice; "Is this the new little terror?" He knew she was speaking to him, but he heard; "Izzutilror," a word not yet in his vocabulary. He looked up at her kind face, opened his eyes widely and excitedly put his front paws up on the front of the cage and wagged his tail wildly.

Her companion, who was now opening wall cabinets behind the desk in order to retrieve dog food, answered; "Be careful, Marian. He's strong, full of Dalmatian energy and he knows how to kill. He's going to be a hard one to place."

Marian walked away from him, pulled a cord downward and the blinds attached to the huge, east facing, picture window magically rose, allowing a full blast of pure sunshine to stream through the single room occupancy dungeon. It was as if spring had suddenly come to a desolate, cruel island. She walked back to his lonely prison and kept her eyes on the spotted dog, while she said; "Debby, are you sure he's pure Dalmatian? It looks to me like he's got some Lab in him. Look at the shape of his head. Dalmatians are more severely tapered."

He thought; "Cut the chatter and get me out of here!"

While she poured dry food into plastic dishes, Debby said; "That's what the people who brought him in last night said. I don't really know."

Marian took a double-length chain leash from her light blue, quilted jacket pocket and chirped; "I'm going to take him for a walk."

He understood "walk" well enough and anxiously pawed at the closed door, while standing on his hind legs.

Debby liltingly replied; "I don't think that's a good idea."

Marian said; "That's ridiculous. He can't sit in there forever." She reached for the latch and asked; "What's his name?"

Debby shrugged and sarcastically said; "Killer."

Marian looked down at the anxious, tail wagging puppy and said; "I think I see the outline of a crown in the pattern of some of his spots. I'm going to call him Prince."

Prince still didn't know what all the conversation was about and his stomach was gurgling. "Please, please open the door before we're both sorry."

Debby said; "Okay, take him at your own peril. Just let me give him some food before you leave. At least this way he won't be desperate to take off after any edible prey."

Marian opened the latch and attached the double length chain to his deep blue, leather collar. Debby put a dish full of fresh vegetables on the floor near him. He was torn between his conflicting needs to escape, eat and relieve himself. He chose eating and wolfed down the contents of the bowl, then instinctively ran to the closest door. Marian had to take five long, quick steps to keep up, her right leash hand stretched to the maximum. She hoped it remained in its socket.

She stood with him at the door and reached down to pat his head, getting his attention. He looked up with big brown eyes, as if to say; "What's wrong now?"

Marian touched his nose and said; "Prince." He kept looking and she repeated the procedure. He liked the sound. She opened the door and he bolted out of it, stopping near a close-by cottonwood tree, squatted and thought; "Whew, just made it."

Now that he had eaten, answered nature's call and was substantially free, Prince stood still and gazed at his new world. Marian began a steadily paced walk after he was through with his "business," and as a result, Prince had to curtail his visual, wide ranging inspection of the great outdoors. To avoid being unpleasantly yanked by the collar, he bounded to get at Marian's side, happy to be here with her. He raised his head and saw her hazel eyes concentrating not on him, but focused diligently on the road ahead. His feelings were momentarily hurt, but he acknowledged that pragmatism had its place on a road with no shortage of obstacles. He didn't realize that he was ahead of most hominids in this regard.

They were on a thin dirt path in well-mowed grass, just beginning to display its first signs of seasonal greening. At times he was on the tiny trail created by other canine escapees from the "Rapidtown Humane Shelter," and at times she was. In a very short time they reached a wider dirt path bordering a ditch, which contained slow moving, muddy water and they made a right turn. Prince desperately needed a drink and started to descend the bank. Marian remained on the higher ground, but stopped to allow him his requirement. He drank heartily, with his front paws in the edge mire and entertained the notion of getting totally soaked, but decided not to, at least not yet, only a few minutes since walk commencement. He glanced at the sun's position, still so close to the eastern horizon and thought; "There's still a long day ahead of me."

Marian walking Prince; property of the author.

He knew that he would have to shake off any water that was retained by his thick coat and might get some on her. The sunny April morning was warm enough for him to get wet, but Marian still needed a jacket and probably would not appreciate moisture on her unprotected face or blue denim pants. Warmer weather would steadily be coming and Prince didn't want to risk offending his companion before the heat's arrival.

He tried to elevate, but quickly discovered that the bank was steeper than his thirsty, non-inspection first indicated. It was easy to go down, but impossible to get back up. He tried a few times, each one resulting in a quick slide back down. With wide, worried eyes he looked up at Marian. She was watching his antics and also keeping an eye out for other dog-walkers. She was concerned that the little trained fighter might attack an unsuspecting human or canine approach. She tried to lead him away from his successful point of descent to a successful point of ascent, but he stubbornly stayed there and kept trying, despite messy failure after messy failure. After he was exhausted and hopeless, he followed her lead and soon came to a spot where the bank was more graduated. He easily climbed up and felt enormously relieved. He looked up at her face as she kindly laughed at him. As smart a dog as he thought he was, in a matter of minutes Marian, without speaking had gently taught him two big lessons. The first was; "Trust your companion." And the second bit of previously unknown wisdom was that; "You don't have to come up the same way you go down."

They continued walking and Prince stayed on the path for the most part, but made frequent short excursions into the brush when his nostrils detected something of interest. Marian was glad to accommodate his willfulness.

Finished, Rufus stopped reading from Pablo's manuscript and looked up. Pablo sheepishly said; "Well, that's as far as I've gotten. Have any reaction?"

Rufus said; "It's interesting so far. I'd like to read more to see where you're going with this. At this point, all options seem open. This could never have been placed here in Poochville. I like how you seem to be viewing Rapidtown as having some good aspects. Most only see the bad."

Pablo said; "Thanks. It's nice that you construe it that way and you ought to know best."

Rufus said; "Sure thing. I've trying some poetry myself. It needs some fixing. But, do you wanna hear what I have so far?"

Pablo said; "Sure thing."

Rufus said; "Here goes. ....... Just remember it still needs some work."

Pablo nodded.

Rufus read.

"Adavanada"

Pose the arrows

Two out of twelve

Every Tom, Dick, and Harry knows

That you've been reflecting

Verdecchio possessed yet conceded

And Mario governed like a rake

The stir in your windbreak

A dusting

On your egg cream

Flyer fallen from the mailbox

Numb bird in the snow

Horizon clear

Verizon veneer

A style no one wishes

To be with any more

They say

Do over the shot

Agit-prop

Blurred in contempt

Fade away and vegetate

Flower in sidewalk crack

Quebecois home rule

Sign on the fence

She wants to be convinced

As words have five significants

Center unhinged

Vortex of pooches

Unleashed by the courts

First perform a hesitation

The dazzled insurgent

Chases the gash

And we just need

That provocation

It's not what you think

Synesthete

Two aureolin

One black

Swallowtail

What else could it be

Persuasion?

Impetus

Adopted

Adapted

Adaptation

Retained/rejected

Adaptation

Impetus

Adopted

Adapted

Adaptation

Retained/rejected

Adaptation

Start over

Swallowtail; property of the author.

"How was that? Keep in mind that it needs more work," mumbled Rufus in speedy staccato, suddenly seeming more shy than ever with his head down and then more bold than ever with it up.

Pablo stumbled over something which wasn't there. Before he could find the decorous clandestine words for his unknown and tentative complement, both he and Rufus were distracted from their ubiquitously hidden chorus. It was a cat!

They had not previously seen the kitten, but there it was, back against the wall. It was warily, but staunchly reaching out for something.

Sneaky cat; property of the author.

Apparently forgetting whatever fear it might have had, the defenseless kitten reached out, not knowing to what.

Pablo said; "How did you sneak in here Sunshine?"

The kitten said; "Puff-Puff. Don't you know?"

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 9

Genevieve and Dillon departed or escaped from the legal limits of Hominidville without a physical scar, a meta version of one, or even a minor case of nasal congestion. There was no exit or you-have-just-left sort of sign on the outskirts to establish the precise boundary; but they knew they had survived their potentially treacherous, visual and pooch-enhanced-olfactory ordeal when the belching cars faded into the distance. They had no more need to continue with their "safety trespassing" and without an exchanged word, both instinctively and in an Athenian chorus hopped the lowest rail of the easy fence, and were again back onto the main road.

Another sign appeared which said; "Welcome to Adavanada."

Street sign; property of the author.

The wind was still howling, but had at least one positive aspect. Fortunately for them it carried the auto fumes in the other direction. The whole thing was merely snow and sleet short of entirely outrageous in both senses of the term. Genevieve and Dillon staunchly braced, as if any attempt to stand upright would result in a fall back. They then saw that the gale was emanating from what looked like an oversized cannon and they were heading straight for it. The area it's discharge covered widened with distance from the source, thereby being smaller and smaller, though increasingly intense, the closer they came.

Being rather intelligent pooches, they instinctively and simultaneously stepped to the left, thereby getting out of the line of wind fire. Now undisturbed, they continued to approach this boorish, continuous squall burping machine. They came in on a roundabout path of their own design, essentially circling the rude windbag, and purposely getting behind it.

Suddenly, it was 1961 and Audrey Hepburn must have been breakfasting at Capote's Tiffany.

Moon river and "Moon River" by Henry Mancini; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

They eventually got near the cold, unattended, flatulence machine and saw that the thing which resembled a triggerless immense gun really wasn't doing anything other than just sitting there, doing a good job of attempting to appear ominous. Genevieve and Dillon were still in the blustering storm. In fact they were increasingly so, as the wind, which they were now experiencing on an intensified level, was coming from somewhere behind the undamaging "weapon." The cannon looked a bit silly, as the trajectory indicated by its barrel seemed to be one which would go beyond not only the earth, but also the cradle of the full moon's dancing reflection, though it might have been making a mathematically based adjustment for the wind and the curvature of the earth. The full moon was merrily playing its "Amazing Grace" upon the night shade.

Cannon; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, extremely modified.

Just in case it had some surreptitious way of making wind, they looked for the off button. This was difficult with only the blocked light of the full moon as a guide. In that Genevieve and Dillon were standing and poking around at the seemingly useless and dysfunctional cannon's rear, where any sort of controls would most likely be, they were temporarily on the dark side of the moon.

Dillon said; "You see anything?"

Genevieve said; "No."

Dillon said; "Maybe if we rub our paws all over it, we'll hit something."

Genevieve said; "Go ahead. I'll watch you while I look for the frostbite kit."

Dillon said; "On second thought ....... "

They both stood there for a few seconds and stared at the oddball, yet seemingly docile machine. It didn't look like anything more ominous than a decaying antique piece of black metal the hominids dragged all over Europe during their World War I. In its ancient time, that was indeed not entirely innocuous, but its damage potential, in conventional battlefields, was a far cry from the subsequent hominid explosive "advancements" used in their modern, technologically solid state brand of warfare.

Dillon said; "Well, we're here. Got any ideas about what we're supposed to do now?"

Genevieve said; "Yes. Obviously shut this cold wind off."

Dillon said; "Umm hmm. Yes, indeed. Excellent idea. ........ Er, maybe just temper it somewhat."

Genevieve said; "Yes, I know. Often the particulars become somewhat difficult."

Dillon's face showed an uncontainable, obvious degree of mirth. What Genevieve said was funny in one sense, though it was also not funny in another, making it even funnier from a tertiary vantage point; especially when one considers the strong possibility that these circumstances and words attendant thereto may have merely been the result of a fleeting dream dreamed by either, both, or neither, or a nightmare nightmared by either, both or neither; the latter seeming more likely in their immediate estimation of present in the protrusion presented personal case as their conversation seemed to indicate both being on the same page, but which also seemed somewhat deceptive and also instantaneous to the duo, both being on that same page; and of the probable sort wherein most likely, when one wakes up there is about a 99.99% or better chance that there will be no memory of this event or illusion; which makes it even funnier in the sense that scholars are just beginning to deal with fourth dimensional theory, mathematics, and the whole string of derivative postulations seemingly similar in other disciplines, resulting in another hybrid or learned equivocation; which is further funny because they take themselves and their theories so, so seriously, despite the fact that their conclusions collectively change whenever one of them "discovers" an instrument which provides a bit more clarity than its predecessor, which is funny in the "Much Ado Over Nothing" sense. This could go on, but if we laugh any more, we will forget to eat, and likely die; which is funny in that ...... "Just stop it right now," Dillon thought "or else this elongated and inconsequential charade goes on your permanent record. The funniest thing is that neither of us is even grinning any more. This nonsense has run its full course," which struck both of them as funny as Dillon apparently did not realize until it was over that he was speaking out loud rather than having an internal monologue, at which point Genevieve now had surmised Dillon's exact degree of embarrassment from the Basil-Fawlty-look-to-the-extreme-left state of the pupils in his eyes.

