writing in progress
Now and forever
Life does not go in order. Death comes before birth. Nothing is certain. We are both anonymous and fundamental. Each story unique and forgotten. Our boundaries collide and accrete as continents slip one under the other. One wins and the other becomes again another.
Half century back
Tunnelman calls the origin of the process the Exquisite Spark. The embryo of it all. Psalm Seventeen of the Tunnelman Unabridged Bible goes something like the following. But don’t quote me. I cannot read yet in any language, although I expect to soon. My memory is not as fully formed as my observations. But TTunnelman's words stmped themselves on the mind because he said them so often...
I say to ye, as it spirals with each turn more doo dads (crap, shit, offal) collect, one upon the other, to impose the structure of chaos on the heavens, but mostly on earth. Verily we are living on the debris of that embryo, a spark in a moment so fine it exists only in sanctified memory. Henceforth I alone carry the testimony of memory. I alone embody the Exquisite Spark.
Disciples of the Spark's Inuit Clave were currently based on the second floor of the Moab Motel catty-corner from McDonald which had just been newly renovated due to a mysterious fire. That's in Bulge, Montana which is a suburb of Seventeen, the county seat since 1900 the year Tunnelman could have been conceived but who knows where he's at in this process? As grandma Ana says, life does not go in order.
During bible study during communal hash browns, the Inuit Clave accounted for the Seventeeth Psalm in workaday terms, something along the lines of, If a bear attempts to leave, the dog will nip at it on the backside and aggravate it to keep it from running away. This departure from standard was forgiven by The Spark. He is a kind and generous man.
TBG, aka the Tunnelman Bible Group in New York City, gathered every Friday at what they believed to be dawn. TBG, like Moab Inuits, were two of many claves of The Spark's network, roughly in the way the moon is to the earth but more prosaically as moons and moonlets are to Saturn. Tunnelman is a man of science.
The Spark's accoladers range from tiny Moonlets who work undetected as temps at the World Trade Center or barmen at He's-Not-Here Lounge in downtown Bulge. On the other hand, the large moons are the Titans. A few Titans who are planets in their own right, with their own moon stringers are normally honorary AstroPalentologists analogous to the planet Mercury in disposition, and privy to both the dark of underland and the mean glare of topside.
As everyone knows, Saturn has sixty two moons. Cut to the chase, The Spark has one hundred times that number including those with dry river networks similar to the Bulge Creek one at the bottom of Seventeen Valley or all over pre glacial Manhattan Island. And like Saturn, The Spark enjoys irregular satellites including my grandma Lola, and of course Chink and Tool whom Chink hates who are classified by unique orbital characteristics.
The Spark further classifies these irregulars into the Inuit, Norse, and Gallic claves same as Saturn's irregulars - Inuit, Norse, and Gallic as designated by a moon researcher from Lapland in the year 2000 who was not born quite yet. Tunnelman designated Lola and Tool as Norse whereas Ana was Inuit due to disconcerting shifts in her shape and disposition into surley caribou forms. Her daughter, Moana was never designated, being a pending moonlet for her entire duration.
Just sos you know, whether it be Clave Irregulars, Moonletts, or Titans - the precise number of moons cannot possibly be given. In other words such knowledge is up to faith not fact. There is no logical boundary between the anonymous and the forgotten that form either The Spark or Saturn ring system and those irregulars that have been named as Titans.
At dawn he emerged down from a place of wonder through the Topside entrance of his choice making the way unseen to his network adjacent to a New York City subway station on a side line forsaken since he arrived from Wiemar Germany without a Visa.
Normally he was naked, as he walked his thingy went dink dink dink, except for the fedora that was never removed. It was believed that this fedora housed the spark of Tunnelman's great enlightenment and even in the abysses of the networks lit his way. All others needed artificial light. Mostly it was cooking fires for pilfered eggs and ham. The Eskimos lit hunks of left over blubber the rest of which they attached to the ends of matches for their babies to suck.
Our people came to the subway underground from the accretions of many wars to be free from upheaval. A communist society of like and peaceful souls. our group comprised the Irregulars, the Children of War. There were seventeen of us, specifically from Poland and Montana, to find beatification by the clackety winds of the express trains in the chartlessness of dark lit by The Spark.
But it was not weird like you think. We each led normal lives, cleaned dishes, maintained dental hygiene, married, bore pale infants, and kept the teenaged girls from influences. Except for Grandma, just that one time, no one attempted to leave the premises except to procure necessary contraband for survival, and the Tunnelman quarter was overcrowded only temporarily.
Half billion years ago
Where did Lola and before her Vilho and his lost Helen come from I can’t say. But I think they've come a long long way. Where do I your teller of stories come from? In answer to either question consider this: One state impacts on another, such as ice to fire, solid to gas, or a courtyard of summer roses outside the bricked up windows that faced the Aryan side of the ghetto people walking around freely in contemporary styles of dress. Meanwhile in Montana, my mother’s head was emerging from Moana Crowe in 1936. Our own states phase shift as well. Montana, even Chicago, for example, was once a sea densely populated by trilobites who were eventually to be our blood relatives, but only indirectly of course. Trilobites share a taxonomy with blood sucking lice.
