Derrick Denholm

from: It Takes Time to do Nothing (a novel)


Part Three:

Gazetteer of The Canadian Shield


Black fir, White spruce, Balsam fir, Trembling aspen: predominants of the Boreal forest, with root systems entwined in a layered net over cracks and crevices of Proterozoic and Archean intrusives (grandodiorite, anorthosite, quartz diorite), wooden fingers clutching Precambrian metamorphics (argillite, greywacke, scheist, arkose, basalt, volcanic breccia, hornblende gneiss), spreading crazy-quilt multi-facets through the plateaux, over uplands and plains burnished, sworn about the lee of frost-crumbled hills and mountains, heading crostwise from the Manitoba Plain into the Abitini-Severn Uplands. All podzolic with redblack peat, speckled deep to platinums, silvers, coppers. And dank buzzing muskegs, their skins echo-branchings akin to the green, black and gold mottles of Burbots that barbell-scavenge through the cold shallows of White Otter Lake, flecked as Spruce hens peering from the emerald arms of June's larches, plumage sunlight-dappled in these variants of gold, black and green. And these waters, following distorted capillary formations netted over glacier-scraped flesh, past Lac des Milles Lacs and Shebandowan, Shaboqua and Sistonens, coming down finally with the sun to its hazy reflection across Lake Superior. Then, on to the atmospheric dirge construction that is Thunder Bay, which draws its rusty metal file above the muted shimmer between Pie Island and Isle Royale.

And as he is, with the vibrations of the bus rattling his teeth, drawing a constant ache along the corrugate stream seams of his skull. His ribs pulsate with dull throbs of leftover pain, repeating in more curved corrugations like the cold insides of the culvert. 

Tender gash-stripes healed-over throughout his scalp prickle constant, uncomfortable distraction; dry ridge-scabs long for fingertip attention. He prods at their forms just as the spare summer moose plods cutting hoofs about the perimeter of a black spruce bog, its form indistinct from clouding flies. And the gleaming white sun digs its spade into his forehead; a pulsing tension squirms a stickleback at the back of his left eye. His brow clips into the cool glass.

Permanent scars on the skin: over the Inferior Thoracic Margin, Buccinator, Sarratus Anterior, Levator Scapulae, Scalemus Medius. Temporary scars on the skin: over the Linea Alba, Trapezius, Stemocleidomastoid, Masseter, Quadratus Labii Inferior, the Helix of the Ear, Platysma, Omohyoid, Rectus Abominis, Extensor Digitorum and Indicis Proprius, the Abductor Digiti Quinti. And abrasions (minor): many, numerous. Contusions (minor and major): the Clavicle, the Humerus, five of the fourteen true ribs, three of the ten false ribs, the Superciliary Arch, the Frontal Eminence, the Lambdoid Suture, the Mental Tubercle, the Zygomatic bone, the Nasal bone, the Acromion, the spine of the Anterior Superior Iliac. And subluxations: one Lumbar vertebra, two Cervical vertebrae, one Thoracic vertebra. Yet, each and every blemish applied in that past episode of violent ridiculousness is marked with a shiny tendril-needle of wavery pain and is flagged with an orange triangle of prickling sensation, strutted rags marked with fluctuating electric ink exclamations numbered in order of their commission, embossed phrases describing their base ratio prominence from the graph of hypersensitive discomfort (utilizing the standard universal Gutteral-Visceral form): Errahcrrrr! Haeoimnnggg! Gnnnnne-eicheicha! Iuxheurloo! Aergholmnnn! (and so on and so forth)

He covers his head with his jacket. The bus busses on.

The stretch from Nipigon to Mobert (I.R.) passes unnoticed beyond the luminescent cocoon of green dacron-polyester. He drifts unaware as the vehicle moves down and down and flat across the Magpie River and winds through Wawa's brief municipal streamcourses. His eyes remain shut to the straining of it's small, electric fireworks. He lolls, fluctuating between kind sister states of waking and dozing.

 He does not sleep, yet he does sort of dream, unconsciously imagining himself set at a treetop hawkview of the Petawawa Gorges, but this is disrupted by the act of a large man slumping into the seat beside with careless gruntings. (Then, surprisingly, a set of scaly beavertail shackles are forced about his wrists.)

"Hey Buddy," comes a loud summons upon wafts of ashtray breath. "What's the sound of one hand clapping?" And the charcoal grey figure reaches out and slaps one meaty paw firmly across the broad, blue jean-covered backside of a young woman trying to make her way up the aisle, moving along just as slowly as the act of stopping, for many elderly and fastidious nitpickers are clogging the way forward. The young woman moments her angered and narrowed eyes back and down through her obscuring curls, but can do no more than stiffen, as ashtray laugh laughs his asocials loudly.

So, a dense wall of tar-soaked flesh and emery cloth has been established, and the sandpaper on metal sounds of inbreaths and outbreaths begin to poke him with their sticks through a mesh fence. The bus is full, carrying on. The pitch and roll of the road passes and bleats up and down through the lowing humidity, swaddling pungent discomforts to doughy restlessness. With eyes and beards and teeth the colour of ground carbon, and with skin grey as the scuffed, worn-out soles of caterpillar boots, the delegation has gathered and the members have all taken their seats. So begins their monosyllabic recitation and reiteration of the much lauded Manifesto of Popular Scatalogical Precepts, the maxim of which has been sworn to by each and every member from the first moment of their initiate induction: that first experience of penis-hand-eye coordination of envy and on, to the eventual obsession through habituation and fear, developing towards a final grounding in the non-lateral possibilities derived from such a salient triangle, and bulging ever outward, infinitum, with rippling dispersion, smashed styrofoam nuggets edging like a snowfall that will never melt along the shore of a wilderness lake.

"I likes keepin' both my feets on the ground, Ifs I can," one tagged on his breast as Richard-that is, Dick (born near Savant Lake in 1949, currently an unemployed journeyman, dappled with nose rings, silver skull and dragon knuckle rings and studded leather wristbands) stammers, nicely buzzed from his pre-ride six pack. Moustache hairs that hide the upper and lower lips induce the prisoner to feign diminutive stupidity and slice yet another gash conscience-ways with now-readied grasps for more tiresome lies. As tiresome as it was to hide Nightwood, it was less tiresome than to create the inevitable and have to confront inherent asocial violence. So, the prisoner chose once again to fabricate descriptions in order to affect safeguarding of his throat from throat-slitting by throat-slitters-whether literal or illiteral. And having done so, when asked of his treadmill, he could be freshly prepared towards however a momentary and transitive safety.

"So, Buddy,"

Time passed, again, as it often does.

And so it was that a long-large bicycle of many-wheeled proportions, with many sets of three-part handlebars, seats and flywheels, companied by a strong battalion of respected and respectable, youthful, executive-class men, began to be challenged en route by the faster transport of the delegation and it's prisoner, bringing this long, human-powered machine slowly into a parallel view along the roadside. Racing along over the simple radius of this Tropic of Concrete-keeping exact pace with the revolution of the earth, thus bringing about the intermittent effect of time without duration-the prisoner (ensconced in the worming entrails of a large sow bug that huddled under a rotting board at a lakeside summer cabin) thought again of the letter from Adrienne that was tucked securely in his backpack. He looked out the window, watching many racing shadows.