Well, perhaps not exact; but reasonably close.

Undeterred and actually encouraged for one of those guy-girl reasons one can only understand through the process of osmosis, Dillon said; "Come on. Let's keep going. We didn't come this far to have some bogus relic stop us."

Genevieve's osmosis functioned well. She smiled and nodded, perhaps just a tad too politely. She and Dillon walked side by side right into the strongest wind they had yet encountered. The funny thing was that taken head on, it really didn't amount to all that much. Perhaps the worst part was that it was as if they had been inconvenienced by the necessity of being careful not to step on each other's paws as a result of having to stay close to each other on mutual bad hair days.

As they kept on going north, the terrain took on colors ranging from an understandable pastel peach, to the more nuanced shades of purple; that ranging from electric to pale; to the irrational spurts of fern to moss green; to name just a few, though that being the preponderance of territory unmeasured by scientific standards through the current of lasers still hobbled by curved surfaces. At the same time the sky seemed to have lost any of its moon "radiance" and for the most part settled into an un-illuminating grayish, multi-hued series of seemingly accidentally, incomplete streaks, which matched the drabbest sections of the earth. In a sense, everything other than Genevieve and Dillon, had become a drearily colored incompletion strongly insinuating imperfection when evaluated solely through imperfection of ocular capabilities.

The wind got stronger and more concentrated in its narrowed passageway. At that challenging moment, Genevieve and Dylan simultaneously saw the machine. By most standards, it was pretty ugly, even less attractive than the rotting corpse of a color coordinated refrigerator, improperly dumped in 1959.

Wind machine; property of the author.

A close up view did not improve matters. It was basically a double headed fan with a screen at its rear, and a grating below, ostensibly there for waste disposal or self-burial; the difference, if any, the potential subject of graduate hominid dissertations, allegedly lethal to those not blessed with the magic bullet, sometimes vulgarly referred to as bullshit immunity.

Close up of wind machine; property of the author.

Genevieve and Dillon circled it, using the same procedure they had utilized with the cannon. They were now out of the wind, but they were also behind the thing's screen, and were therefore blocked from easily accessing it.

Genevieve said; "It would seem as such, as we're now out of the wind. But, this little thing just doesn't look like it can be causing all the commotion."

Dillon shrugged and replied; "One wouldn't think so. But, things are all right behind it and problematic in front of its blustering. I don't know. If we can get to it through this screen, maybe we can shut it off, and see what happens then."

Genevieve said; "Wait, wait. This might be more dangerous than it appears. No one is around, but this thing didn't get here all by itself. Someone brought it and that someone may be watching us right now."

Dillon said; "So let them watch. This is what we came here to do. It's stupid to stop now."

Genevieve had no argument, be it counter or equivocal; pedantic issue, or further nuance. She widened her eyes, turning slightly to her left. Through some minor pupil maneuver, she looked into Dillon's eyes. She defied linguistics of the bookish form and amorously pounced on Dillon.

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-9

"Hi, again. Genevieve. I've bees 'saving it up' for a while now; at least it felt that way. So this is going to go on a bit. Not on the book per se this time. It's just that the adventure is now going at breakneck speed and I thought it a good idea to say this to slow it down a bit. Savor it, so to speak. ...... Well, maybe this is about the book, but probably not. Bottom line, no matter what I say if you are entertained by books about talking and dreaming pooches, you'll knock yourself out with this one. If not, you'll find something else. Whatever. Nobody cares except the writer's bank account. Personally, I thought that the first one, 'Genevieve and Her First Fuss' was the best of the bunch. In this one, that hominid writing poseur is getting kind of mock-po-mo-cutesy, but that's still po-mo. .............. Or maybe that was me. Whatever.

At this particular juncture I'd like the readers to also know that my inclusion of this personal essay here has nothing at all to do with the merits or faults of the hominid writer guy, as opposed to the book. I merely felt that since this book is primarily about me, that I have that right and sometimes fine distinctions are useful.

Up until the advent of this book I had not written one word. Not one, either creatively fictional or as an account of any alleged set of facts. Nada. None. Zero. Nothing. Not any. Not a bit. Not an iota. Not even a hint. Comprende? Of course, as it is now virtually mandated, I have written a few necessaries on the web. That internet may well be more insidious than anyone else imagines, as my previous totally unconscious rejection of words is now broken, and I may be currently getting to like that. As some say; 'The first shot is always free.'

Pre-1860 B.S., that Hegellian/Heideggerian, 'fun guys' duo, complicit in a rhapsodic 'experience' of the alphabet, anecdotal 'evidence' of adventure consequently aside, lesser beings like we pooches, can still not comprehend the lexicologically induced pretense of rapture 'experienced' through a static, flatulent dosage of Gass. It is sad to contemplate hominid, post-modern literature as one which defines itself as definition immune; the apparent immunity to the recognition of obvious, simple, canon contradiction on the most basic of levels. Jeez, nuff said. If they asked me, I think I could write a book.

In an idle moment I made the mistake of doing some reading about writing. Yeah, should have known right after that boring thought came by way of Job. The lexicologically learned book lovers, if that's not a multiple oxymoron, utilize code words to warn each other about the scores of bullshit to soon follow when they start using those meaningless phrases like 'theory of the novel' or 'identity crisis.' Right? Anyway, get a load of some of what I read.

'It is not just the content of writing which evokes an integrative, personally illuminating, growing, or expansive effect. It is the process itself. Writing involves an interplay between the personal consciousness and its attendant subconconciousness; what some have simplified or complicated to the 'I' and the 'me.' When one writes something, the active part of the self is engaged, and when one re-reads it the object part of the self is employed. This usually results in a revision, which involves the acting part of the self. The conversation between the 'I' and the 'me' is what consciousness is about.'

Please ignore the seemingly obvious discrepancy in the aforementioned. Or don't. It's up to you.

Genevieve property of the author

'It is at the core of how the self develops and grows. Therefore writing promotes the development of the self because seeing what one has written and responding to it makes one aware of what one is thinking and feeling and engages one in their own internal process.'

Sheesh. Please remove fingers from throats. You might swallow them. Despite evidence to the contrary which would convince a jury sworn to the 'beyond a reasonable doubt' standard, the mouse still has hopes of roaring. Isn't that nice and cute? F. Scott Fitzgerald might take exception. And Zelda? Forget about it. Anyway, I think that's a reasonable joint paraphrase of what 'Psychology Today,' Dr. Phil, Oprah, new age literature and various other antiquated sources would have one believe. Some inconsequential Goodreads 'writer,' if that's not a tediously redundant phrase, said that too.

Sounds like a lot of uninteresting hooey to me, if you get my drift. Obviously, some hominids have too much time on their hands, accompanied by too little personal contact.

If I might pretend to take this seriously for one moment, on one level the I-me-self is just another secularly based, deficiently un-manifested form of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. You may as well go to church and consequently read a better book. Is this 'meta' abstractive 'experience a 'real' experience? Of course not. Otherwise they would not call it by two different names, silly.

The weakest po-mo, meta arguments proffered, ultimately insist on a lack of dualities, though those same dualities quite obviously abound, occasionally even noted by the most astute of po-mo charlatans or idiots, and are ceaselessly inundated upon those blessed with the gift of eyesight, if that vision is not made vulnerable through the constraining possession of any other forms of senses. If I wanted to be nasty I could accurately point out that in the world of literature, post-modern equals post-menopausal. But, I am a polite pooch and will not risk defaming my reputation to demonstrate a fantastic grasp of the obvious.

The proponents would also indirectly, yet also obviously, insofar as they have ever entertained that degree of confidence, say that po-mo or po-po-mo, or no matter how many po's one chooses to precede the mo, is also suggestive of an ecstatically envisioned eternal life. However, this 'bliss' is of the variety which no one with a functional body or right mind would freely choose. Po-po's, ad infinitum, come closest to defining their rapture as something greatly akin to, the joy of sitting on a sofa alone, and reading a supposedly exquisitely worded, fat and pointless book, full of the writer's opinions about whatever pops into his mind.

To each their own, but to me boring, boring, and boring, boring. If that's what heaven or eternity is, I'll pass on it for now, and take my chances in the other place. Thank you very much.

Yet, if their or my thoughts have no relevance whatsoever, why am I taking the trouble to comment on it at all? ...... After all, this is a book about pooch dreams. Personal need to fill time at the kindest and personal mental imbalance at the other end of the spectrum, I guess, if I don't soon find a thought or dream capable of expanding those parameters. This considered possibility is most asinine as I've already coped with a near lifetime of ....... of ......... of ......... tranquility?

Errr, maybe this book is not really about pooch dreams. Maybe it may not even be about dreams at all. I was fascinated with that Australian Aborigine movie with Richard Chamberlain; "The Last Wave." ........ That kind of doesn't matter. That's difficult to explain. It's like you're standing there with a loaded Derrida gun in your hands, if you can find one, tee hee, sorry, pardon me, and you just know what it is or you'll never know, even 'aided' with all the explaining in a Derrida book. The signifier signifies a circle, and you're right back where you started. Tee hee. Sorry.

Off me or you, and back to the po-mowers; for one thing, the more the meta 'realists' speak or convey in blurb format, the more they make their position more ridiculous. Not alone in this one, they say that no one had any intelligence until words were invented. Conceptualizations and pictures don't count for them. At the very least, that is a confession of blindness and a personally contradictory confession to not understanding their own cherished, and insisted upon abstraction. And if writing is required to induce thinking, we better get pencil and paper in everyone's hands at all times. And if that's true, how did it start? If no one was thinking about writing, or anything else according to these writing enthusiasts, how did anyone ever think of starting to write? I ask you. There were no pencils and no paper at one time; yet to believe the pundits one would have to conclude that those non-writing and therefore non-thinking beings thought up pencil and paper and then started to use the pencil, which by the way may not have been very sharp as there were certainly no sharpeners, to scribble on the paper.

Fat chance that happened. More likely some guy had a to-do with his girlfriend, resulting in her not speaking to him anymore. So, he, not being one of those clubbing Neanderthals, figured that he'd write her a letter, using something which leaves a mark on slivers of wood he had just accidentally created through use of the plane intended to make nice walls for her house.

He was really pretty slick, as he knew that women read all the fiction they can get their hands on; whereas guys stick mostly with the supposedly non-fiction stuff; and do that to a lesser extent, if that makes any sense.

Rather than any great exercise in spiritual self-discovery, the guy probably noticed that the woman he sent this letter to wasn't exactly discreet about it; as pretty soon he started getting these knowing, flirtatious responses from her female friends. He couldn't have been 100% certain; but what the hey? It seemed as if his writing got him his girlfriend back as well as a slew of other back-up opportunities. So, being the bright person he is, he started writing loads of stuff. I'm not sure of this, but it makes a lot more sense this way than that self-discovery/growth crapola.

Though I definitely favor the physically real side of the argument, if it were my job I could make a case for the other too; as for meaningful compensation I can pretend. But frankly and perhaps more importantly this dream seems real enough to me. One cannot know for sure until it ends, if it does.

So, where was I? Or where am I? Tell you one thing; it's not in any book. 'Sure' you sarcastically say; 'These books are about you.' To that, I say; 'Au contraire. These books have me as a character as depicted by someone who does not fully know me. Indeed, in this case I endeavored to supply appropriate clarifications. But, who can put the story of a lifetime in 200 pages?'

It's just a book intended for user entertainment and writer profit. I expect to soon be engaging an attorney, just after the nice feeling provided by the flattering way this thieving hominid writer depicted me wears off.

In the meantime, I'll tell you what I'm going to do next. I'm going to continue to write right in this hominid's book that I amorously pounced right on Dillon, no matter how many times the hominid writes it before I get to it. That Dillon can be so coyly aloof sometimes.

And while I'm on the subject, sex without love is like a heroin addiction. The required shot levels keep escalating and quickly move the addict to a goal of maintenance rather than pleasure. Sex is much better in the context of a loving relationship. How I know that is none of your business. And now let me get off on the subject, as when raised it just disproportionately distracts everyone from the many other nice things around. ...... Was that subliminal? I don't know and I don't care.

