The beginning of an ignorable achievement

I wrote a little text and then felt annoyed at where it was going, so I decided to publish what I had, to force my future self into trying to figure out where to go with this mess. (I sure hope I like it!)

[I got tired of graffiti-ing tygers onto junk ads, so, for the next few days, the obligatory images that accompany these announcements will be just lazy attempts at hand-drawing copies of ad photos with felt tip marker.]

P.S.

In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.

Chapter Forty-Five

Well, that was fun,” I say, waking up from the accomplished dream-mission. “Now, because of our efforts, that young couple is no longer star-crossed, and the poet can end his epic on a high note.”

“That lad was really in the doldrums,” sez Myala, “until we came along. No doubt, he’ll always remember our intervention as a pivotal point in the middle of his own journey. I’m glad we jumped at this chance and removed the Covering Cherub, which was blocking his soul-mate from requiting his affection.”

Sighing, I say: “I enjoy playing matchmaker. I also enjoy being, as Whitman sez, ‘A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest’.”

“And I forgot how much I enjoy smoking cigarettes in dream-visions,” Myala sez.

Now I rise up on all fours and go unzip the tent’s entry-flap. Looking out at our surroundings, I exclaim:

“O! I forgot how barren and bleak this landscape is. If it’s true that there really are no accidents, I wonder why we wanted to set up camp here.”

I pace over and lower my vast Tyger-head into the water and submerge it entirely again and drink deeply; then I come up, gasping for air, and shout:

“Faugh! I forgot how bad this seawater tastes: We basically bivouacked near a standing body of poison.”

Myala exits the tent and sez: “Let’s break down this tabernacle and continue wandering around.”

“Good idea,” I begin to dismantle the poles; “maybe we’ll stumble upon something more interesting than wasteland and wilderness.”

So we pack up our portable shelter and begin to skulk forward.

“Which direction are we going?” I ask Myala.

“North-North-West,” she replies. “I can tell from the position of the heavenly bodies.”

“Do you really think we should wander around all curvily and in circles,” I say, “without any concern for the compass, just following our whim; or . . .”

But, before I can finish my question, we encounter a King. — He’s a mangy one, even for royalty.

“I am King Lush-Green,” he startles me with this outburst; “I own that ocean that you stole from. What are you doing here!?”

“You, Sir,” I say, “are the first Orangutan we’ve met in a while. The last earthly town that we visited was exclusively human; which was also the case for our most recent adventure in Dreamland. Pleased to meet you,” I raise my forepaw for a high-five; “and sorry for sipping from your sea: I don’t even like the taste of these waters, which are toxic to us living creatures — I just forgot how bad everything was here. My name’s Bryan, and this here’s my soul-mate Myala.”

The Orangutan King Lush-Green looks back and forth, from me to my travelmate; then shouts: “Mister Tyger, are you sure that this Glowing Black Panther is your soul-mate and not your sibling?”

“Well,” I cock my vast Tyger-head, slightly fazed by this Great Ape’s line of questioning, “in a sense, you could call her my sibling — for, as Whitman sez: ‘all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers’; but Myala and I are not technically related, because neither of us were ever born (and we’re likewise fairly sure that we’ll never die); so we have no parents, thus we cannot trace our lineage back on the FAMILY TREE OF LIFE to the very first animal, that single-cell self-sickle. No, in sooth, we simply enjoy each other’s company — whether we’re leaning and loafing at our ease, or engaging in deadly adventures, we never tire of each other.”

Myala adds: “Why do you ask, Your Majesty?”

“I ask, Ms. Panther,” sez King Lush-Green the Orangutan, “because I would ordain you to be my own soul-mate if you weren’t officially registered as someone else’s. Do you two have your paperwork, to prove this bond?”

I’m slow-on-the-draw here: “Your domain requires documentation of friendship?”

“Of course,” sez the King. “This is a land of law and order.”

I stare at King Lush-Green sidewise for a few beats, hoping that he’ll begin laughing and reveal that he was only attempting to joke. Lamentably, however, he just stands there with arms crossed, puffing out his chest like a micro Mussolini.

“I’m afraid we never hired any bureaucrat to notarize our love,” I hang my head in mock-shame. “So . . . what happens now?”

The King’s countenance is stern as he declares: “You have been caught fraternizing illegally. Moreover, I am afraid that, as the ox licketh up the grass of the field, you will sip all our saltwater; for I have witnessed the way that you drink. Therefore I shall send a team of lawyers unto our professional prophet Balaam, who works in the Dry District; and this legal team shall inform him of your presence and bring him up to speed about how suspicious you two are. I shall puppet them to say:

“‘Beware! a Burning Tyger is loose in our countryside, and he is shadowed by a Glowing Black Panther. This pair of jungle beasts has come out here to enjoy our Wasteland Wilderness, and now I fear that they shall suck all the salt from our sea. Additionally they have neglected to obtain written permission to enter into companionship, nevertheless I discovered them skulking about as travel-mates. Behold, they cover the face of the earth, they’re so large; and they abide over against our Highest King. Come now, therefore, I pray thee, curse us these tourists; for they are too mighty for us to sic our Police Force upon, as we would usually do. Peradventure thou, O Balaam, shall prevail against them, by beguiling them with thy wizardry — for we have heard that thou offerest hypnotic healing online, in one-on-one sessions for sensual therapy, and that thou hast mastered the science of the Singing Crystal Bowls. Now, we understand that the aim of thy business is primarily to pamper thy clientele; but our Highest King Lush-Green was thinking as follows: Maybe thou couldst alter the polarity of thine energy-stream, so as to reverse it (just this once) from good to evil: since, in that case, we may drive this Tyger and Panther out of the land. For we wot that whosoever thou blessest is blessed, and whosoever thou cursest is cursed.’”

And while the voiceover of the King’s puppet-speech above is being accompanied by a montage of images representing each of the details of his masterplan, I Bryan and my illegal soul-mate Myala have been creeping away, in hopes of avoiding confrontation; for there is no way that any encounter could turn out well for our enemies, and we simply would rather just get out of this part of the globe: it holds little interest to either of us (I don’t know why I brought us this way, to be honest; I should’ve planned out a different route of navigation, instead of winging it).

Myala and I are able to get as far as an alleyway that has been spray-painted by underground artists. So we stop and lie down there to look at all these pictures and the writing on the wall.