The last of the respected and respectable executive-class men on the long-large bicycle, the one in the last position of its slender, quickly stationary form, the one who peddled most easily, his mind on thoughts of speculative real estate potentials: Karl Brother (looking smart with a snorkelling mask on his forehead and outfitted in a sleek rock climber's harness and the latest shiny gold tights) was by profession a biologist in the employ of Alcan Aluminum Inc., currently holidaying from a two-week study of rare orchid soda bog habitats at low level wilderness locations along the stretch of a river basin slated for flooding and subsequent industrial development. Karl Brother was, at this moment, regretting having brought along the botanical field guide that was bulging his fanny bag and poking him with each stroke of the peddles. Every few moments he considers pulling it out and dropping it to the ditch.

Circling around about Batchawana mountain, the shaded cast of morning flatwaters still across the breadth of a bay of the same name, with the shoulders of Ogidaki peak hiding the sun's rising foray, the prisoner (folded like a roadmap) witnesses one lone grey jay circling squawk-squawking mutely beyond the bus window (Krauyauk! Krauyauk!! the bird screams in his mind). The prisoner turns and faces front. Quietly, he accepts and consumes his allotted ration of fig newtons and apple juice.

Second to last on the long-large bicycle is a ceramic technologist from Le Pas, Fritz Schider (dressed in florescent green birchbark trousers and a woven cattail poncho, he wears a hat made from the tin cutouts of beercan walls flattened and tied into fashion with twist ties). Peddling with some amount of disdain, he did not want to allow the impression that he was near towards the rear of the bicycle because his physical abilities were minimized due to the nature of his workaday routine.

Blessed by a narrow view of the north channel of Georgian Bay, not far from the three-way stem of the greatest of the Great Lakes and heading east towards the Mississagi, with the forested rim of Manitoulin Island haunting the periphery of each glance southwards, the delegates agree that maybe they should have his cerebral cortex snipped free. The prisoner (brushing crumbs onto the floor of this cell) considers this and other ruminant insinuations brought forward. He cringes, and yet feigns a casual expression as best as he can from behind the smeared, insect-speckled south window of his cell, rocking back and forth with every one else at each frost heave and asphalt fissure that the delegation's craft encounters.

Forcing its way onward, "Number 23" gouges a deeper and deeper trough towards the Laurentians. With its cowbreaker / icecatcher filed to the manufacturer's factory grade, angled purposefully for the maximum propulsive arch of throw, and being outfitted with independent differential gear locks, as well as being equipped with a heavy-duty industrial boom that boasted an erection limit of 25m (which could apply a pulverizing force of 52 (600kg per m2), this 215 hp (160 kW) waste grappling transport unit stamped two parallel rows of 10 cm deep torque bites across the granite subgrade.

From time to tim,e the machine would halt its progress in order for its front blade application to be renewed and recalibrated. It was operated upon at this time by a macabre figure who had prepared himself with the appropriate level three custodial ticket. He braved the blackflies and blood to scrape and peen true the massive, blunt foil, freeing it's rotorworks and pinions from clotting masses of congealed gristle, fur, innards, broken teeth and hoofs that would collect over the taxing kilometres strung between refuelling stations. This strange, gnomic sucker-mouthbreather appeared (at necessary occasions) from a small cubby along the aft quarter of the helm, which would cue both the delegates and their prisoner to the approach of a subsequent stop. He was a type of clockwork personified.

Skittering aisle-wise to mooch a butt from the nicotine-stinking northwall of the prisoner's cell, this Black Crappie (first fed as a mercury-mutated, bulb-eyed, laboratory-hatched fingerling into the fetid outfall from a manmade lake at the hub of a peach-coloured condo complex in east Sudbury) would invariably twist his bulb-eyes and so rake his vision through the tropical arboretum that sprawled behind the green glass that seperated the concourse from the oaken wheelhouse, searching as he was for pink flower barrettes, butterflies,  and swinging pigtails before proceeding down the promenade to the twin escalator banks.

As his lapel-sworn crest described, "Markus Stevens Davidus Moses," (his torso uniformed in a smarmy crimson survival suit of imitation bison hide, two rough sheets of raw marble strapped to his heels with red spruce roots, wearing the single shorn antler from a Barren Grounds Caribou upon a belt buckle forged into the brusque shape of colonial Upper Canada, itself encrusted with precious metals, polished stones and opalescent shellfish fragments) upon spying the white calves of the rarest of the teenage daughters of the delegates, would scrawl the labour of his breathing upon the air with the most callous disregard, oftentimes coughing up that which constituted his mid-day meals, these being the small, wet raccoon paws he stripped from the front assembly of Number 23 as well as the shiny bell eyes he plucked from the heads of freshwater carp he caught with his bare hands when the craft stalled or became mired in reedy shallows. This odd bottom fish (leering) would flop back and forth from the airlocks to the map room, and forth and back, drawing as much attention to himself as he could muster, scraping his scales and spines from the card locks all the way to the weapons cache, and (with triple-head shovel-scraper in tow) he would attempt-with unparalleled subtlety-to entice the white-calved daughters of the delegates forward, extolling his masculine charms thusly.

Two of the six birds that flew (each grasping a nest composed of equal part hair lichen, kite string, nodding wood-reed grass and shredded plastic bag) over this Tropic of Concrete marred the shoulders of two of the respected and respectable, youthful, executive-class men (positioned near the middle of the long-large bicycle) with two off-white patches glistening unnoticed. The long-large bicycle and its company were-from this aspect (overhead, aside, diagonal, below bus-window height) visibly similar in form to a column of goslings struggling to keep up with their goose mother paddling web-footed quickly upstream of a fast brook. (The goose mother ruffled her wings and flipped, waggled her tail.) A toilet door opened and was shut. A seat was reclined. Another was raised upright. The aisle was traced along by a pair of quick and quiet rubber soles squick-squecking below a match pair of slender white calves, summer-painted milky pale and veiny thin from the dues of bulimic fraternity.

Perhaps they should have his brain snipped. Perhaps the delegation was correct. He had heard nothing but the repetition of this affirmative for so long that it must actually be an unbroken continuum of agreement across the entirety of the Canadian Shield. Perhaps the prisoner was akin most closely to an untrained and rebellious house pet. Perhaps the prisoner just needed a small pat on the back to eradicate these periods of flotsamic and jetsamic drifting to the forbidden nether regions of thought and action. Blank stares ran encircles. Perhaps.