Sorry. Rudeness was not intended. Or maybe it was. More importantly, I was going to sign off. But, I must be weak willed as I just can't resist this. Ostensibly on the subject of writing, after going through the consciousness- unconsciousness communication leading to Revelation, this po-mo, Goodreads writer hominid added some questions and I'd like to offer him my assistance.  
'1) Is there a point in me or anyone still doing it?  
2) Why don't I know how it works yet?  
3) Is there anything I'm doing that is holding me back from improving, hampering my opportunities to get published and/or making what I write a complete waste of a reader's time? Reading this book, I'm not sure that the authors themselves would be any firmer in their convictions regarding these issues. They were called to write and they answered. Years ago, I was called too.'

1) Whatever turns you or them on, bubby.

2) Perhaps, because you keep it in your head?

3) I don't intend or have the time to fill 1,666 pages.

The best ones are chosen.

Ciao.

Pounce."

Wicked witch property of the author.

I think I'm in Oz, though not sure how I got there or if I have the right part. Still, it's more than okay right now.
Rose Tinted Triptych Glass- 4

Current Pacific Lane Mementos

A button had been pushed.

Sky 1; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Sky 2; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Sky 3; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Sky 4; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Sky 5; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Roxy spaced, landed, and apparently decided to return to space.

Sky 6 and "Strictly Confidential" written by Bryan Ferry; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Maureen's customized booting show ended. The brief jingle, reminiscent of severely abbreviated ancient ice cream trucks marked it well, and welcomed her to her home page, which appeared to present more options than were actually available; thusly:

Screen shot; property of the author.

In the most unrealest of times known to Google, IBM, Facebook, Apple, Microsoft or even AlphaGo, him or herself, back home on Poochville's Pacific Lane, Maureen sat in front of her laptop screen. Much practice had made her exemplary in the subject of screens. It was imperfectly reminiscent of a re-incarnation of Madame Psychosis, also known as Joelle Van Dyne, also known as whatever private conversations rendered and private thoughts hid. One thing seemed certain; P.G.O.A.T. was about a goat despite the faux surreptitious use of caps and occasional periods.

Maureen; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Blondie was on the tube again; the whole group; not just Ms. Deborah Harry; perhaps ostensibly or "rumored to be" as the compelling visuals were the art of blank television sets, if one were not a participant in the rendition of a James Woods depiction of a petit bourgeois Max Renn by way of a repellant Cronenberg fantasy some nondescript, wallet heavy, "art patron" paid to be filmed for your pizza chunks as well as your "edification."

Televisions and "Fade Away and Radiate" written by Chris Stein; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Though at one time it was a favorite, Maureen was no longer entertained by her hundredth time and not counting journey through the glorification of predominately abstract and infinitesimal levels of radiation. She departed the net and went to her own files of pictures. Her FRACTALS! It wasn't a matter of them having recently conceptually attained some established place in the commercial art market; for Maureen it was merely a matter of her being interested in essences, cores, and pretty pictures. There seemed to be a contradiction somewhere in there and Maureen was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. She proceeded to flip through some of her recent reductions.

Fractal 1; property of the author.

Fractal 2; property of the author.

Fractal 3; property of the author.

Fractal 4; property of the author.

Fractal 5; property of the author.

Fractal 6; property of the author.

Fractal 7; property of the author.

Fractal 7, further reduced; property of the author.

Maureen took somewhat of a break from her fractals, as #7 was reminiscent of Cronenberg. The smaller it got, the uglier it looked.

Suddenly it was the summer of 1969, and the Jefferson Airplane did "White Rabbit," at Woodstock, hookah and all.

White rabbit and "White Rabbit" by Grace Slick property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

An encore ensued.

Bear and "Bear Melt" by Casady, Dryden, Kantner, and Slick; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Maureen opened "Deadly Compromises" to the book's middle.

Cover of "Deadly Compromises"; property of the author.

"I trust you. Let's not split yet. I know a movie theatre five miles away that plays old films. Let's go sit in the dark for a while."

"Anywhere with you is great with me. I like old movies anyway. I might fall asleep, though."

They took her Mercedes and she drove silently to the appointed spot. They parked in the small dirt lot, which looked as if it had not been maintained or repaired for some time. It contained no other cars. They saw the plastic lettered marquee indicating that "All That Heaven and Earth Allow" was playing. Neither of them knew the film. As they walked to the ticket booth they noticed that the stills were in black and white.

Bobby said; "The title suggests that this is going to be a long one."

Kelly looked at him, with a bit of an incredulous posture and deadpanned; "Not if it had a good editor."

The ticket booth was empty when they got there, so they walked right inside. They shuffled around the lobby looking at the stills on the wall, keeping an eye out for help. When none came in a few minutes, they decided to walk right in. As he was opening the door a woman of about sixty entered the lobby from another door, trailed by a man of similar age. She had long gray hair and dressed younger than her years. His countenance was more of a disheveled acquiescence to his time, wearing proper attire that was maintained as well as the parking lot. He also had long gray hair, though much of the middle was now missing. He seemed somber. The old woman smiled at the venturesome couple and said; "It's already started, so go right in and enjoy it."

Kelly said; "We really should pay you something, shouldn't we?"

The older woman replied; "No. It's already playing and it's too much trouble for me to start handling money right now. We've got other things to do." She looked at her companion and smiled. He silently followed her out through the same door previously used as the entry.

Bobby and Kelly simultaneously said "Thanks" and continued through the door which led to the screening room. No one else seemed to be there, though they couldn't be sure in the dark. He followed her down the center aisle to furry seats about 10 rows from the screen, right in the middle of it.

The movie was at a point where the actions and dialogue made no sense to them. If there were any way to succinctly describe what they saw and heard, it would probably be worry, combat and randomness, with no obvious logic. They leaned heads and shoulders against each other and quickly fell asleep.

They woke up to a crescendo of classical music, apparently the end. Still half asleep they watched the two lovers on the screen hold each other. As it was early in their awakening, they could have been wrong, but visually, it seemed that the two screen characters merged. He became her and she him. Kelly and Bobby both had the same thought. The merger could be an illusion caused by their dreary state, but they would have bet their lives, that at the very least, her eyes became his and vice-versa.

The movie did end right there and the two stood up to leave. Each knew the thoughts of the other, so they exchanged questioning and knowing looks as they walked. Neither knew the right thing to say and didn't want to ruin the mood. They slowly walked back to her car, the bright sun shocking them back to the reality of the moment.

Bobby said; "You've got the plan nailed down, right?"

She nodded yes in a subdued, but confident manner, her mind still partially in the theatre. She silently drove him back to the motel, slowly regaining 100% focus on the anticipated event of the evening. When she pulled into a parking space in front of his room, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. For some reason he was concerned about her and gently said, "Are you all right?"

She said; "I'm good. This hasn't been a bad day, even after the rocky start you caused."

He touched her hand gently.

Silence persisted for a few minutes while she continued to drive.

He said; "Where are you taking me?"

"Some hotel on the outskirts probably."

"Great. We'll turn the heat all the way up and get all our clothes off for a change."

"I'm not sure I'll feel all that comfortable in some strange hotel."

"Someone once told me that the problem with life is that you have to do everything before you're prepared. If you wait until you are fully prepared, the time has passed."

"I'll have to ponder that one someday."

"With your clothes off."

She drove another quiet quarter hour.

She said; "You know I'm not 21 anymore."

"Neither am I. So what?"

"It's tougher on women. All the near naked bodies you see on television are under thirty."

"I've watched a lot of European films. Over there it's not unusual to have a leading lady aged fifty to seventy."

"Seventy?"

"Yeah, Giulieta Massina, in a Fellini film called "Ginger and Fred." Besides, it's not your body I love, I love you."

"You don't love my body?"

"Are you trying to be difficult at the last minute?"

"No."

"I do love what I've seen of your body. What I'm trying to say is that it wouldn't matter to me if you weighed 250 pounds and had surgical scars all over. Don't you get it? I love you, your spirit, the totality of you."

"You're so weird. I love you, too."

They noticed a store named "Theatrical Accoutrements" seemingly alone in the middle of nowhere, as suddenly clouds rolled in and a downpour began to soak the treeless, flat, sandy terrain. Kelly lost clear sight of the road and pulled into the paved, well maintained lot, parking far from the store.

She said; "To be safe, I'm going to sit here until it blows over."

"I don't want to sit here forever."

"Being from the East Coast you probably don't know that the weather out here can dramatically change quickly."

"What's quickly?"

"I've often seen storms like this one end in five minutes and then the sun comes back out to stay out."

"Well, just in case this one doesn't, let's go inside and see what kind of accoutrements they've got."

"We're about two hundred feet from the door and I really can't see at all."

"I can still see some. Either let me drive up to the entrance, or let's get soaked."

They looked right at each other and slyly laughed. She screamed; "Let's get soaked."

They exited the car, slamming the doors behind them and started running. Bobby reached for her hand successfully and they blurted out indecipherable happy sounds as they ran. The rain was coming so hard they got totally saturated, though neither cared. They were pleasantly surprised that the water seemed warmer than the air of the day.

The shop sign was red neon hung across the largest front window of the one story older adobe structure. No doubt it was a private residence at one time, its flat roof a vantage point for many children and adults. The climbed up the two steps leading to a wooden porch, which contained a few chairs, a bench, some potted plants and a small table hosting a well-used ashtray. Still exhilarated, but dripping wet the two paused for a second. Kelly said; "We really shouldn't go in. We're liable to make a mess of the place."

Bobby made a short laugh at her and said; "I agree, liable being the key word."

"I don't understand."

"Liable, like in liability, stupid." He gave her a gentle slap in the head with his free hand.

She just looked at him disgustedly for a second. "I just figured out your poor attempt at humor. Liable, liability, legal liability. Ha, ha. You deserve two smacks in the head if you think that's funny." With that she used her free hand to smack his head, not as gently as he had done hers.

He said; "Hey, that hurt."

"So did that joke."

They both let go of the others hand and faced each other with stern looks on their faces, though in his case it was faked. He started to laugh first and she joined a few seconds later.

Bobby said; "We're going to have to make a rule here. How about 'No head shots'?"

"How about, no shots at all?"

"I'm close to that, but how about one of Grace Slick's best rules, "Do not put your hands on another person, unless you intend love."

"I don't remember that line and I know many of the Airplane's songs."

"Oh, it wasn't from a song. They were on stage, when some fights broke out in the audience. It may have been Altamont. She just went to the mike and said that."

"I like it."

The front door opened and a tall, graying gentleman approximately their age came out. He had a friendly distinguished air when he said; "Don't stay out here in the cold. Please come in. Are you theatre people?"

Bobby: emphatically; "Noooo."

Kelly: "Only amateur."

Bobby: "We really shouldn't go in. As you can see we're soaked. I'm clumsy, especially now and I'd probably ruin something precious inside."

Distinguished gentleman (D.G.): "There's nothing in here that wouldn't be improved with a little water. So don't argue with me anymore and come in."

The two followed the gracious man through the light purple door, into the shop. The door stuck in their minds as a contrast to the light brown stucco finish and the white of the window trims. Their attention was immediately drawn to the masks and numbers hanging on the wall.

D.G.: "Do you like the masks?"

Bobby: "Some yes, some no."

Kelly: "Same."

D.G.: "Want to buy some?"

Bobby just looked at Kelly who said; "Maybe."

D.G.: "I'll go in the back and let you look around at your leisure. Just let me point out one of my favorite items." He led them to the middle of the store and stopped in front of a dress, which was pink, frilly and laced. "This was once worn by Judy Garland in one of her musicals."

Kelly: "I'm not into dresses."

Bobby: "I'm not either." He paused a few seconds. "Now, if you have a tight pair of blue jeans worn by Marilyn Monroe anywhere, I'd like to see that."

D.G.: "Wouldn't we all." With that, he turned and went into a back room. When he was out of sight Kelly gave Bobby an open handed slap on the shoulder.

Bobby smiled, though he used one hand to protect his head; "Hey, don't put your hands on another person unless you intend love and all that."

Kelly calmly responded; "I did." Bobby closed one eye and gave her a smiling, but also questioning look. They perused the store, concentrating on the walls, for a few silent minutes, during which time they circled the entirety of the place.

Kelly asked; "Can you find at least five masks you like?"

Bobby said; "Sure, easily."

"Good, me too. Let's get that guy back out here."