It was great fishing then. Two kinds of bivalves, your basic mollusks, primitive echinoderms and jawless fishes, nautiloids, and six hundred genera of Trilobites. Earth comprised a land almost completely under some sea or other: Great abysses, exploding vents, and massive oozing basins were topped by fully charging waves that sloshed over the earth until the time asteroids, possibly comets, and atrophy of old oceans killed off the flora and the monsters who ate them.
But this was not the great extinction to come but the Cambrian explosion. Mutations galore now proliferated in the new oxygen under the umbrella of the new ozone layer enabled by new waters. If you are careful you can breathe shallowly. Perhaps you call out between cupped hands. But shout or scream? You gasp. Your voice damps off. There is no place for it to land in all of earth’s circumference. No grass. No trees. No birds. No people. Earth has no features. Microbial crud barely surfaces the dark rocks. Deserts and alluvial plains lay low waiting for the victorious day they rise up to torch the sky. For now half the sky is taken by the looming face of a skully moon. It attaches to the horizon. The sun is a small blinding ball that yoyos up and down a couple of times in the span of our day.
After adjusting to the terror of being five hundred million years away from anyone sentient, trawl a net into a shallow part just off the bright shore of the eventual Rocky Mountains. But for research not food. There are no kitchens. Oxygen is ten percent of what you’re used to. There will be no fire and as I said, you’ll be panting for air. Flip the burgeoning contents clattering on the deck. You have your trilobites of all dimensions and creative configurations. Spikes, and legs that chew. But are not chewable. Some torpedo size, some saucer - and eyes.
Eyes on the side of the head, one in the middle, eyes on stalks. But paradoxically, the first and last Trilobites to inhabit earth were blind unlike Trilobite Paradoxia who had large eyes with compound lenses of over three thousand facets made of a form of clear chalk with which one can draw invisible lines on dark walls.
All around your vessel are eyes surveying you like those of half submerged amphibians of future deltas. Beneath you, trillions of dusk trilobites glide over the seabed, digging themselves into the tropical mud. In case of attack they roll up in balls. They mate in piles, lay nits, shed their exoskeleton as they grow to adulthood, and die spontaneously under massive avalanches. You, me, Lola, Helen transparent from the womb arrived later to name the monsters of the seas. Trilobite, the three lobed. Humans, Maðr er manns gaman ok moldar auki in Runic meaning, Man is delight of man and augmentation of the dust.
And that’s pretty much it except for the details. Oh I forgot. North America and Europe were colliding again. A new megacontinent of hell was birthing September 1, 1939.
Life does not go in order. Death comes before birth. Nothing is certain. We are both anonymous and fundamental. Each story unique and forgotten. Our boundaries collide and accrete as continents slip one under the other. One wins and the other becomes again another.
Half century back
Tunnelman calls the origin of the process the Exquisite Spark. The embryo of it all. Psalm Seventeen of the Tunnelman Unabridged Bible goes something like the following. But don’t quote me. I cannot read yet in any language, although I expect to soon. My memory is not as fully formed as my observations. But TTunnelman's words stmped themselves on the mind because he said them so often...
I say to ye, as it spirals with each turn more doo dads (crap, shit, offal) collect, one upon the other, to impose the structure of chaos on the heavens, but mostly on earth. Verily we are living on the debris of that embryo, a spark in a moment so fine it exists only in sanctified memory. Henceforth I alone carry the testimony of memory. I alone embody the Exquisite Spark.
Disciples of the Spark's Inuit Clave were currently based on the second floor of the Moab Motel catty-corner from McDonald which had just been newly renovated due to a mysterious fire. That's in Bulge, Montana which is a suburb of Seventeen, the county seat since 1900 the year Tunnelman could have been conceived but who knows where he's at in this process? As grandma Ana says, life does not go in order.
During bible study during communal hash browns, the Inuit Clave accounted for the Seventeeth Psalm in workaday terms, something along the lines of, If a bear attempts to leave, the dog will nip at it on the backside and aggravate it to keep it from running away. This departure from standard was forgiven by The Spark. He is a kind and generous man.
TBG, aka the Tunnelman Bible Group in New York City, gathered every Friday at what they believed to be dawn. TBG, like Moab Inuits, were two of many claves of The Spark's network, roughly in the way the moon is to the earth but more prosaically as moons and moonlets are to Saturn. Tunnelman is a man of science.
The Spark's accoladers range from tiny Moonlets who work undetected as temps at the World Trade Center or barmen at He's-Not-Here Lounge in downtown Bulge. On the other hand, the large moons are the Titans. A few Titans who are planets in their own right, with their own moon stringers are normally honorary AstroPalentologists analogous to the planet Mercury in disposition, and privy to both the dark of underland and the mean glare of topside.
As everyone knows, Saturn has sixty two moons. Cut to the chase, The Spark has one hundred times that number including those with dry river networks similar to the Bulge Creek one at the bottom of Seventeen Valley or all over pre glacial Manhattan Island. And like Saturn, The Spark enjoys irregular satellites including my grandma Lola, and of course Chink and Tool whom Chink hates who are classified by unique orbital characteristics.