Yet the prisoner was perplexed by the propensity he had for perhapsing prodigiously, even in the strict, clear light of knowledge forced upon him towards better time spent gratified before the optimistic dream of a future fulfilled befittingly within explicit material concerns. Unbeknownst to the delegation, deep-hidden reminders were consoling him with fresheted wavelets arising from hidden reality's subtle and obscure tideworkings. Drinking from the wet lip of a smooth bracket fungus grown high on the trunk of a black poplar, fingertips pressed into dark green moss, the prisoner pondered dejectedly, standing clear to stumble about through the dewed trunks that formed the walls of his recreation yard, the clock ticking, too slowly, too quickly. True, he had made money in the northwest, but he had also been so eclipsed by afferent tendencies rampant in the void therein (and thereabouts) that a skew now decided even the simplest tasks of ordinary socialization against him. So, what then was monetary proliferation but an eclipse-skewing void?

And while the meander of Number 23 from the nectars of Lake Nippising to the palatial stateliness of the township of Sturgeon Falls had a torpid and even gaseous effect upon the conscious mind, being marked only by the repetition of the magnificent and historic CN railway line to the south and the picturesque provincial forests sloping a blur northward above the ditch, the prisoner (outfitted with living bonds of entwined bracken ferns and tiger lilies) was (remarkably) able to regain a partial sense of alleviation from his inflicted and conflicted ills, due in small part to the opportune dismantling of the tar and nicotine-stinking northwall of his cell, for the delegation came next to land with much pomp and ceremony in North Bay.

Once more, the scraps of road kill carcasses were duly sprayed from the chrome-platinum fuselage by Markus Davidus Stevens Moses. Throughout this activity, he pandered his gaze idly about amidst the landing gear in order to scrutinize the white calves exiting, pair by pair. Mechanically stroking away the broken feathers, ripped butterflies and muskrat entrails, his pupils became dilated at the first intimations of the approaching click click clack of minute, doe-like hoof clatter. Then, after the interval, (reclining below the wheel struts to work with a wire brush and a shammy) this slippery, grouper-jowled moray spreagle restudied with fastidious distraction all of the white calves reclimbing the yardarm for the vestibule, pair by pair.

Meanwhile, the company of respected and respectable, youthful executive-class men had arrived, fashioning themselves into a glimmering pearl strand lynch mob upon the tarmac in surrounds of the gang ramp, and it was here that the unfortunate prisoner was fisticuffed and hoodwinked away from the strict control of the delegation. Just before the adjunct sentence of tar and feathers and swaddlement in hockey culture regalia could be ritually enacted, a marijuana cigarette was procured and lit by none other than The Black Crappie himself, and in the great civic tradition, utilizing the consented form handed down by the federally-sanctioned N. S. B., as displayed at Expo67, whereat the greatest of great national heroes: William Lyon McKenzie, Lester B. Pearson, John George Diefenbaker, James Shaver Woodsworth, Joey R. Smallwood, the Wide, the Tall, the Cold and all, and so many others, were saluted for having given their life to this great country: land of the silver birch, home of the beaver, rumpus room of the complacent, gravel pit of the feckless; and with local M.P.'s sounding ponderous speeches as buttons and industrial tax rebates were dispersed over hundred dollar plates of boiled hock and cabbage, camera flashes popping and smiles stretching wide, the entire scene being televised simultaneously to national audiences in four time zones in conjunction with hospital and library and daycare and homeless shelter closings, all under a rain of golf balls and beer bottle caps, with three none-too-small Newfoundland pups being crushed underneath so many heavy, black-soled rubber shoes. Lies and a dozen glad hands were swapped by the tribunal in versus, each member of the company relating a statistical number of unspeakable and reprehensible acts committed in the last twelve hours throughout the entire concrete-swatch of southern Ontario, which was properly recorded as being exactly 891, 190 acts-one for every square kilometre of land. Autographs were dispersed in swaggering cursive from each member of the company to the bevy of summer's parboiled seniors, all of which had been camped-out in a massive circle of R.V.'s through an entire fortnight of patient anticipation. 

As the prisoner was walled-up once more in his cell and the craft began to nudge itself away from the throng, the O.P.P. arrived, finally, festooning the parade with its laconic presence and the dull-bleating sirens pouring from its hoys, yawls and skipjack bullies, sending the gravitated swarm of boychildren (as ground squirrels from out of flooded tunnels do flee) to find alleviation of their pent-up energies in erstwhile pursuits at elsewhere locations. Twenty-three windows were summarily broken. Dozens of pickets were stripped. And each boychild least familiar to his peers was forced to eat the live brains of the first kitten that the quickest familiar boychild could capture and present.

Taking a snapshot on his plastic throwaway of one (unfortunate) boychild (forced to) wearing a freshly-severed codhead (in order to keep his shins unbroken and his future secure), the prisoner-having received a token pat on the back from the rubber-pawed, bristle-necked lamprey-was sequestered up from his cell after the vessel had left sight of North Bay, this time in order to participate, upon federal injunction, in a scientific experiment in which he was surgically-fitted with nictitating membranes upon his eyes and under his eyelids, all done through a noisome procedure in the ship's medical room under glaring florescent light. Afterwards, the prisoner was ordered forward to respond appropriately to a long series of charts, which, as far as he could ascertain, could only be decoded with an infrared system or a set of prepared eyeglasses, as the tone and legibility of the markings upon the charts were of such inscrutable natures across the fine texture of the stock upon which they were printed that he could no more bring himself to make out their printed details any more than he could bring himself to pinch the ampleness of one of the delegates teenage daughters through her chemise, however much he had been cajoled to perform this staid, conventional rite back in North Bay. As for the charts, there was sheen and shimmer of imprecise and almost visible markings denoting the form of a text and some kind of accompanying illustrations, but these selfsame marks were of such marginal inscription as to be mainly invisible to the naked eye, except at particularly severe angles for uncertain moments of the quickest and most intense demonstrations of forced eyestrain.

"Jeez, lost yer Ha-Ha? Who pissed in yer fuckin' corn flakes this mornin'?" one of the delegates offered the prisoner with brusque encouragement, slapping him across the shoulder with a grease-stained sports cap. Summer's dust and autumn's dandruff floated through the strict band of light glaring in through the bus' small windows. The delegate then replaced his cap and tucked his stringy, ashtray-grey hair back up under its restrictive band. Then he licked his fingertips, still holding the prisoner's gaze, as any real man would, and reached down to wipe his fingers upon his shirt front, sneering slowly as he raised his left hand up once more, making a gesture as if to strike the prisoner with the back of a hairy hand. The delegate flinched his elbow and wrist and strained the features of his face in a moment of mock rage. The prisoner's recently applied nictitating membranes darted up by instinct (correctly), although his own human eyelids did not flinch or blink.

"Psych-" the delegate slurred, mumbling further precepts of the Popular Scatalogical Manifesto in perfunctory fashion, finishing his tirade with this pompous display: He forced his upper jaw forward a considerable degree (six centimetres) and separated it with a muscular action from the braincase of his skull. Then he wielded his entire upper jaw and teeth out in an aggressive flourish from his mouth, and all without moving his head even a perceptible amount forward. This time-recoiling in a pang of inward revulsion, although revealing as best as possible little more than an impression of annoyance and boredom-the prisoner (with four Atlantic remoras having adhered themselves diagonally across his bare shoulders) reached across to prod his bad knee, which was bent sideways at a somewhat uncomfortable angle. And these sharks-


Logos Heterodontiform


Identification A small, often rotund, deep-dwelling creature with hooks, spikes and studs jutting along its dorsal tangent. Virulent of disposition. Predatory when conspicuous, scavengate when oblivious.