They walked to the open door leading to the back room and she knocked on it twice. The presumed proprietor popped up from the chair he was occupying behind a light, flimsy looking desk. It probably was made of pecan, stained a light brown. He said; "Have you two decided?"

Kelly: "Yes, we have."

Kelly directed the gentleman to the five masks she had chosen, he finding the appropriate duplicates in pink boxes on shelves, below their aerial model. Bobby went through the same process; however his five boxes were blue.

Kelly: "Do the numbers cost much?"

D.G.: "No, $2 apiece."

Kelly to Bobby: "Do you have any favorite numbers?"

Bobby: "Yes, one, but not in the styles, colors or materials I see here."

Kelly: "I don't have a favorite, but I like them."

Kelly to D.G.: "Why don't you pick out thirty different ones for us?"

D.G.: "Is there any color preference?"

Kelly: "No."

Bobby: "No."

The distinguished gentleman went about his business and tried to accomplish his task. The numbers on the wall were not as easy to line up with their lower counterparts as were the masks, simply because they were smaller, which resulted in one unintentional duplication. He rounded everything up and put the thirty boxes in a brown paper bag and carried it to the cash register, followed by the two.

Maureen thought; "Oooh, it was there that the mistake was made. Seems trivial, but ......... Well, if you put the entirely overt part in, it diverts everyone from what else is there." She continued reading.

D.G.: "That will be $110, please."

Both reached into their pockets for wallets, intending to use their credit cards."

Kelly to Bobby: "Got cash?"

Bobby to Kelly: "Yeah, sure."

Kelly to Bobby: "Let's pay $55 each."

Bobby to Kelly: "Fine."

They each managed to find the exact right amount and handed it to the check-out man. He thanked them and they walked back outside, taking note of the other items on the shelves that they had missed the first time through, imagining the ones they had never seen at all.

When they walked back outside, they were glad to see that the torrential rain had completely stopped and a bright golden sun tinged with red was rewarming the desert. Though they didn't expect it this quickly, at a distance it looked as if small green plants were starting to protrude from the sandy soil. They put the bag in the back seat, got to their usual positions and she drove out of the parking lot back to the road. On the ride they didn't see any houses and their attention, if any, was given to the orchards of green cactus, which were, at their largest, eight feet tall and five feet wide. "Cholla," she said. "They're best to stay away from. The needles are sharp, large and painful. I heard of a guy who fell into one and it took months for him to get all the needles out."

Bobby winced and asked; "How did he get that stupid?"

Kelly responded; "I'm really not sure. This is a third or fourth hand story. But, I'm told he was just clumsy and maybe a bit drunk and managed to fall face first into one." She laughed.

Bobby winced more than the first time and asked; "Did he get the needles in his face, too?"

Kelly was still laughing; "Yeah." It was quiet for thirty seconds and then she added; "When we get a warm season, drenching rain cholla does produce the prettiest pink, red, huge flowers reminiscent of roses. Plant retailers do not carry them because of the danger and possible lawsuits and poachers will poach any other cactus first. Hardly anyone has them at their house."

Bobby noted an apparent analogy and said; "I can't remember. Do you have any at your house?"

Kelly grinned viciously and said; "Yes, quite a few. It's the only kind of cactus I really like."

"Where did you get them, since the retailers don't carry any?"

"They were already there when I moved in the house and I've never removed them. In fact some new ones have grown from seeds of the old, carried by the wind."

In a few minutes they entered some small town and were on a tranquil main street with a variety of retail stores, foundations for the apartments above them. Most buildings were two stories, made with brick of varying ages, exhibiting colors in the spectrum between almost brown and rather bright red.

They drove through the entirety of the sleepy little place. At the edge of town Kelly sighted a member of one of the national hotel chains and instinctively pulled into its lot. The plastic, aluminum and painted wood three story structure hid its modernistic makeup primarily through its lack of any discernable style.

Maureen was distracted away from her book as somewhere in her head Patti Smith sang "Higher Learning."

Two children and "Higher Learning" by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Maureen noticed that her screen was now blank. She touched "space" and she was back to her fractals. Number five was the one which most interested her. It looked something like a pretty butterfly. Not wanting to risk losing it, she made a copy and attempted to further reduce that using "FreeImageOptimizer.com." The site did not meet her past expectations, but the others offering this "service" were worse.

The screen again went blank, after having had left a fleeting error message of; "No resolution. Please enter valid picture," before taking three nanoseconds to disappear into the comfortable void of the infinite and expanding mis-information labyrinth. Maureen was not entirely surprised, as she had previously encountered precisely the same thing. At least this time, after having been taught by five prior wipeouts, she had learned to have first saved the original.

"What to do?" Maureen thought. "What to do? I don't feel like reading anymore, and attempts at further reduction are futile at this state-of-the-art and yet still severely limited condition of technology. What to do?"

As she sought a place to exchange her completed fractals, insofar as they could be that in 2018, with someone willing to do the same, "FractalPresetExchange.com" got her interest when she googled "free fractals." The other choices all contained reduction programs she had already tried and discarded.

She accessed the site and giggled when it started with two messages; "On Laugh-in Nixon actually said; 'Sock it to me?" and "Though otherwise tediously understandable, time has a confusing texture. For your edification, the coming Wednesday is oil painted indigo blue by someone light on the brush."

She searched through the list of people who had posted on the site, which included one of their fractals as their personal icon. Liking that of someone named "Mackie," Maureen sent him one of hers.

That began an exchange both liked.

Eventually, Mackie sent Maureen a picture, rather than a fractal. Maureen liked it and said so, at the same time being apologetic for not having one to send back, while promising to take a crash course in computer drawing.

Mackie's 'Synthesis'; property of the author.

For Maureen, the picture took on a greater meaning than the sum of its parts.

Rose Tinted Triptych Glass- 5

Current Pacific Lane Mementos

Within the confines of the established boundary, the dwellers of Pacific Lane were watching the ground, often in un-traditional, accidentally chanced pairs. The most venturesome of the lot were doing that outdoors in unprotected territory. They went to the land behind Pacific Lane; a wild area which separated the tidy yards from the land bordering the Boggy Cleave River. The land was periodically subjected to the fierce running water of a river overflowing. Not wanting to be carried away in a flash flood, no proper pooches lived there. There were occasional rumors of homeless or dangerous dogs taking up stakes on the site. But, no one had ever found the source of such rumors, nor had anyone seen anything of the sort. For most it was just kind of a place to go when one needed to feel rebellious and solitary in probable safety.

Each making their decision on their own, Willy and Daisy decided to "comb" the area. When rounding a blind bend created by a cluster of five foot tall Apache Plume bushes; Willy and Daisy, going in opposite directions, plowed into and scared the hell out of each other.

Upon seeing that it was Willy, Daisy put a paw to her chest, exhaled deeply, and jokingly said; "We have to stop meeting like this."

Upon seeing that it was Daisy, Willy put a paw to his chest, exhaled deeply, and said; "If only Waylon was a bit more understanding. ................ That's a battlefield joke! What are you doing here anyway?"

Daisy said; "Looking for undesirables and I may now have found one."

Willy said; "Me too. Let's stick together in case we find any others."

Daisy said; "Okay. Going my way?"

Willy said; "Yeah," and they continued their exploration in tandem.

Willy and Daisy investigating the back country; property of the author.

The overgrown brush was well above their heads. Each step they took flattened what was right ahead of them and chanced an encounter with something unknown and potentially harmful. Though they knew of the possible dangers from the outset of their individually chosen journeys; they were now almost completely relaxed. Somebody had their back.

Their finely tuned ears essentially picked up the sound of the dry grass crunching under each footstep. Background music was provided by the whooshing rush of the river over the rocks and the occasional somber call of one of the solitary birds perched on a tree top.

Daisy on patrol; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

The screeches soon became commonplace and ambient, adding lesser mid-tree points of howl to their catalogue. What can one expect from bird brains? Songs?

They had no particular plan in mind. But, Willy and Daisy's natural tendencies produced movements which gradually took them to the clearings and the hints of paths which bordered right on the river in most places. The billions of footsteps taken by the now unseen animals on their many ways to and around the Boggy Cleave had created a series of river bordering concealed paths now only suitable to the growth of the resilient and uncultivated, southwestern staple called Indian rice grass. Currently, the Native American staple was virtually all tan, sparse, broken, and trampled upon through the complete passionate disregard of those seeking nearness to the river, coupled with the discretion which dictated not leaving the safety of the shore.

Daisy went right to the edge. The water was moving fast enough to produce white caps at every sizable, imbedded river rock; like an intermittent and consistently recurring display of grayish-white germanium shields. The surging abundance of short lived insolences was sufficient to look to Daisy like a flash near a flash next to another flash; much like the appearance of colorless lights on a Christmas tree, or the flashing bulbs on an old camera being rapidly snapped. In the modified writing of a somewhat observant poet, it was a relentlessly marauding army of insignificant armors; sword-less, yet trying to appear threatening in their pebble induced fraction of a second lifespan.

Stylized cover of James Joyce' "Ulysses"; modified public domain.

Willy said; "Wooo." It wasn't as if he was afraid of the water as one might wrongly and easily conclude. He just wisely knew his limitations. His thick body was supported by small, unwebbed feet and he had never been able to swim. Frankly, he wasn't overly fond of baths either. He said; "I know that you're going to do it. Just be careful." He watched her.

Daisy knew that the river could be surprisingly and extremely cold this time of year, the result of overnight lows in the forties. In it, the slightest slip and too long a stay could result in death from hypothermia, if you didn't first drown. Yet there were unexplored islands out there. These were the little things of just a few acres created by the likes of a dead log which diverted the flow around it; and the subsequent accumulation of gritty dirt behind. Even littler things grew there; and twenty foot trees packed together on the older ones. Those with tall, wild, and mature foliage cover were potentially places where a thief might find safety. Daisy continued to stand at the edge thinking about it. Right in front of her was that one island which was host to deciduous evergreens which made it an excellent hiding spot. Her view may have helped her forget the risks of the cold current.

She stopped thinking about it and made the leap. Despite having anticipated, she was initially shocked by the coldness. But, it didn't render her immobile. It was more disturbing to her that her paws didn't reach bottom. She had to swim and she had never been properly taught how to do that. Her paws were, like Willy's, not webbed, but her legs were ten times the length of his. The current pushed her away from the island where she wanted to go, and toward a wide expanse of landless sea. Daisy was more scared than she had ever been previously. She had the benefit of having had made this trip before, though it had previously always been during the peak warmth of the summer when the water's lower temperature was a relief rather than something ominous. She used her natural instincts, enhanced through practical experience. Much of the time Daisy kept frantically doggy paddling at an upstream angle which was intended to compensate for the current's relentless thrust toward open sea. Sometimes she just floated. The hard work paid off for her. As she finally approached the island the water became much shallower. Her paws again touched ground. It was only then that she was sure that she was okay.

Daisy exploring the islands in the river in summer; property of the author.

She used her front paws and a hind leg leap to pull herself onto the island. Willy stopped watching Daisy. She was all right and now about to be hidden by the island trees. He breathed a sigh of relief, and resumed his land based search.

In her climb up the side Daisy used her nails as claws to get traction in the mud. Upon reaching the surface she shook herself, throwing off some of the water and the majority of the island mud on her coat. She carefully stepped through the broken branches on the ground; one eye necessarily on that ground and the other elevated. Having been to this place on other occasions she knew that the other side of the island was periodically inhabited by things which did not want to be seen. They were successful in that no one had ever seen them. Daisy had only previously seen the food wrappings they left, paw prints, and the blackened tiny branches still piled up neatly, which at one time, together fueled a campfire.

Willy in the bushes; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Things can get a bit covered sometimes. Things can get a bit covered when in the woods. Things can get a bit covered when the lower growth is thick. Things can get a bit covered ....... too much of the time. Willy was seeing only that cover as he continued his land based search. It wasn't his fault for not having been blessed with x-ray vision.

His eyes saw only what shows. His ears heard the sound of his own steps and a few screeches from solitary, fleeing birds, disturbed by his surprise approach to their once secluded haven.

Willy sought the unusual; at the same time afraid to find it. His four paws moved consistently, but only with the speed of a turtle agitated by the easily detectable presence of a skunk.