The Spark further classifies these irregulars into the Inuit, Norse, and Gallic claves same as Saturn's irregulars - Inuit, Norse, and Gallic as designated by a moon researcher from Lapland in the year 2000 who was not born quite yet. Tunnelman designated Lola and Tool as Norse whereas Ana was Inuit due to disconcerting shifts in her shape and disposition into surley caribou forms. Her daughter, Moana was never designated, being a pending moonlet for her entire duration.
Just sos you know, whether it be Clave Irregulars, Moonletts, or Titans - the precise number of moons cannot possibly be given. In other words such knowledge is up to faith not fact. There is no logical boundary between the anonymous and the forgotten that form either The Spark or Saturn ring system and those irregulars that have been named as Titans.
At dawn he emerged down from a place of wonder through the Topside entrance of his choice making the way unseen to his network adjacent to a New York City subway station on a side line forsaken since he arrived from Wiemar Germany without a Visa.
Normally he was naked, as he walked his thingy went dink dink dink, except for the fedora that was never removed. It was believed that this fedora housed the spark of Tunnelman's great enlightenment and even in the abysses of the networks lit his way. All others needed artificial light. Mostly it was cooking fires for pilfered eggs and ham. The Eskimos lit hunks of left over blubber the rest of which they attached to the ends of matches for their babies to suck.
Our people came to the subway underground from the accretions of many wars to be free from upheaval. A communist society of like and peaceful souls. our group comprised the Irregulars, the Children of War. There were seventeen of us, specifically from Poland and Montana, to find beatification by the clackety winds of the express trains in the chartlessness of dark lit by The Spark.
But it was not weird like you think. We each led normal lives, cleaned dishes, maintained dental hygiene, married, bore pale infants, and kept the teenaged girls from influences. Except for Grandma, just that one time, no one attempted to leave the premises except to procure necessary contraband for survival, and the Tunnelman quarter was overcrowded only temporarily.
Half billion years ago
Where did Lola and before her Vilho and his lost Helen come from I can’t say. But I think they've come a long long way. Where do I your teller of stories come from? In answer to either question consider this: One state impacts on another, such as ice to fire, solid to gas, or a courtyard of summer roses outside the bricked up windows that faced the Aryan side of the ghetto people walking around freely in contemporary styles of dress. Meanwhile in Montana, my mother’s head was emerging from Moana Crowe in 1936. Our own states phase shift as well. Montana, even Chicago, for example, was once a sea densely populated by trilobites who were eventually to be our blood relatives, but only indirectly of course. Trilobites share a taxonomy with blood sucking lice.
It was great fishing then. Two kinds of bivalves, your basic mollusks, primitive echinoderms and jawless fishes, nautiloids, and six hundred genera of Trilobites. Earth comprised a land almost completely under some sea or other: Great abysses, exploding vents, and massive oozing basins were topped by fully charging waves that sloshed over the earth until the time asteroids, possibly comets, and atrophy of old oceans killed off the flora and the monsters who ate them.
But this was not the great extinction to come but the Cambrian explosion. Mutations galore now proliferated in the new oxygen under the umbrella of the new ozone layer enabled by new waters. If you are careful you can breathe shallowly. Perhaps you call out between cupped hands. But shout or scream? You gasp. Your voice damps off. There is no place for it to land in all of earth’s circumference. No grass. No trees. No birds. No people. Earth has no features. Microbial crud barely surfaces the dark rocks. Deserts and alluvial plains lay low waiting for the victorious day they rise up to torch the sky. For now half the sky is taken by the looming face of a skully moon. It attaches to the horizon. The sun is a small blinding ball that yoyos up and down a couple of times in the span of our day.
After adjusting to the terror of being five hundred million years away from anyone sentient, trawl a net into a shallow part just off the bright shore of the eventual Rocky Mountains. But for research not food. There are no kitchens. Oxygen is ten percent of what you’re used to. There will be no fire and as I said, you’ll be panting for air. Flip the burgeoning contents clattering on the deck. You have your trilobites of all dimensions and creative configurations. Spikes, and legs that chew. But are not chewable. Some torpedo size, some saucer - and eyes.
Eyes on the side of the head, one in the middle, eyes on stalks. But paradoxically, the first and last Trilobites to inhabit earth were blind unlike Trilobite Paradoxia who had large eyes with compound lenses of over three thousand facets made of a form of clear chalk with which one can draw invisible lines on dark walls.
All around your vessel are eyes surveying you like those of half submerged amphibians of future deltas. Beneath you, trillions of dusk trilobites glide over the seabed, digging themselves into the tropical mud. In case of attack they roll up in balls. They mate in piles, lay nits, shed their exoskeleton as they grow to adulthood, and die spontaneously under massive avalanches. You, me, Lola, Helen transparent from the womb arrived later to name the monsters of the seas. Trilobite, the three lobed. Humans, Maðr er manns gaman ok moldar auki in Runic meaning, Man is delight of man and augmentation of the dust.
And that’s pretty much it except for the details. Oh I forgot. North America and Europe were colliding again. A new megacontinent of hell was birthing September 1, 1939.