Voice Monosyllabic: soporific to severe; gruff barks or dull grunts. Often a nasal onk-a-sonk! (seasonally)

Habitat Widespread over every conceivable locale (rural / urban) when immature. Somewhat more isolate when mature: remote, retiring to domestic incidence.

Range Unlimited, widespread, thriving.

Example of Species: Eejit Shillelagh (often called Idiot Club for obvious reasons), Thorny Jejune (often found permanently affixed to its bed), Lesser Knobbed Enu (described by one noted bilogosist as "most typical of the order"),  the Rubicund Hector (violent when merely confused or barely insatiate), Carmin-cowled Fescennine or Red-ruffed Fes (fiercely territorial, possessing particularly narrow-spaced ocular configuration), Snagcoat Dotard (slow-moving subspecies with poor hygiene: captured specimens often have pelts entangled with nondescript debris), Vapid Scupperneck (scavenging species with incongruous, often non-existent social habituation).


Logos Pristiophoriform


Identification A slender order whose snouts are edged with tiny fleshy barbs. Somewhat sleek in appearance (serpentine). Having bottom-dwelling, primarily scavenging tendencies. Unpredictable and fallacious in nature (note distinguishing posture and brow angle, familiar grin).

Voice Sophistic multisyllabic, repetitive. Suave plea variable to an abrupt whinging: Often a twanging be-cos, be-cos, be-cos, be-cos.

Habitat Nocturnally abundant at concourse junctions, shorelines, watering holes, gravel or sandbars, etc...

Range Adjacent to Logos Heterodontiform when immature, but prevalent to moulting and calving grounds, perimeter of schools, congregational areas of prey when partly mature.

Example of Species: Double-crested Doyen (remarkable variability in scale and form of upper protrusion "fetters" does supersede species' ability to manoeuvre and navigate over its habitat in a fostering manner), Peculated Vizard (white and black phases lay eggs in each other's nests: so dispersing the phases but without any genetic mingling. Mature mate only in their phases), Eastern Pinchbeck Filcher (infamous for completely parasitic behaviour in entire spectrum of life cycle), Vituperated Shamjack (incredibly loud considering diminutive scale), Rackety Obloquy or Moustachioed Obluquy or Gobshite Obloquy (species possesses the alarming practice of hiding in silt in order to attack and devour its own immature offspring).


Skirting the Quebec border, the prison ship and its entourage of screeching, deafening din passed like a gallstone near the Rivière des Outaouais, well on its way to Petawawa, on schedule. The towns now lay like so many dead and rotting giants of the oldest lumbering camps, scattered through the acid spaces they had burned out in the forests during their fervent ruptures. Smouldering scabs of the few remaining upright constructions jutted blackened, exposed ribs and vertebrae above the grey sludge of the sunken and decomposing infrastructure, wall after wall and in some cases entire blocks of collapsed buildings splayed out in fluid swills of ashen grey, sinking through these shimmering heats of summer. The slits of gaping mouths fell slowly further apart into larger and larger pond forms of damp stain, conjoining to reveal transparent gums and translucent municipal tongues corrupted with blooming parcels of mould. The prisoner (shaved bald, the number 23 tattooed upon the middle of his forehead) sensed that the delegate's craft was approaching some great evil. And, then, as if by a precognitive summons, one unimaginably immense eye (half open and caught in the blurred sightlessness of entrophy's stupor) became visible just above the horizon, illuminated by the refinery explosions and neglected factory wildfires that blemished the distant and nearer hills. This blank eye pointed vacantly down from the southeast, reflecting the anarchistic turmoil of the contemporary breadth of the Upper Canadian Landscape. And that sound, of industrial fulcrum friction at the pivot point, did swell outwards in a distended career through the nearby mixed deciduous-coniferous forests, resonating in frequency beyond any identifiable timbre of measurable amplitude. It stripped the branches from the hoary elms and the tender, pale birches, levelling the low brush of the elderberry and alder understory, sending dogwood petals and arnica leaves in a tatter storm, demolishing outright the tallest crowns of the spruce and fir canopy, flattening entire slough colonies of dwarf birch and glaucous willow.

Pious carousels of fleeing woodrats riding crossfoxes began to surge in succession upon the wake of wreaths of pine martens clinging to the backs of white-tailed deer bent upon the heels of spinning radial waves of star-nosed moles knotted across the withers of clamouring moose, all spiralling in chaotic charges over the ranks of meadow voles burrowed into the pelts of eastern bobcats, themselves scurrying spoke-like through a dispersing spray of bark and spinning leaves before the immense forms of two stamping, blasting tornadoes, each borne hard and suddenly of an orange and black thunderhead that came quick in its descent from the Huron district, bringing an unwanted darkling of day evening upon its wake.

Agog with ominous meteorological strategy and draped ceremoniously about the shoulders with a purple satin banner, this Blasepheme strode forward across the brunt of the Canadian shield, carrying itself amidst tearing flames of indescribable noise. Birds, unable to fly (and others) began to crawl about on their bellies, crying out in shock and despair; smaller rodents (and others) expired almost directly from consciousness due to such an immediate outpouring of sudden terror. Streets and floors and sidewalks of metropolitan areas shivered like water below the thunder of distant and near resonations, the glass and metal surfaces of walls corrupting, being dashed, tearing, as much from the flailing of tails, flippers, hooves, elbows and shoulders forced explicably away as from the discharge of such constant, unimaginable, omnipotent forces. Nearest the apex, each tire on every vehicle exploded from heat radiation and all wings of all crafts airborne or not withered amidst the sudden, dropping wall of turbulence. The prows and sterns of water vessels crumpled before the abrupt retreat of instant tsunamis, and each pressure-treated power pole within a two-kilometre radius of the Blasepheme was vibrated into scatters of dust and smoke. The burned oil stench of friction pervaded all. Still, the great form continued its approach, angling from the southeast, vanquishing the Ottawa River, poisoning the Riviére Gatineau, evaporating multitudes of small lakes, ponds and streamcourses along its progress. And the sky, it was obscured further towards complete darkness with each belch from the inhuman throat. The broadening maw of the unzipped gob sparkled with the glow of thousands of retreating angels, each dispersing upwards, having abandoned the exhausted carcass of a town or village, left to collapse in ashen ruin beyond the oppressive, all-consuming stench. And yet this obscene beast, this monster, visible as nothing more than a hugely misshapen head rammed down upon two black legs, it came forth to straddle the provincial seam with its dangling protuberance.

The delegates, their carrier, and their prisoner, now were forced to halt, having found themselves marooned within an immense sea of filth, which had spread finally to contain eight of the surrounding counties. Quaking, literally, above the carnal noise of swarming creatures bursting beyond their abilities over the land in seemingly impossible numbers-all leaping, snorting, scrabbling about-torn within the barrage of limbs, obliterated to all sense of direction, reason, time, faith and gravity, the surface of this sea of terror was indeed a disorienting and paralytic sight. The prisoner covered his head once more, however in vain, to blot out the world.


