Chapter 31 - Regarding Karl Loinpepper
Writhing and sweating Karl Loinpepper assaulted his infatuation with the hirsute metermaid, and when he could stand it no longer, his pillow...Later, from the Loinpepper tower he gazed to the frothy stars for answers to his lust...
Who knows where words come from, much less lust? Thought Karl in words. Or which came first? the thought or word, obviously the thought, he thought again in word, the gaseous dust that pulled together to form these tiny blocks that improperly gave thought form. But sometimes they just appear from a tingling tooth, a spout of steam, a twist of lemon... a hirsute metermaid...symptoms of something and nothing, portable playthings...or, perhaps, they spring from the earth, maybe they are our connection to the earth and we spout syllables in some language the earth is speaking for us, to us, through us. Pretty dumb of us to assume the earth is dumb, that we are the intelligent heirs of intelligence in this universal matter of the earth...
Two days prior he had had a sleepy daydream of the earth tracking in its orbit, that the exact orbit we are in will someday be the exact orbit the next planet out from us will slip into. He wondered how many planets have been gobbled by the sun already? One? Ten? A million? Maybe this orbit is the perfect distance from the sun, from which life can appear, thus planets closer, planets that were once in our orbit were also once living green things, Mars and Venus now shriveled to their smaller proportions by evaportion. How much smaller would the earth be if she were dried up?-- which it surely will be someday?...before it melts into the mouth of god.
Why don't our scientists ask these questions?
Why must science not dabble in imagination?
Why are their steel space peckers so fucking boring?
I will consider this and get back to you, said Karl to Cassiopia, dancing and dazzling and laughing with her billions of life giving suns...
Who knows where words come from, much less lust? Thought Karl in words. Or which came first? the thought or word, obviously the thought, he thought again in word, the gaseous dust that pulled together to form these tiny blocks that improperly gave thought form. But sometimes they just appear from a tingling tooth, a spout of steam, a twist of lemon... a hirsute metermaid...symptoms of something and nothing, portable playthings...or, perhaps, they spring from the earth, maybe they are our connection to the earth and we spout syllables in some language the earth is speaking for us, to us, through us. Pretty dumb of us to assume the earth is dumb, that we are the intelligent heirs of intelligence in this universal matter of the earth...
Two days prior he had had a sleepy daydream of the earth tracking in its orbit, that the exact orbit we are in will someday be the exact orbit the next planet out from us will slip into. He wondered how many planets have been gobbled by the sun already? One? Ten? A million? Maybe this orbit is the perfect distance from the sun, from which life can appear, thus planets closer, planets that were once in our orbit were also once living green things, Mars and Venus now shriveled to their smaller proportions by evaportion. How much smaller would the earth be if she were dried up?-- which it surely will be someday?...before it melts into the mouth of god.
Why don't our scientists ask these questions?
Why must science not dabble in imagination?
Why are their steel space peckers so fucking boring?
I will consider this and get back to you, said Karl to Cassiopia, dancing and dazzling and laughing with her billions of life giving suns...
posted by Mark S. Weber at 12:31 PM
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