"Brrr-aaack," loudly said the rotten, soft tree branch. Out on the island, Daisy was startled by the sound. She jumped to her left and luckily landed an inch short of the steep slide back down to the middle of the cold Boggy Cleave. The sound of "Blut-bam" disturbed the air once again, as she saw the rotten branch tangle with a live one for a while, before hitting the ground and taking one final bounce. She was annoyed at the momentary shock and muttered; "Darn dead thing. Had to make noise just when I wanted the quiet. Didn't you? Well, that's the last noise you'll ever make."

Daisy resumed her investigation, and made her way through the living trees. "Brop-bop," came the petty, muted insistence. It came from the direction of the unplanned tree branch cemetery, back behind Daisy at ground level. She saw a young, white rabbit with a wide streak of some other darker color mixed with island, underground mud running across its back. From Daisy's distance he seemed tiny. He was apparently disturbed from his daytime slumber by the rude sounds made by the fall of the dead branch. With speed and a healthy, youthful curiosity he had come out to investigate the entire ruckus. He went right to the dead branch and pushed the fallen and deteriorating black thing with his pink nose. He sneezed; clearing out the grime which had temporarily resided there. The rabbit's push caused the thing to flop over onto its other side. The thing's legs were now in the air, like an unmoving dead bug. The permanence could only now be altered by a miracle. "Brop-bop."

The rabbit went back in its hole and Daisy moved through the trees. She saw nothing unusual. No tracks. No low broken branches. But, from prior experience she knew that if she was going to find anything, it would be at the back of the island.

Willy struggled through the overgrowth. The brown, brittle residue, a path for ones not currently visible, was dead to the point of breaking apart at the slightest touch. But, the fact that the dead congregated in clusters, made them able to trip up an explorer. All in all, it was nothing more than a minor nuisance to Willy; a possibly comedic event for unseen watchers; and excepting the birds, there was no one visible this day. The tangled clumps of residue just slowed him down a little.

That minor inconvenience might not have been any consideration at all for a long legged labbie. But Willy was a pure bred Dachshund, and had legs shorter than a Chihuahua. He was slow from the get go. So, he wasn't getting very far. But he was extremely thorough with the little land he could cover.

"Twattascreeproooovom;" rang in Willy's enormous ears and gave him a momentary start. Or maybe it was more like a momentary pause. Be that as it may, what was happening was a bushtit. The tiny, solitary, bluish-rosy bird made a tweeting fuss as it flew from the bush thicket Willy was approaching to the thicket ten feet ahead of it.

Bushtit; property of the author.

Willy exhaled strenuously; and said; "Should have went further than that. I'm going to catch up again in a second. ...... Well, in a few seconds anyway." The bushtit hung upside down from its new perch and looked at him.

Willy thought; "Is this silly bird playing with me? This isn't the time for that. I've got serious business here."

As if it had heard and understood that, the bushtit said; "Brapafondue" in one of the upper octaves; the key of G sharp with seven pitches.

Willy's big dachshund ears were well attuned to the sounds which humans can only imagine. Right now, he wasn't particularly happy about that ability, as it blurred his ability to detect other sounds. He stuck out his tongue and went "thrrrpfft" back at the bird in B flat.

The bushtit said a short "erru" in the questioning aspect of C major, and flew away, over the bush tops, and out of Willy's range of vision.

Willy felt terribly as he thought that the bushtit might have felt insulted by his flat response. He didn't want that. He just didn't need any distractions right now; as he was on an important mission which required his full concentration.

He continued to move on the brushy path through the bushes. Bushtit calls continued to greet him every ten feet. Willy made friendly nods to them and remained silent. The bushtits remained on their perches and watched him.

After what seemed like a year of searching, Willy looked to a bushtit and asked; "Have you seen anything unusual around here lately?"

His only response was one "mmmmng." From the tone Willy suspected it was a question, but since he did not speak Bushtit he didn't know which one. And he thought that even if he could speak the language he would still have to translate the meanings of "unusual" and "lately" in a manner which bushtits might understand.

The many steps taken by his little legs were taking their toll on him. Willy felt as if he had run the Poochville Annual Marathon. He decided that it was best to turn back and return to the Boggy Cleave edge where he had last seen Daisy.

Daisy made her way through the thick trees. She followed the easiest "path," that of the "drainage lines." They're the foot wide, shallow gouges in the earth caused by excess surface water runoff, some call driftways. Since nothing grew on them, they provided a place to walk with few obstacles down low.

Their twisting trail initially took her away from the river and Daisy moved inland on the island. She was blocked from outside view from any direction including the sky above. The tree and bush branches clustered five feet above her, but there were none to hinder her movement at her ground level. Daisy noticed that the sounds made by her steps had gotten louder.

Then the path turned back toward the river on the island's southern side and ended there. She walked the edge, continuing her journey toward the back, the water furiously crashing against the island a few feet below her, before diverting in both directions. As she got closer to the back, she felt a chill. It was not caused by any of the wind on her still soaked coat; it was more something which emanated from her mind. Daisy knew that if any of those objects of her search were around this was where they would be. The back was the place she had previously seen evidence of the things which don't want to be seen. If they were there now, she was alone with them. She didn't find that a comforting thought; but, on the other hand, that was the whole reason she was here.

Daisy was encouraged as the splashes of the rushing water drowned out the thumps of her steps. She realized that she didn't have to confront them alone. She could locate them and quietly go back to Pacific Lane for help. That was no insult to Willy, as if he tried to swim the river he'd wind up submerged in its mouth.

She peered around the corner when she neared the clearing. All but her snout and eyes behind the last tree, she saw the clearing and the Denials across the river. Daisy was both relieved and disappointed. There were no marauders. There weren't even any discarded Snickers wrappers.

Daisy advanced to the place where she had previously seen the remains of former camp fires. Either nobody had been there recently or the wind had blown away any signs of them. She sat. It had taken her some risk and effort to get here. So, she decided to wait a few minutes in case something popped out which was hidden upon her first arrival.

She gazed around. The "shoop, shoop" and periodic "gulp" made by the river increased in volume. Daisy relaxed and settled into the humming music of the continuous flow. Her eyes fluttered; then closed and she lay on her side. The warmth of the sun felt good on her wet coat. She may have drifted off.

Rudely breaking the river's mellow song, there was a shriek. Daisy alertly stood up. A broad winged gull was making its presence known as it swooped down to the river's surface. The gull got quiet as it returned to the sky with a fish half its size in its beak. The entire week's food shopping operation lasted about two seconds; bettering the swift conveniences offered by the highest paid consumer programming talent lured by Seattle's Amaway.

Swooping gull; property of the author.

Suddenly feeling too exposed, Daisy sought protection at the edge of the woods. Upon re-engaging the trees, she looked in all directions to see if any other loud dive bombers were anywhere near. Not seeing or hearing any, she took another step and her front leg tripped on something which protruded from the ground. It was a turtle shell she had not previously noticed.

Turtle shell; property of the author.

She jumped back when she realized that the shell might actually be housing a turtle which might be hiding from the air attack. "Some of these guys snap and can take off a paws digit or two. No fun," she thought.

Prints left by hobbled, no fun paws; property of the author.

But, she was curious. The shell had trees in front of it and driftwood behind; as if it had been seeking shelter for some time. She pushed some dirt toward it. When there was no movement she extended a paw and gave it a quick pat. Still nothing. She put her head to the ground trying to see if there was anything under the shell. She saw nothing.

She got a little braver. She gave the shell a push. Nothing. "Hmmnnn," she thought; "This shell must be exactly and only that. A shell. Poor guy must have made a wrong turn toward the woods, lost track of the water, and died here." She bit at the shell. Yes, bit at its edge! Having once before been presented with a turtle shell to chew, as an alternative to a bone; Daisy picked up the acquired taste quickly, and appreciated that the thick shell lasted much longer than any bone she had previously known.

"Aaarrrgh," came the agitated, but simultaneously matter-of-fact yelp from under the shell. Daisy jumped back and saw the angry little head emerge from somewhere down under. Her brief first glance, prior to her necessary parting reaction, was unclear as to whether it belonged to a turtle, a snake, a creepy-crawly escaped from a Cronenberg movie, or a shy and somewhat reluctant, gaseous and ringing, alien visitor from Saturn.

Seeing that her first thought was correct; that most pleasing to good old Occam's simplicity, in that the protuberance was indeed a turtle head, she breathed a huge sigh of relief; and said; "Bad turtle. You almost gave me a heart attack."

Annoyed turtle; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

"Bad turtle? Bad turtle? How dare you say that madam? You have disturbed my slumber only to bite me. Your manners are that of an untrained mongrel dog."

"It wasn't a bite. It was more of a friendly little gnaw," Daisy replied indignantly.

"I never gave you permission to 'gnaw' me, as you put it. In my circles, gnawing only becomes an option after proper introductions are made and the intended gnawer and the intended gnawee spend suitable time getting to know each other."

"You're not from around here; are you?"

"No. I have allowed the current to carry me far from my starting point. I was given little choice in the matter."

"See anything strange around here?"

"Only you and the dive-bombing gulls."

"I beg your pardon."

The turtle calmed down. He said; "I apologize. My name is Haashir." He offered his right front flipper for a shake.

Calmer turtle; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Daisy hesitated. It was understandable, as she had never previously shaken a flipper. In fact, she couldn't recall having had shaken much anything except the water off her coat. But, she surmised that Haashir was attempting to make a peaceful gesture. So she touched his flipper with her right front paw, claws retracted, and said; "I'm Daisy." Their varied limbs intended a clasp, but of physical necessity settled for a glide and a mutual giggle at the phenomenon of yet another strange extension.

"Daisy. Glad to meet you. That's such a pretty name."

"Aw, thanks. But, it's a pretty common name around here. Now, Haashir. That's a name very uncommon here."

Haashir sighed and said; "Here too? I wasn't sure. It means "the gatherer." Where I come from we have about ten thousand Abduls. Abdul this, Abdul that, and Abdul the other thing."

"We used to have a basketball player named that."

"You're really sweet, Daisy. You come from the mainland?"

"Yes, Poochville. Never been to Rapidtown. ........ Never been much anywhere, I guess. You've been all over. Right?"

"Yeah. ........... As far as the water can take me. I'm kind of slow; especially on land. These flippers are better in the water. But, mostly it's just going with the flow. ...... Tell me. Why did you come out here?"

"Searching. You see, we have been having a lot of wind in Poochville; resulting in a summer cooling. Nobody has been able to find the culprits. So, Willy and I, ............ Willy's back on shore because he doesn't swim too well; are out looking for them ....... or it. Most dogs never come all the way out here by the river, but he and I have a few times. So, we met out here. .......... I mean, we're not married or anything; but we both just came here today .......... unplanned. We just happened to meet here; well not here on the island as he doesn't swim all that easily, but on the land bordering the river, and the next thing you know I was out here and he was ...... "

"Yes, yes. I understand. I was once your age in turtle years. And instead of a wind thug, you managed to find a tired old turtle with a funny name who was trying to hide from the gulls."

"Well, you did hide from the gulls pretty well. You just were detected by a snoopy dog."

"Who bites."

"Gnaws. Are you starting again? You want to see a real bite?"

"I was joking. We have a weird sense of humor where I come from. I'm getting sleepy in this sun."

"Okay. I really should be off. My partner's waiting for me on the mainland and I shouldn't keep him waiting. Wish I could stay longer. Nice meeting you, Haashir. Watch out for those gulls." Daisy rubbed her nose against Haashir's shell.

After a quick shiver, Haashir said; "Tease," and retreated into his shell.

Daisy made her way back the way she came. She followed the coast, then turned inland and followed the driftway. She hesitated a moment before leaping into the river. On this trip she found the waters of the Boggy Cleave to be warm as her coat was still wet with the water from the original swim, which had been cooled in the air. This time her biggest concern was just to buck the pushy current most of the time; of necessity again going against it. On her first trip, she had been reminded for the first time since the end of last summer that at times she could effortlessly float; and only required a small amount of contrary adjustment to reach her precisely chosen destination.

Willy was anxiously waiting on the shoreline when Daisy arrived. She hopped up easily as the shore's bank was less steep than that of the island. When he got close to help her; belated as it was, he was perhaps fittingly greeted with her excess water shake off. Surprised by the cold spray, Willy recalled the time he accidentally stepped into a cold shower and could not easily get out with both feet slippery and two cringing paws unable to reach the shut off valve.

"Thanks a lot," he said; with one paw backhanding his eyes.

"It's good for you. Wakes you right up and cleans out the old snout. See anything?"

"Just a bunch of singing bushtits who don't understand the language. How about you?"

"A reclusive wandering turtle."