Pochade

(fâcheux: étendu)


Yet, it was only after a length of time was cut like a cord that a sort of silence began to gather amongst the disturbed air of these nearabout ruinations, almost as if the physical properties of sound itself had also been perforated and dashed as well, dribbling away to nowhere along unseen streams of quiet nothingness. And this fetid lava (immondice: touchant), this marbled sea of slag, it churned slowly about with crumpled automobiles and spinning shards of flaming houses, it flowed engorged with lopsided steel girder teeth and splintered tree root masses, entwined about with charred electrical cables and contorted pipes: the useless idiot strings of everything lost. 

Surrounding all sides of this tiny height of land-now a small island (in reality, a hogsback esker left after the retreat of the last glacier, some 12,700 years before), the lava swept along, giving transport Number 23 the odd phenomenon of perceived forward motion. And oncoming upon the sweep and flow of the crests of the steaming black and red tide were hundreds of doomed and helpless creatures, each clinging for a few last moments to what fire-edged masses they found themselves upon, the very next moment being unceremoniously engulfed by flames, and all within a strange, unbroken silence (faire taire: assagir).

And so it was not the sound of any outdoor rumblings that the prisoner imagined he could hear, which had become prominent in the space of his thoughts. No, he confirmed as he craned his neck to view through the splatters across his small window. It was in fact the physical sensation of his own blood coursing through his veins (gargouiillement), thudding propulsively through his inner ears. A pair of frail-limbed figures drifted slowly into view upon a slow, sinking wedge of compact earth and turf. With the slow poetry of motion so cliché and yet so true to those sensing death's imminent approach, the small fragment of earth revolved as it shrank upon the advancing tide of lava. Little orange teeth leapt about their last safety's perimeter, consuming ripped roots and leaves and the small, wildly scurrying ants, all within tiny bright bites and gulps of smoke. Nearly submerged, save for the final centre of refuge where the two unmoving figures huddled (these being the last brother and sister of direct descent from the Oujé-Bougoumou First Nation) the floating island (actually, a chunk of the manicured lawn from the lee side of the Sparks street mall) flashed with overrunning, silent flames, the many brightly clapping hands reaching to renew its form with such a new turf of the kind that now slanted and danced with raging orange all around. Then, a waif of smoke snatched up the death of the two crippled figures (dévorer) and their gentle plunge into the lava was marked only with an infolding pause upon the surface of roiling magma, save for one last pelican feather leaping into a last blue white flame. The prisoner remained with his forehead pressed against the spattered window. He pulled the jacket from over his head. He stared with transfixed solemnity, watching the solidifying crust for many more silent hours, hoping only in the process of waiting for any possibility of a future beyond the waking distend of such seeming impossibility (yeux: inquiétude; craintif; couver).


Un Pays Rongé par la Vermine


Beginning to trace its new path through the dim space allowed after the passing of the terrible beast, Number 23 groaned its way forward. And so it was that the delegates carried forward once more with their prisoner and their duty, however delayed in having to follow the solidified volcanic rivers that ran about everywhere and yet nowhere below hillsides and crests bristling thin skeleton forests. The craft angled its careful and slow way past and through the glowing pits and mounds of dying fires amongst various ruins still glowing, winking casts of phosphorescent radioactivity and various luminous electrical and chemical phenomenon (gaspillage: fantomatique) revealing each few metres of ground that could be covered. Dragged forward by a small army of harnessed refugees (each dressed in sweaty beaver hats and cinder-marred Hudson Bay blankets, trudging along upon Algonquin snowshoes bueblack with carbon flakes), the partially-damaged transport slid most easily along over a freshly-laid bed of Oolichan oil, its progress being directed by a supervisory committee of retired industrial operations managers from the Mulroney era-one from each province and territory (except Newfoundland, neglected this time by the providence of happenstance). And the dilapidated craft crept ever onwards towards the St. Lawrence Seaway. 

Under the cover of a fateful midday pallor, desperate citizens distraught after the forced abandonment of their Frontenac county cottages gave symbolic sign of their support of the delegation by advancing in groups of five to six and six to five and intermittently storming the charred outer hull of Number 23, climbing its hull to erect taxidermy specimens of threatened, endangered, extinct and extirpated wildlife species from the dynamic breadth of Canada's Boreal and Arctic regions, hedging the entire circumference of the vessel's deck and its prow's edge with this odd, glass-eyed tribute. In further testament to the delegate's popular manifesto (secourir), these same private citizens (arriving by jet-ski, snowmobile, ATV, motorcycle and ultralight), armed with 3 kilogram sledges, set about bolting down, hammering fast and bracing forth as many formaldehyde-cured visages of Whooping cranes, Eastern wolverines, Great auks, Sea mink, Eastern cougars, Atlantic walruses, Leatherback turtles, Spotted owls, Vancouver Island marmots, Arctic peregrines, Black-footed ferrets, Peary caribou, Labrador marten and Eastern grizzly bears as could be procured and set forth in such a bizarre conglomeration of feather, wire, fur, foam, straw, moths, sinew, string and fibreglass, their snarling or merely activated forms seeming to dance frozen above the windows of the delegation's immense, slave-drawn sledge. Silhouettes of the figures being lashed high along the rail were visible moment to moment as leaping shadows across the crust of the lava below, puppeted to the macabre under the glow cast about from the coming and going of the rushing mobs' recreational vehicle's headlights streaking up and down the hills on both sides. 

And then came the seeming directionless buzzing and thumping and whump whump whump, with further beams cast down to frisk the craft from searchlights reaching and groping. One, two, three federal reserve helicopters, one and two and three circling thereabout through and back and over and under the smoke and darkness, and this transformed dreadnought (chalutier: monstrueux) became further pock-marked by the continuous battery of rifle fire hailing from two, four and six federal sharpshooters (souffleur; sans le coup de crepuscule!) stationed aboard the military aircraft, each man and woman soldier and sharpshooter pining for the singular prestige of being (convaincant: nauséabound) THE MAN WHO SAVED A NATION. Yet none are able to get in close enough for a clear shot, as an obscuring cloud of ash and dust rose up with each sweep of the helicopters back and forth over the slow-moving train, and the one, two and three federal reserve helicopters were recalled to base for retrofits, repairs, timbits and double doubles, leaving the delegate's craft to grind alone through the scarified forests. The only other incident of note was the chance meeting with a Voyageur portage misdirected from Lac Deschénes in 1823, utterly lost.


Ils Disent Et Sucent Leur Cigare


"Son oeuvre est également traverse par la mort? Immanquablement je m'endors? La terre m'étreint?" asked Octave, on the left, dragging one of the nearly bald-pate birchbark canoes and stopping before the halted vessel.

"Le ruisseau?" asked René, on the right, almost completely hoarse, obviously exhausted, dragging the other of the nearly bald-pate birchbark canoes up beside his companion.