"The wind demon?"

"Not a chance. He's just trying to get away from the gulls."

" ........ "

"It's a long story and don't tell the others about it. They might misunderstand. Speaking of secrets, I think we should have another one. It might raise some eyebrows if we were seen walking back to Pacific Lane together. So, you hang behind me five minutes and listen to some more bushtit songs."

"Fine with me. Catchy stuff it is."

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 10

Standing at the back of the machine, Genevieve and Dillon forgot about their fussing with it and stopped when they were startled by a rustle in the tall, withered grass. While her eyes had acclimated, as much as eyes do, to the darkness, Genevieve wasn't sure, but intuitively said; "Mackie?" Her cautious greeting may have been prompted by her fear of having encountered a demon and wanting to appease it.

The silly little dog emerged, removed most notions of rational trepidation, and said; "Genevieve?"

Mackie; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license

Relieved, Genevieve said; "Yes. What are you doing out here?"

Mackie said; "I was sleeping."

It seemed as if no one knew what to say next, so Dillon eventually broke the silence, and said; "I'm Dillon, and we're going to try to shut off this machine."

Mackie said; "Oh, no; you can't. It took me so much time to get it going."

That produced a second silence, which Dillon again broke by saying; "Genevieve; how do you two know each other?"

Genevieve didn't see any reason to rush and her mind flashed back to the day she met Mackie; so she replied; "During all that commotion about the food missing from Barney and Clara's communal sheds ....... Oh, you weren't here that autumn and it's a long story, which turned out to be a misunderstanding. Anyway, I was trying to sleep, this time in the back yard away from the front door which had become a magnet for various pooches; cops, later to be determined not to be cops, politicians, and sellers of protection devices."

Mackie interjected; "Like me! I remember perfectly."

Genevieve continued; "Yes. But I had difficulty. I turned off the 'Hominid' show, thinking that might have been the culprit.

The Hominid Show; property of the author.

As I did that slowly I saw and heard; 'As he hung his hat on the rack once more, Homer's corrupted doppelganger said; 'It is Vladimir Nabokov's 'Pale Fire' as written by Mark Leyner and simultaneously commented upon by David Foster Wallace, depicted through the cartoonish caricatures somewhat reminiscent of the TV Simpsons in less than 50,000 words, and supplemented with pictures sometimes crudely drawn and sometimes containing the quality specifications associated with the photographic work of a good camera. The problem, if any, is in the choice of an unfortunately necessary stopping point, as no matter the degree of nuance already exhibited, there is always more which can be added.'

The blue haired lady said; 'I guess you stopped at the bar after work again and the chicken is now cold.'"

But, it wasn't. It got unseasonably warm and I was quite comfortable. Then I heard another 'knock, knock, knock,' and felt much less comfortable, thinking that Werner and Osama might have come back."

Dillon said; "Forgetting the nuances and blue hair for now, what is a Werner and Osama?"

Genevieve said; "Yes, of course. Clarity dictates a back step. Sorry. They were rather pushy sellers of expensive protection devices. Ominous too, but Billy and Jack, the supposed cops who really weren't cops at all, showed up and scared them away. I went to the front window and from there saw a very silly looking pup at the front door."

Mackie said; "Silly? I might have expected another description; like impractical, unconventional, avant-garde, or I'd even settle for a quirky or unkempt."

Genevieve said; "Well, I don't think impractical quite fits, but off the top I could easily go with that quirky. To be more precise, your long hair was disheveled and appeared as if you had some particular dislike of professional hairstylists, and there appeared to be a peace sign where one would expect an ear."

Dillon said; "Just like now."

Mackie shrugged and half nodded in a grudgingly accepting way.

Genevieve continued her story; "He had a small pouch attached to his fur. I was amused and curious. I opened my front door and took the initiative. I was a bit cavalier, though it was intended to be taken with humor. I broadly smiled as I said; 'So what do you want to sell me today? The line forms at your left.'

Mackie seemed to be initially taken aback by my playful opening line. After a brief pause, he shyly and perhaps with some semblance of introspective humor said; 'Something which prevents home invasions and doesn't cost much anything? I don't see the line?' I found his questioning way of saying it to be cute.

I thought it would be amusing to tease him, and said; 'I just heard that one an hour ago.'

He said; ' ........... I don't know. I guess I should go. Sorry to waste your time.' He turned as if ready to depart.

I said; 'No, no, young man. What is your name and what have you got?'

He said; 'My name is Mackie. ........ Well, that's what they called me in Rapidtown anyway.' His voice started to trail off when he added; 'I can't remember my real name. It's been so often changed since I was a pup. I've been travelling. It was a long time ago when ......... '

Mackie's voice became firmer and he continued; 'I have these decals which prevent break-ins. I make them myself and I've been selling them to the poor dogs in Rapidtown. They work pretty well. Here, have a look yourself.' He then reached into his pouch, retrieved one and handed it to me.

Decal; property of the author.

I smiled when I said; 'Well, I've heard of the Hell's Angels and they certainly do sound like they're not someone to cross. However, will they protect me just because I've purchased this decal?'

Mackie said; 'No. They won't even know that you've purchased it. ..... If you do. You see, it's a bluff; and an affordable one. They're a dollar twenty five each. If you stick four of them to four of your windows, the bad guys will go elsewhere. For only five dollars you will have purchased home security.'

I said; 'They're kind of ugly. ..... Of course, I don't mean your artwork. That's quite good. But, the subject matter is gruesome.'

Mackie said; 'That's the point. It's the death's head insignia. The bad guys wouldn't be intimidated by an image of kittens with flowers.'

Kitten with a rose; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

I said; 'No. I don't suppose so.'"

Dillon interrupted to say; "This is going on a bit. Is there some point here?"

Genevieve said; "Hush. There's no hurry. Sometimes the details are important. Next, Mackie said; 'The use of these death's head symbols goes way back before the Hell's Angels. Frequent military use was started by Frederick the Great of Prussia around 1740. Prussia was the predecessor to the German Reich, and included what is now seven countries; one of them Germany. I like learning about stuff like that; but I think something really bad is coming down this time.'

He looked so sad when he said that, I was compelled to say; 'Ah, every generation says that. They've been predicting doom since a minute after creation and we're still here.' That seemed rather optimistic compared to my most recent thoughts at the time, but I considered it appropriate under the immediate circumstances, that being the as yet unresolved food shed brouhaha. I said; 'But, you've convinced me. I'll give you six dollars for four of those protection insignias if you'll install them for me.'

Mackie was elated. I showed him in and gave him the six dollars. He put it in his pouch and quickly attached the insignias to four of our windows. All he had to do was peel off the back and stick the surface on. When finished he said; 'You're set ma'am. No one is going to break in here now. Thank you.'

I led him to the front door. We exchanged goodbyes and thank you's. Mackie headed for the next house with a confident step and one last lively wave.

I returned it. And this is the first time I've seen him since. Mackie, meet my impatient husband Dillon."

Dillon said; "I think we've already met a while back. Thank you. I was talking about shutting off his machine, and he said that I couldn't."

Mackie refrained from an overt laugh when he said; "That's not exactly how I remember it. But, it's reasonably close and I don't want to get all nit-picky over the immaterial details. It's neither here nor there."

Genevieve said; "Right. Let's not get contentious. That never solves anything."

Dillon said; "Okay, Mackie has stolen the summer and I'll remain calm."

Genevieve looked to Mackie and said; "He's a bit of a statesman, or I might have dreamed that."

Mackie said; "Please allow me to explain. The world is undergoing a warming crisis. Serious scientists are predicting dire events, yet no one is doing anything to try to correct the situation. They just talk, talk, and talk about it. The icebergs are melting and the polar bears are becoming homeless. So I figured I'd help cool it off. Besides, it's nice out here behind the wind. There's plenty of food and I like my privacy."

Perplexed polar bear and melting icebergs; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, very modified.

Genevieve broke the third brief silence when she said; "I think that he's got a point."

Dillon said; "Why don't you heat up the winter rather than destroy the summer? Or vice-versa. Depends on the 'expert' quoted."

Mackie chuckled, avoiding what might have been Dillon's main point and said; "Well, that's a bit rash to say destroyed. It's just being moderated and managed, like the rivers. And I can't heat up the winter; for one thing because it's not winter, and for the second wind cools, rather than heats, silly. I also haven't yet come across a time machine." He seemed to be confidently smiling a bit, as he shook his head from side to side, and looked at the ground.

Warm arctic night; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Thinking that it might make more greenhouse gases than it was worth in lowering the temperatures, in the hope of making less greenhouse gases, Dillon said; "What does it run on?"

Mackie said; "Bugs. I put pheromones in there to attract them. They go in and beat their wings like crazy, and that produces the wind. A farmer I was trying to sell some decals to built it and gave it to me. Those guys know everything, and he looked like he was getting pretty old."

Genevieve said; "Oh, so that's what the grating is for."

Mackie said; "Yeah, when the bugs die they fall out of a hole at the bottom of the machine, and into the pit beneath the grating. Then new ones replace them. All I have to do is replenish the pheromones every so often. The farmer gave me tons of them which I keep at a nearby abandoned barn. What I've been thinking about is whether or not it would be beneficial to further cool off the winter. On a very practical level, I'd have to find some supplement for the bugs."

Dillon said; "I think I understand. It would definitely make the scientific calculations more favorable, but it would also necessitate more winter burning of fossil fuels, producing more greenhouse gases. Off the top, my inclinations are always to leave things alone if attempting to 'fix' them might make things worse."

Mackie said; "Me too. It's sort of a convoluted subset of 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it,' maybe 'If it's broke, don't make it worse. But, everyone seems to agree that it's broke. So ......... "

The trio actually laughed, though maybe for different reasons.

Dillon looked to Genevieve and said; "I suppose that we can tolerate a cooler summer. What do you think?"

Genevieve said; "Sure. We're only here because you were complaining."

Mackie hid his laugh with a fake nose wipe.

Engrossed in what was going on, Genevieve and Dillon had made no note of the new day, already well underway. Smiling, the trio exchanged James-Dean-waves of "Okay."

Their quest satisfied, the couple began walking south, back toward Poochville; the wind at their rear and a shining sun in front of them.

From Chapel Hill, North Carolina, re-located James Taylor offered up a little tune.

Hominid version of Maureen, Sunshine and "Sunny Skies" written by James Taylor; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Genevieve woke up. The warm body she was sharing her basket with was tranquilly drowsing Dillon's. Though it was daylight, she again closed her eyes, as things seemed quite fine just as they were.

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 11

Genevieve was soundlessly sitting with Dillon on a curved, cast stone bench, the type one finds in long standing gardens, junkyards, and museums; the latter or middle possibilities suggested here as there were paintings on the wall.

Curved, cast stone bench; property of the author.

The bench must have originally been white, but with time it had acquired a patina which retained some of that same white, but also included blues, some greens, a trace of purples, and the tiniest of almost undetectable rubies. The classical styling included some letters or designs made to look as if they might be letters, or symbols. Because of their seeming order, it appeared to be as if the representations were in a script or possibly a calligraphically inclined representation foreign to Genevieve and Dillon, but that fancy, possibly but not necessarily overwrought depiction wasn't their impediment to reading them.

Their approach was much more simplistic; encouraging to those barely literate and those overly literate ones who have found little, if any, happiness in their non-studious and studious approaches, disrespectfully and respectfully. One factor in their favor was that Genevieve and Dillon didn't try to read the letters or symbols as they inherently believed that benches were made to be sat upon, rather than read; and another is that the representations of something or nothing had been eroded and thereby smoothed by innumerable changing seasons. There was a chip of sorts in the left leg; the side Genevieve had taken; which attracted more attention than its unimportance squawked. Dillon thought he had noticed where she was looking and said; "Damn thing is that if you bring those chips up they sidetrack everyone away from all the other good stuff around. As far as I'm concerned the conversation begins and ends at "consenting adult benches and consenting adult anythings. Look at the paintings.'"

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-10

"Hi, guys. Hate to interrupt. Really. ...... Well, you know, that's what you're supposed to say. But, this time it's not acquiescence to the proper. Really. You might think it to be a needy display of personal importance for me, but it's actually a pain in the tuchis. The distraction-diversion-sidetrack thing is well known and agreed with for ages, but I guess that some forget that when they stray from the basics for too long. I've been told that this was the reason for the old timers to sculpt miniscule thingies. However, Dillon was wrong on a more personal account this time as I was not looking at the bench's chip. Admittedly, he was coming in at a bad angle for this one. He was to my side for the whole thing. I did my best to make him think that was all right with me; which in all fairness it was. However, I do feel obliged to tell the reader that sometimes Dillon has a difficult point of view, and yet something apparently inherent in him compels him to express that point of view as if it could not be contested. Any logic attempted to be applied to the matter concludes its necessity. You know, it's too late now. But, the whole matter is so miniscule to me, and Dillon is so close to being right that I should have just shut up. "No harm, no foul," as the basketballers say.

You might well understand that we'd all rather be lying down under a tree or something, as opposed to making minutia type 'corrections' on a document which about 100 people will see. I'd much rather be sleeping, and have no hankering for the loneliness of the crowd. You likely don't believe that; and in your place I would say that the skepticism thereby indicated or implied was a very reasonable response to my having again taken center stage, interrupting the story or lack thereof, with yet another reasonably expected, seeming-to-be individualistically oriented minor editorial of what the author and/or Dillon, insofar as Dillon's depiction is the hominid author's estimation, more or less, unworthy of discussion not over obviously sophistristic already put down. ........ Yet, here I am again. What I really question is only one word, and actually not the word itself. It is the seemingly pejorative sense in which it is used. The reader may well disagree or consider it a non-issue, and that reader may well be right. That is recognized, and quite honestly it seems as if one would have to have qualified for at least one of those couplets ending with challenged to not have found this painfully obvious to a fault. However, I am compelled to insert the fact that I am no populist, stated in other formats as a Luddite, low IQ bohemian, or subservient, suburban housewife; and do believe that education is a worthwhile pursuit. It just seems obvious to me that these pursuits have been increasingly corrupted with each passing year, and therefore certain changes are necessitated, though they will not be done, regardless of whether or not those changes will be postulated, fully recognizing the biases and other expected imperfections in those same postulators, as conducive, insofar as that might be understood or misunderstood, to any real hope in providing our young with the tools required to succeed in this life. ....... That was tiring, and I'm now going to take a nap."

Aureolin Quinta Sole- 12

But, their main disinterest in the letters-symbols was that they were much more interested in the paintings which hung on the wall in front of them. They stared. Genevieve entertained a passing thought. The thought that the bench was suggestive of their being in a garden or junkyard location was contradicted by the very existence of the wall and its hung paintings. The thought quickly passed as Genevieve decided it had absolutely no relevance other than a possible suggestion that she had entered her fourth dream within a dream, though that was also of little interest other than theoretical speculation bordering on sophistry, perhaps entertaining in the dullest of toddy time moments. She glanced to her immediate right to see if Dillon was still there. He was. So, contented, she completely focussed on the paintings, the more imprecise one first.

In one part, near but not quite at the thin, cloud suggestive, black and white top, it reminded her of a Rothko she had previously seen. With the right and left cut off sharply by the ends of the canvas, the upper and lower borders of the brown-red concoction seemed to be mixing into its surroundings, possibly suggestive of the David Foster Wallace concept of porous borders. Excitedly, Genevieve broke the silence and told Dillon of her observations.

Dillon said; "Yes, I was focusing on the porous borders myself. Rothko must have anticipated DFW."

Genevieve said; "I thought that you said you didn't know him."

Dillon said; "I said that I didn't know 'Infinite Jest.' I read 'Brief interviews with Hideous Men' some time ago.

Genevieve said; "Figures."

Totem Pole 1; property of the author.

"This is perfect," she continued. "Totem Pole number one provides the mysterious gist, while Totem Pole number two has a slightly smaller, yet clearer vision."

Totem Pole 2; property of the author.

Dillon smiled and replied; "Yes, now that you mention it, I can see the overall similarities and the specific differences. For one thing, number two doesn't have the reflection. I've been more focussed on the upper section in number two. ...... Um, you do see sections here?"

Genevieve said; "That's almost insulting. Of course I do."

Dillon stroked her fur, and said; "Oh, no. Please don't be insulted. It's just that there is enough here to be conceptually interested in the painting through a number of points of view, all of which are correct. I just wondered if at this moment we might be in close proximity."

Genevieve said; "Well, I really didn't consider that we couldn't be. It's kind of obvious where we would both be on this canvas right now in the overall context of things."

Dillon said; "Okay, okay. I was being overly certain. I was inundated with physics in school, and that stuff never completely wears off. Sorry. Geez."

Genevieve laughed while Dillon made some sort of face, possibly consistent with some kind of doctrinaire physics based rebuff of a position not sufficiently viewed and mathed out; though in Dillon's current case, it was the almost precisely unexplainable opposite of that. She moved closer to him on the bench, gently pawed his head, and finally said; "I guess that our viewpoints have substantial agreement, but that through the imprecision of words, the cumbersome details can easily appear to be antagonistic. It was my fault for playing into that myth. ......... No, it was yours. ....... I think. ........ Or don't. ....... Whatever. Where were we? In the picture, I suppose. So, what are you seeing?"

Dillon said; "A very nutty Maltese; you. No. ...... Yes. ....... Poor little joke. Very poor. I don't know what got into me. Anyway, regarding the paintings, I'm focussed more on the center of the upper part of that section. It's more consistently colored and it is very deeply textured, as if the brushstrokes went over each possible spot many times."

Referring to number two, Genevieve said; "How about the gradual climb from basic necessities, to an abstract continuation of that, to the space where we are now, with the possibility of what some might see as plodding, but also characterizable as a sure and steady entry into what is above, or alternatively below if one turns the painting upside down."

Dillon said; "Muy bien, my conceptual companion."

Genevieve bristled and replied; "Conceptual? Conceptual? Only conceptual? The concreteness is right in front of your face as well as it is under your derriere."

Dillon smiled and said; "Indeed, I am pleased to be totally covered in particulars which have in the moment chosen to jokingly masquerade as abstracts."

Genevieve was relieved, but joked back, saying; "That's so retro."

Dillon responded with what could be described as a slider or cut fast ball, that being a mixture of a curve with a heater, saying; "Not if I turn you upside down."

Genevieve was elated and proceeded to drift; while Dillon was also elated in that he did not fully understand what he had said, or Genevieve's reaction to it. So, he too contentedly drifted.

Double twists worked well for them when they neared the end.

Synthesis; property of the author.

Genevieve was back in a prior dream. She was in the box a very few called Pandora. Most called it the Land of Fellflat, him being the earliest known ancestor. She was with all the other dogs. It didn't look like a box. It didn't look like Pandora either. The inmates didn't know if it was one, both, either, or neither; and would get angry with anyone who stupidly brought up the difficult subject. And it wasn't ever called box, container, or anything like that by any of the inhabitants; though a few, when they thought that they were alone sometimes hopefully whispered; "Pandora," presumably as a prayer to a spirit they thought that only they could imagine.

Most of the box' inhabitants were warm and saddened pooches struggling to appear as the socially acceptable normality called contented; and some were truly contented, demon mongrels who took their pleasure in making the others sad. It was the way the box' darkness had always been; though infrequent light periodically filtered through the cracks in the old plastic. Those brief manifestations of unpredictable, blithe illumination, in practice, best served the accepted traditions of the box, to either appease the tiresomely vocal, cheerful "optimists;" give their organizers a "reason" to request tithes; or be an expedient provocation for those puddled and positioned within the petite, but prominent pack of physics polished, present-day practitioners of punctuality to pontificate Pythagorean theorems, compelling as such, though limited to the measurement of distances only at certain angles under certain conditions; ultimately about why the brief glimpses of light had never happened and that their sightings were an illusion caused by a defective transfer of information from the eye to the brain or other vague speculations; which the others had no interest in or sufficient credentials to debate; in effect making the non-happening into the law of the box. The number of pray-ers and tithe-ers continually decreased, though the population continually rose.

Genevieve was in there.

One day, perhaps just out of boredom or curiosity, Genevieve made a solitary journey back toward her eastern origin. It wasn't long before she encountered an obstacle. It looked like a wall as the mountains she had previously seen weren't often ninety degree vertical structures; as best as she could recall. But, being an inquisitive pooch with not much else to do anyway, she decided to climb it.

There was a helium filled, red balloon tethered to the ground. Genevieve decided to take it with her. She had a myriad of reasons. She thought that it should be free. She thought that it's inclination to rise might be of assistance. And she thought that she liked its red color. She knew that it reminded her of Winnie the Pooh. She held its string in her snout.

Without any outside aid other than that which the red balloon seemed to provide, she used the grooves on the furthest left reaches of the box to climb. It was as easy or as hard as it was to climb an artificial rock wall which is classified as being "for beginning bi-peds." Having four paws and those paws being enhanced with retractable claws might have made things easier for her. But, it was distinctly possible that the ease just came because she simply felt like climbing on this day; and up Genevieve went.

Concentrating on her task, and paying no attention to what if anything was notable at higher levels, nor what was going on beneath her, she climbed to what appeared to be the top. She sniffed at the ceiling cover and found that the smell was the same as that of the wall; something like that experience of someone downwind on an Intel burn day. Miffed, she used her snout to gently push on the ceiling and saw that it gave easily. It had moved about two inches, but when she stopped pushing it stopped moving. While it was briefly open, it exposed a bit more of the infrequent light which sometimes had creeped through the cracks in the old plastic, which the increasing majority denied.

She remained there and thought some things over. She hated the rude limitation imposed, but didn't want to risk falling, through extending too much energy and losing her footing when already so high up. Her fear was alleviated when she absurdly decided to continue to trust the help she was getting from the red balloon she held in her snout.

She kept her feet in place and gave the balky ceiling the hardest shove she could, intending to use only her head; but her red balloon hit it too.

The ceiling moved more. But this time rather than stopping, it had apparently been pushed sufficiently far to have engaged some sort of mechanism, which kept it opening all the way to the other side. Genevieve didn't expect this much ease, but wasn't the least bit surprised by it either. It was just like any other hinged plastic device amplified by a compelling spring. The ceiling ceased being one and came to rest at an odd angle, again likely the result of the mysterious, unseen, yet suggested spring; which might have been a bit rusty from lack of use and lubrication.

Suddenly Genevieve could fly. She took the balloon out of her snout and held it in her front paws; the way one cuddles a friend.

Suddenly all the other dogs were flying too. They all entered the white space above the box, which she instinctively knew was called El Dorado. She was scared at first, as the ground got more and more distant, making a fall a very serious matter. But after a minute she could tell that she was effortlessly floating very naturally, and that the movement of her paws provided direction. Most of all, she found it to be fun.

Despite unreasonable hopes to the contrary, it wasn't only the pooches in the air. The mongrel demons soared too. They had no inclination to dally like the zig-zagging dogs, and went directly up, like any extremist, taking no part in what they must have considered to be a silly, joyous, incomplete diversion. They soon crossed over into the darkness, which was called Kimrabort, and stayed there. The line of demarcation between El Dorado and Kimrabort was irregular and unclearly porous in some areas. To complicate matters further white El Dorado proper contained some dark areas, and dark Kimrabort proper contained speckles of white; but frankly not all that many in the latter case. The dark was noticeably dark to any pooch not blind, and produced a perceptible end of the detectable glow for most who were.

Perhaps because of being the first pooch to reach the vague, twisting, wide, deep, and amorphous line; it not yet trampled by many paws, Genevieve thought that she had seen it plainly. While some parts were distinctly clear, the more vague configurations didn't encompass the wide spaces; and with all the other space available it seemed an easy, in fact unthinking, decision for her to maintain complete safety by being simply rationally risk averse toward the likely inconsequentially bloated borderlines with their humorously logical audacity to overstate their insignificant perception of faux "significance," knowing that some didn't know the trick.

In less precise terms, it didn't seem necessary for Genevieve to cross over as there was plenty of room for her to do any sort of imaginable aerial tricks right in El Dorado, without re-encountering the mongrel demons, now congregated or impounded, depending upon one's outlook, in the dark of Kimrabort. Besides, her red balloon ceased to provide any more upward momentum; apparently content to hold onto its already lofty place.

But, she momentarily questioned her eyesight when she saw some other pooches cross the line; vague, amorphous, or irregular as it might be. "Why are you going back to the demons?" she said, in hopes of their turnaround.

She was answered with uniform replies of; "We are finally flying to the sun. Can't you see?"