Markus Stevens Davidus Moses came forth to lean over the yardarm rail, brandishing a harpoon.

"Bruit de gravier que?" shouted Octave.

"No! But do you have any tobacco?" asked Markus Stevens Davidus Moses, shouting down from the gunwale at the two who had just trudged up to Number 23's port side.

"L'auteur désavoue plus tard ses vers qu'il-"

"Nous?"

"Par manque d'identité?"

"Où répandant ses biens, la nature, et, c'est-c'est-"

"Et, ne quittant? Noir? Déesses? Reines-mages? Pharaonnes? Prêtresses, vestals? Sylphs? Ondines? Gnomes? Salamandres étincelantes dans le noir de feu? L'étoile la comprehend. L'étoile quit s'endort aux frissons! De quipure! Laissez-le, laissez....c'est, c'est, uhrr...." asked René, his voice trailing off.

"No. Our toilets are completely shot. But do you have a couple of spare twists? A pinch even? I'm havin' one helluva nic fit up here."

Octave and René looked back and forth to one another, pausing. Both scratched at ample grey beards for a few moments, then began their entreaty once more, although frustration derailed René, who seemed of a somewhat hotter disposition.   

"Les rives du grand fleuve où l'-l'inv-"

"Dorment ses aïuex?" René wondered, seeing red.

"Merde!" Octave added, knowing what came next.

"Tabernacle!!"

"Non, avec ses rochers géants!"

"Octave! Tab-"

"Non! René! Notre, notre mere. Notre rives du grand! Notre torrides rayons! Notre profanes! Surgir pour en fermer, de barde national, bien en vue-ces profanes!"

"TA-BER-NACLE!!" shouted René, no longer capable of denying the ancient arrival of despair.

"Merde." Octave blundered, yet with some temperance, although the whites of his eyes glared sharply to one side.

"Look!" Markus Stevens Davidus Moses shouted down, clanking the harpoon along the iron rail. "Achilles cannot win over the fuckin' tortoise if he mediates on fuckin' space and fuckin' time. It's a fuckin' waste of effort. Why don't you just go home and watch a fuckin' Habs game already?"

"Poiein? Heureux qui la nuit, la connaît?" Octave reclaimed, standing firm.

"-Terre! Cria la voix d'un mousse u haut, et-les soixante-douze, et, uhn-"

"De ces forêts sans fin hantant? On vois fera connaître, avec printemps auroral. La petite flottile arriva, et plein d'horreur? Et pleuplent?"

And René threw his mostly expired canoe down in a heap of ash and forced his arms up over his head in a frantic gesture. "-Voyage fut rude, et le peril fut grand!?" he continued, relentlessly unrelenting amidst the darkness of his passion.

"Sous d'étranges climates! Je perds la distance? Et tout l'espace? L'alcool des feuilles?" Octave tried again, shouting past René with an entreaty to the one above. "Qu' elle ne comprend pas, d'étranges climates! C'etait le Canada mystérieux sombre?"

"Well, then," Markus Stevens Davidus Moses wondered, shouting down, waving the questions aside, for there was nothing to be done. "How about some rum? Got any rum then?"

"-Sol plein d'horror tragidique, et, et, et de secrets-"

"-Sans nombre!" René added for punctuation, turning to kick an easy hole in the bottom of his brittle, crumbling canoe. Then he turned back to face his companion with one of his grimmest expressions.

"Brandy?"

"Quels terribles fantômes, les vastes domes?"

"L'entrée à ces profanes?" 

"Et, et le cannibale, est là peut-être, l'oeil sanglant! Porquoi? Porquoi?" René stammered, having become wholly disarmed. He took to kicking at a pile of light grey ash that had once been the rabbit hutch of a nine-year old 4-H hopeful named Sally, his worn-out moccasin's actions sending languid plumes cascading through the near darkness. A frantic, singed moth spun once through the plumes, catching their eyes, vanishing.

"La nature, fatigue, du froid. Bruit l'espoir?" Octave spat as he spoke, holding as firmly as ever onto the cross struts of his nearly expired canoe, refusing to submit.

"Octave, j'taime du froid. J'taime! Comme consequence de toute inertie. En marche."

"Cognac, then? Hell-" Markus Stevens Davidus Moses tried one last time, attempting a casual pose from above.

"Non! Non! C'est les tragedies solaires de l'homme, en marche, en marche!" René insisted, mocking his companion, no longer paying the Anglophone above them any mind.

"René!?" Octave winced, trying to peer at his companion through the deteriorated wall of his canoe. "Les friers navigateurs iront-ils jusqu'au bout?"

"à froid, ce que vomit l'univers." René whispered to himself, near enough to a whimper. Then he reached slowly to grasp his thick grey beard in both hands and shoved it up into his mouth, whereupon he set to chewing.

The bird being the most popular animal, Markus Stevens Davidus Moses let one give flight above his fist as it flipped over the rail. Sayonara, he mumbled to himself, turning from the two disconsolate men standing below.


Le Sien éphémère sur les Débris


Having set out from Ottawa's last sprawling suburb (saignant moignons), the delegation's garbage scow was eventually abandoned to drift idle in the darkness at the whim of the tide. Navigating freely at the pull of disrupted Appalachian breezes and the lure of the distant Atlantic Ocean, it slid through the darkness past Rockland and L'Original, lolling towards the iridescent glow of Montréal (fougureux saindoux). Reduced to blunderbuss stupors and damp with Dutch courage, most of the delegates have been abandoning ship, opting for the weary dogpaddle to Hawkesbury (baguenauder:  musarder: hor's d' ètat: oeufs sur à la coque) over fulfilling (obtempérer: surseoir) their contractual obligations. Those few who remained were either dead (or dying, from excessive drink) laying about in various states and painful slumps inside the pits of rusting refrigerators or sprawled across the crumbling mould framing of burnt-out chesterfields (perdre son temps en niaiseries). Even that odd bottomfish, that sanguine gnome (mauvaise langue), that red silk bow-tied leech (sot, puce, limace), the Black crappie himself (beta), had suffered subsequent collapse due to such intolerable, unforeseen hardships (haut-le-couer) as those experienced on the last legs of the voyage. He raved about for a time on one deck or another, often times disappearing for hours on end into the noisome bowels of the transport, coming forth seldom and without a word, his eyes downcast and sullen beyond the memory of the last teenage footfalls that could no longer clitter clatter in singsong across the remnants of the arboretum.

As an eventual dawn began, it was noted by the prisoner (speckled now with minute slugs, his skin and the rags of his clothing dappled with branching eruptions of fungal mycelium) that Markus Stevens Davidus Moses (vaurien: mécréant) was noisily scrabbling about through the refuse (bas-côté) in an exaggerated state of hysterics (hérisser: torde de rire). A moment later it was clear that he was scouring the detritus and waste (bãiloon: frétiller) for what half-smoked skag butts could be found, as he would leap and exclaim and fondle certain small finds, which then he would place carefully into the pocket of his blue velvet blazer. As he performed his mad dance, the prisoner noted that this walleyed and chip-shouldered sewersprat trembled uncontrollably from time to time (qu' est-il devenu?), stammering the names of the delegate's teenage daughters (lamietes: tuile!) lost earlier (render I' âme: à tort et à travers) to the bullets of sharpshooters (il n'est pas chez lui, ce qui est dommage). 

Unnoticed, except by the prisoner, the delegation's oil-spewing frigate (vaisseau du mépris-de premier ordre) had begun to run aground (ralentir) on the shoals west of Pointe-Claire, and was sliding its way quietly and imperceptibly across the gravel ridge seam where the Ottawa River and the St. Lawerence united their forces (tourbillonner). The disintegrating carrack (vermoulu: naufrage) slowly turned itself sideways, leaned, stopped, pivoted, and eventually was forced to return its mangled steel girder face to the north, grinding to a slow halt and releasing a dank stain into the riverflow (ça y est). But the last of the last of the drunken delegates still on board had all stopped breathing (matières premières: vous y êtes? ça m'est égal), and each corpse facing upwards into the pale reveal of dawn seemed glossed with almost venial expression and composure. Markus Stevens Davidus Moses, he himself had tunnelled (déchiqueter: c'est tordant!) entirely out of sight down a rich vein of ashtray viscera, burrowing himself further and deeper into a pile (recueillement et monceau) of torn and strewn household garbage (ferraille et illimité). The prisoner (arms tattooed with writhing red snakes, his entire body white with delousing powder, his sneer practiced, his fingers stained with nicotine) sat silently, waiting, as he had now for so many hours, watching (soigneux) for the rise of a sun that is no longer familiar.

When it came, he assumed that it-this-must be a sun, for it made his retinas burn, and forced him to look away. Yet he returned to view this bright orb as it slid upwards in a fattening horizontal sliver (croûte), peering at it instead out of the side of his face, carefully, the same way he had watched as cocaine was snorted in the seats across the aisle. The distended orb edged over the top of one of the broad warehouses that had slunk forward against the retreating shadows of the riverbank horizon.

Gulls now began to call and cry in the distance, drawn on by the sunken convoy (wagon frigorifique) and its fetid market of odours (boustifaille). Eventually, the birds constructed themselves into a crown of grey-white activity in dawn's veneer of clarity, which had yet to swipe clean a reveal over Number 23 and the dank surface of the slowly troubling water. The gulls, they kept spinning on, spark-like, contagious, the first dust thrown up from morning's beaten rugs, haranguing and screaming as they darted about over the entirety of the stinking vessel, busy (lutte-changer de conduite) with the tasks of their breakfasting, even under such a foreign morning sky. The prisoner looked away, realizing the entirety of the movement of the gulls all around him, his vision distorted by moisture freed along a small release (reluire! invraisemblable!).


Purport:


Vouchsafed away from real time exercises by guywires and pulleysystems, these on display represent the eleventh and twelfth hour messages. Their ballast was reclaimed dead, borne to this location in spite of carnivorous factors and distressing decisions. What of these provincial harbingers photographed leaping backwards from stopped spines? What of these diagrammed asterixes pertaining to exuberant sanitation? And what of these charts of variable permission, these meticulous mobiles of accomplishment, all scaled masterfully to proportions of mathematic equations? Illusion perambulated and circumspect, as positioned formally here within a mechanically retouched audial landscape, is but a shallow performance honouring regions dangerous and falsified with concessions to lucrative standards of non-future consciousness. It is work from smoke: a representation of various breeds of domesticated canines attired in smoking jackets at play with billiard cues over a smooth, flocked-slate surface. It is a fictionalized history: a replica of eternity viewed from the mosaic of a repaired mirror. It is Partnership Auction Pinochle: Six-Pack Bezique: Klabberjass (Kalabrias, Klob, Klab-also, Clob, Clabber, Clobber, Clubby). Laid here upon its velvet armature, it is elevation lampooned by the general ambivalence of those free from all taste. Set within a column of prehistoric amber that has been salvaged from a soviet-era dredger at work still along the lowest shores of the Prussian sea, it is the most popular hairstyle: a One Trick Pony sold to glue, it is the tragedy of elasticity's exhaustion.

Goaled by ungulation arising from direct contours disengaged after mesmerized study, these unearthed remains-now dissected-surpass the expectations of even the most faithful of dizzied bystanders of Huberistic discipline. Nostril to tailbone, these samples are as lengthy as coffins and as muscular as horseheads. A filing cabinet crammed with floppy disks laid upon its back would hold less information, and a bathtub filled with sturgeon roe would be a comparative economic featherweight. Such are the properties of their vein-marbled purplemeats (rasped by the scavenge of time) that sugarsap streamings course freely from the skins of proximate maples and birches within a radius of up to seventy-two kilometres, stupefying arborists and exciting all manner of clergy. Below the supports temporarily sustaining these unfathomable glomerations the concrete floorings burst with mysterious robust salubriants endowed with perfect reflective qualities of such a calibre and heightened propensity that no light source is required to be blinded outright at even the slightest angled refraction, prefacing the reception of the eleventh and twelfth hour messages by their respective and presaged receivers. Titleholders of the most elite disciplines chide erudite scepticism; sardined masses of human porpoises loll dopishly before convex pixel bellies (reactionless); haughtily-poised contrivances ulcerated by the constant focus of insipient capital investment scheming reach to fondle secured billfolds; fame-dazed buddhas wring hands, sparking gold knuckles on gold knuckles; countless bent spines of downtrodden slugworkers assemble small stockpiles of cans of fèves au lard.

What of these grifted masterpieces and their perplexing contents? Why engage such uproarious hazard of curiosity in regards to a set of cumbersome antiquities pilfered from hoary retirement? Aside from the perpetuity of their alveolar tissues, what is the common hypothesis for such phenomenon as those that polarize social climate and draw broad consideration for analysis and lucubration? Surely, it must not be these evolutionary characteristics tattooed upon the inveterate coverings that speckle their forms? Could it be that these splotches, these emblems of specimen, these badges which distinguish primary sublimation are now so foreign to the sterile polish of spotless vacuity which has become the prevailing standard of conformity and convention, so distant, in fact, as to preponderate adjunct redundancy and thus dismissal upon their keen secrets? Is it truth to consider that the breadth of their weighty bulks (the most substantial proportions of their forms, indeed, even the amphorous significance of such ocellate scale) could be scorned outright and with such contempt, in favour of the current emaciated ideal of vacuous fatuity, which darts hereabout with nearly continuous brevity off of the incurious opaque plane of uncultivated contemporary spheres? Could the negation of an earnest pilgrimage for abstruse explication, discarded in response to an intermittent ping of variable, momentary sensation, be enduring accomplishment for those contemporary sectarians of irresolute neo-politic imprudence? Yet even the virus of such rampantly inconclusive designation could not possibly infect so strict a doctrine of conventional precept without such wholesale collaboration as has become universally appropriate and content. Or could it? Mere shabby museum pieces have these sempiternal reliquarians become, neglected to waste below the benighted sensualist paradigm of the monophrase derived from the monocerebration: (UGLY FAT AND SPOTTY)