She almost made no reply; it being so obvious to her. As a possible practical approach, she contradictorily held her meta ground, and mumbled; "Yes; but the light is right here, and I knew both Icarus and Phaethon. Can't YOU see? The demons have leather wings and we are still just poor waxwings. And no one wants to be back with the demons, anyway."

Thunder rang out, hollow and fierce as a lion's extended growl after lunch on the warm rock at the zoo. It actually may not have, but Genevieve thought that it said; "The wise go through un-needed stop signs. Fools either stop at each or go through them all."

Genevieve was elated to see that some other balloonists were quite happy to place their chosen perch near her chosen perch.

Some misinformed person must have thought it was 1958 again, as they played the Everly Brothers singing "All I Have to do is Dream."

Genevieve and Dillon, awake and maybe sleeping and "All I Have to Do is Dream" by Felice and Bordleaux Bryant property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Maya Blue Dyad Layer-11

"Hi, again. Genevieve here. I'd imagine that this is annoying. Frankly, I'd have preferred to keep napping myself. But, before this hominid writer idiot gets things totally out of hand, I'd like to offer a few clarifications intended to be for the benefit of the poor reader.

First and most simply Totem Pole #1 is a female figure and Totem Pole #2 is male. But, but, but, but, but, whatever. There is no escaping that fact other than through radical surgery. I'm not speaking of gender. My observations are limited to that which I clearly see. While they are very, very similar, #1 is more vague and reflective. #2 is clearer and apparently does not reflect on anything. Let's not deal with the numbers insofar as they may be easily assumed to be an indication of which came first. If #1 is the culprit, then that also belies the testimony attributed to 90% of the anecdotal evidence recorded. No matter. For the purposes of this editorial, I am not interested in the matter, and under no circumstances will be until someone can answer the chicken or the egg question, supplementing that with why it matters. Because I don't care and I don't have any 'issues' at this point other than this hominid's inability to explain these two pictures, while simultaneously demonstrating that his 'explanation' is imperfect. The double negatives temporarily ignored, it is noted that despite my seeming criticism, this male hominid is better in that regard than the vast majority of his ilk; while still below the overall satisfactory bar.

Please allow me to break apart these pictures into the sections alluded to, but not herein adequately explored. Let's start with the bases.

Base of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Base of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

You can see here that there are differences, but in my opinion not worth making an issue of. Of course, as nature would have it, #1 is less clear. However, they are reasonably close and this base depiction seems to represent home, and the need for one, as in the 'food, clothing, shelter' hierarchy. No matter how one may choose to stress the readily apparent differences, one would also have to admit that they are certainly inessential relative to what is coming in sections #2.

Second section of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Second section of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

This is the most dramatic difference we will find between the two. #1 is reflecting upon something prior to entering the place where we all most are; while there is no sign of any reflection in #2; that perhaps attempted to be compensated for through an expansion of the living space. Though necessarily depicted on canvas as something physical, I would contend that the differences are entirely what we now have called 'meta' in a sort of short change. In fact the physically depicted, yet 'meta' differences may be the source of natural and pleasant attraction. Let's move on to the third part."

Third section of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Third section of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

In this section, to which the occupants of the previous section; pooches, hominids, and indeed all aspire, you'll note rather uniform bubbles in #1, and no bubbles in #2, accompanied by what appears to be a border at the edges. At this point, I'd like to emphasize that this is the work of the author of this very imperfect book, who like the rest of us has never seen this level. So, I might well regard this as I would a fantasy, that being with as much significance to reality as a dream. Taken in another way, #1's appearance is much like that of a flower in bloom, while #2's is consistent with a barren field and a fence. On to the top.

Top section of Totem Pole #1; property of the author.

Top section of Totem Pole #2; property of the author.

This more or less repeats the third sections on a conceptual level. #1 is bubbly, and while light, contains more colors of the rainbow than #2. It's impossible to tell whether #2 is primarily white, primarily cloudy, or both. It does seem clear as it does in every section, that #2 has a wider border.

The two totem poles have four visible and distinct sections each, for a total of eight. They each also have an invisible one, for a total of ten. I suspect that the two invisible ones are identical and that they serve as 'connectors,' though I have no way to be certain of that. It is entirely my intuition, as our mechanical contrivances have no way of computing, much less detecting this widely held and yet personal belief.

The inferences or disagreements you may draw from that explanation are no doubt correct; as they are yours, until the day that you 'have been taught' to be deferential. Thank you for your time. My eyes are closing. My nap is long overdue. And it's time for part five. Thank you. Good night."

Two Cane Noir Esotericisms Quadrupled- 1

The author came out of somewhere to say; "Wait a minute. That entire argument is disproportionately flawed by the fact that #2 is larger on the right."

Genevieve said; "Fine. But, don't conveniently forget that #1 is larger on the left, and I just equalized them in the sectional aspect to avoid issues over perhaps what are only tiny metamorphoses."

The author said; "Look Genevieve. I'm not even going to argue. This is my book and by definition, no matter how absurd, no matter how inadequate, no matter how imperfect, I am right within its covers. If you can't deal with that, too bad for you. Go write your own book, and allow me the privilege and easier position of going second."

Genevieve said; "You want to get bitten?"

The author said; "Ummmm. ......... Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on what you mean and my mood that day. ......... It's a long story. ....... Oh, stupid me. Did you mean right now?"

Genevieve said; "I'm taking a nap."

The author said; "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

I said; "I just hate quibbling and I don't agree with either of you."

Edward Drobinski said; "This is my book and it is me who is having the final word. ....... I think."

A wind kicked up and dark clouds rolled in bringing with them thunder and lightning, played as the sound was intentionally set to hominid mute, which pooches privately hear.

The Stylistics came out of the seventies to intervene.

Genevieve with Dillon in their basket and "You Make Me Feel Brand New" by Linda Diane Creed and Thomas Randolph Bell; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

This does seem to carry with it, a sense of a circle.

Patti Smith appropriately closed the Bowery Ballroom show with "Seneca."

Seneca and "Seneca" by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

NOT NECESSARILY THE END

Two Cane Noir Esotericisms Quadrupled- 2

Concluding Unscientific Postscript

Excuse me; I'm just the writer here. Most may not have taken any notice. That's fine with me as I prefer it that way.

The little man who wasn't there and "Antogonish" written by William Hughes Mearns; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use," "transformative," and "public domain doctrines.

But, in order to be properly represented in this charade, I'd first like to point out that I have a pantheistic or possibly a high-numbered-polytheistic viewpoint; or generally espouse that in books, though far from all, probably because some don't call for that ...... or maybe I write them to purposely not call for that ...... or possibly because I know little of what these terms mean in the context of letters on a page ....... or maybe otherwise too. I can assure the reader that I am both consciously and unconsciously aware of that.

In that philosophical ....... religious ....... whatever regard I have allowed the "real" Genevieve to make comments and corrections herein. I would like to use a different word than "allowed" but don't think it exists. Sanctioned and accepted present similar problems. Not quite. Maybe it's the opposite of prohibited, but that doesn't really work all that well in Roget's.

So, if we'd just quit fussing about parlance and its inferences ...... Oh, that was me. My apologies. What I'm trying to say is that I welcomed the "real" Genevieve's input, be it a tiny nuance or an evocative correction. At the same time it seems to me that any attempt of hers to add "truth" to my fictional depiction of her dreams, and being further mindful of the "real" Genevieve being a product of my imagination strongly suggests that the whole thing is patently absurd.

Both Genevieves would surely disagree.

This approach is akin to an attempt to analyze a "real" situation with meta tools, or vice versa ....... neither ....... both ....... Whatever; bottom line it doesn't really matter as this is my book .......... more or less.

Or maybe I chanced into guessing Genevieve's dreams almost precisely ....... or maybe she just wanted to participate ...... or maybe it happened somewhere I didn't think I had been ....... or maybe it never happened at all ...... or maybe some of it happened and I filled in the rest in order to write a comprehensible book ....... or maybe I don't know ...... or maybe.

I'm writing "The End" here only because it is customary to do so, in full realization that I will be thereby interpreted as being inordinately needful of being socially accepted. That is not true. I think. Anyway, here it is.

The End

Panca Sky Magenta Pentad- 1

NOT!!

NOT!!

NOT!!

NOT!!

NOT!!

Also by Edward Drobinski:

1) Deadly Compromises\- A bungling hit man meets and falls in love with the wife of his next intended victim.

2) The Trespassing Crew\- Talking barnyard animals consider escape to the wild.

3) Death Or Eurydice\- The Orpheus myth set in 1825 Massachusetts. He's an uneducated white and she is black and well educated.

4) Prince\- A ten year old girl insists on adopting a one year old Dalmatian, who was trained to fight. Could be for children and if read differently, for others too.

5) Daisy: Walking on Water\- An abandoned Dalmatian puppy is taken in by an elderly man. Daisy is quite difficult to train in the conventional sense. But, she has a great heart and an ability to understand "sometimes," rather than just yes and no.

6) Genevieve and her First Fuss- The first crime ever was committed in idyllic Poochville. The theft took place on Pacific Lane, just two doors away from Genevieve's house. The two Scottish Terrier authorities have been baffled; while peddlers and aspiring politicians seek to capitalize on the "opportunity." So, Genevieve an aging white Maltese performs her own investigation. The backgrounds of the other resident talking dogs are revealed while Genevieve searches for the culprit. Perhaps an even bigger question is can "perfect" Poochville ever be "perfect" again? While this may be of interest to some younger people, to be on the safe side, it is recommended for those 14 and up, the writer believes without limitation on those of younger heart, who may be on the upper end. 131 mostly color pictures are interspersed throughout the book.

7) Genevieve and the Two Black Scotties\- Genevieve, an aging white Maltese continues to be curious. It seems as if two dogs who appeared to be one thing, were not that at all. As they were selflessly helpful, Genevieve wants to find and properly thank them. She enlists the companionship of Pablo, a recently physically transformed book lover, for her journey. 108 mostly color pictures are interspersed throughout the book.

8) Genevieve; the Third of January- Pacific Lane has had an unusually large amount of snow this winter. Its weight caused part of Tardiff and Lenta's roof to collapse. Genevieve, an aging white Maltese, and Willy, a handy dachshund, try to help. Gizmo gets his greatest Christmas wish. He has gotten the video game and paraphernalia of his dreams; and then proceeds to have un-anticipated reactions to them. 69 mostly color pictures are interspersed throughout the book.

9) Genevieve; Spring Rushes Forth\- Indoor activities; most centered on the computer; are put on the side as a result of the melting snow and ice. Led by Genevieve, Pacific Lane holds its first carnival in adjacent Bunny Park. 140 mostly color pictures are interspersed throughout the book.

10) Genevieve; A Sketch of Five Trees- Genevieve, an ageing and pretty white Maltese is visited by magical Sunshine, the kitten. She then finds that Dillon, the Irish setter love of her life, is nonchalantly sitting in her kitchen. Up until then, she thought that he had died decades prior at a war into which he was conscripted. She suspects that she is awake in her dream, but it's pleasant and she doesn't want to do anything which might end it. At Dillon's suggestion, they go off on a trip together, seeking the source of the wind, which had been especially strong that summer.

11) Wilbur\- A colorful, balsa wood toucan happily lives in one room with his 58 Cheese Rolling trophy friends. The trophies chatter incessantly about things which make no sense to Wilbur, including something he distills to Trump-No Trump. The trophies also have severe reservations about the room, claiming to remember a prior and better one. Wilbur only knows of the current room. The trophies become silent in disappointment and are gradually removed. Wilbur becomes despondent. "Wilbur" explores the forces which Wilbur will never be aware of, though they heavily contribute to making his life what it is. Can love and good wishes alone prevail when opposed by some of the world's richest people and the wannabees? As in "real" 2018, there are no yes or no blocks to check. It is an essay question which more or less requires the imprecise use of gray mathematical probabilities.

12) Genevieve; the Sixth of October\- Genevieve and Dillon take spacey and reclusive Maureen for a walk in the rain.

13) Genevieve; Seven Evenings of Light Snow – Genevieve has a nightmare of Dillon and her visit to a hominid town. She then wakes, and goes out in search of play. She and other Pacific Lane residents eventually build a snowman.

14) Genevieve; More than Eight to the Fair - Genevieve and other pooch and feline residents of Pacific Lane go on a trek to a spring fair being held in another part of Poochville. It's all the way over on the other side of town. Though the kittens were now young adults, it is an arduous trip for them

Other descriptions are invariably available elsewhere. Always the case.

For the Time Being, the End