Woe to the didactic measure of the experiential, placed here beyond even tertial award to folliculate within the lowest of the obscurities, to fade ignis fatuus before the wanton, repugnant suppuration of corporeal solutions pointlessly interchanged between disillusioned apprentices drowsed to the neglect of their ateliers. Integumentally scraping, such clodpatic mooncalves will but submit to disconsolate practice of standard progenition, so fulfilling the formal decorum of boetian incessance. "Brandishing the caestus of prime fatuity, the coetaneous medium state shall unite with itself!" The
vanguard of this ubiquitous Babylonian comport is embellished with a veneer of platinum, gold, chromium, iodized nickel alloy, crafted jadestone, sculpted gemstone, mother of pearl and turquoise inlay (all gilded seamlessly over its coagulant form of processed beef, pork and poultry by-products and moulded into any compound relative axiom proportion congruent with current consumer desideratum). Cautiously infixed within each imminent epoch's medial gluteus avenue, these prosthetic regulatory enablers propitiate a strong palliative effect within the cognizant habituation of each insensate pedestrian vermiculate (also providing a partial explanation as to the survival of the coelacanth): fitting adeptly as they do within the hollowed spine.

So the general pasquinade of reformate introspection has become perfected within such complete and abject plenipotentiality as to debase the expeditious investigator from all latescent proclivity towards elucidate manoeuvring. Much in the same manner that disease will often devastate the untenable and fragile members of an animal species during terms of cyclic overpopulation, such has fecundate inspiration (ie: compassionate imaginativeness, original initiation, etc.) become eliminate in response to the disordered environment manifest with atrocities as opprobrius and destructive as they are unimaginably terminate, so dismissing into being the absurd exigent form that is now: inhumane and utterly incapable of fostering the essence of ingenious and productive correspondence or altruistic communication upon the impendency of the effulgent obscurrealistic and dereconstructivist egalitarian motive.

Yet the accomplishment was incontrovertible, and the methodical fugitive now revolved the remodelled article about with almost sybaritic gratification. Though the execution of the procedure had eclipsed the entirety of an itinerary commencing from the dept of Aroostook through to Quispamsis station, covering an uninterrupted period greater than five hours, this ingenious insurgent was unreservedly reconciled and recomposed once more upon a placid tarn in view of a comely loch outdistanced from offensive discharges. The converted item had been prodded, managed, treated, manipulated, contorted, persuaded, shaped, curved, negotiated and inveigled but had not been torn, damaged, bent or even creased in any way. The runagate savant held the paper envelope up to view the perfect conversion of its partly transparent form, aided by bright afternoon light as it descended through the bus window. The folded pages of one of her letters lay as they had over the itinerant period: set between the upholstery and a bank of creased and flapping paperbacks, each of which had been previously examined and surveyed in a multiplicity of perspectives akin to techniques perambulatory and impromptu, much in the same way that a flavourful stew is sampled continuously with a wooden spoon during it's slow cooking, or as a shoe is fitted and tried and scrutinized for its comfort and amelioration, plain manual service and pragmatic value, or perhaps as a fond acquaintance is found and established: with subtle gestures posed and observances of likewise response noted gladly, the gleamings of intimate electricity channelled and focussed, or as alchemy was once affected: within a heightened aura of potential discovery, at the presupposition of magical inherence, and with the prospect of finding treasures hidden in otherwise base elementaries. Attuned within his circadian forces and inclined towards an atomical perspective, this disparagate renegade became momentarily renewed with such elation as can only be derived from  extended mechanical cogitation (work) and was rejuvenated thus under an accompanying sublimate parallax within its precise cessation. Nauwigewauk, Petitcodiak and Moncton were advanced in turn as this eccentric mutineer was drawn deeper into the Westmorlands, lolling along a coalescent entanglement of apothogms.

At berth within the generous estuary of an exhilarant oblique view (with circulating impressions curvilinear undulating hieroglyphic propinquity, as if expressing the locus of a mercurial juncture, complete and yet involute with wily peculiarities, all dodging, reluctant to be discerned lest their perplexing visceral designs become befouled or exploited: There are sharks swarming about), this preteræsthete became ravelled within shimmering facets of multitudinous fingerling inventions: How many will never reach the sea? Teeming circulations of trace gestures outlined an augural probity, rippling rolling rushing, surging and swirling, smudging smearing streaking and stroking their acumens of evanescent instinct upon the pervious appetite of schismatic prodigy (however much sentenced to periodic lassitude), actuating equivalent and direct consolations of spontaneous application where necessity impels. And another appurtenance. 

With all raptorial predications aside, this sagacious compeer of the ambiguous disciplines could now recognize the onset of a re-established capability to gauge the completion mark of his bereavement term. The sign flashes by, barely illuminated by the bus's headlights. Less than 300 kilometres to go: Sackville. Aulac. Amhurst. Through the Cumberland Heights and over the Cobequid mountains. Then east and south to Brookfield and Truro and Stewiacke. With a stop in Shubenacadie to disperse weary compatriot shufflers off towards Annapolis Royal and Digby Neck over on St. Mary's Bay and down to Metaghan and points south over the cape. Then on past Enfield and Wellington through a drazzle of sparkling street beacons dripping summer rain. Fletcher's Lake glows flat with silvergold splotches from lakeside residence's porchlamps yet unsnuffed.

And so the rejuvenate craftswain collects his abacuses and his scrolls and his half-formulated hypotheses and his carbon etchings of isosceles triangulation theories for atonal sound composition and packs up his deconstructed pawl rotators and his scale model replicas of ratlin shroud ladders. He stuffs away his whittled pinewood tetrahedrons and arranges his magazine cut-outs of albino mammals and Inuit princesses and carefully stows his slates and planers and scrapers, wrapping them in hand-made felt taken from the hands of the very hand-maker. Then he stacks his books (they are bursting from their covers like tattered blossoms) and he gathers his drawings and his half-wrought poems and dead-ended essays and smoothes flat the last of his coffee-stained horological notes, absently folding down his piscatorial diagrams in overview-vantage perspective. He tucks many lacuna-ridden pages of nebulous prose between two tempera-smeared masonite panels (the images thereupon depicting weasels leaping ballet-like from the backs of contorted figures-rendered in a style vaguely reminiscent of the Quebecois painter Ozias Leduc, though as if done while drunk on horseback at full trot). Next, he discards the spent rounds of pens and the hollows of exhausted mechanical pencils and brushes the shavings, splinters, crumbs of charcoal, seeds of erasers, buds of cloth, scabs of paint, grubs of glue, honeycombed balls of crumpled paper, spider-leg trimmings of thread, beard-like cuttings of electronics wire and the many other various detritus parings down onto an epoxy-stained map of transparent newsprint that once was the Globe and Mail commerce section. He crumples the entire collection into a large ball and stuffs this into the flimsy plastic wastebag that hangs on the wall below the bus' smeary window.