Narcissus-X Follows the Whispering Nostrils

Nostrils of Narcussus-X whisper silent songs of dirigible dance.

Do none mourn the mockingbird? Shall no one mock the roc? Mockable roc: flightless in physics, yet mighty in myth. And myth takes are likely unless the manual is thoroughly read.

Manuel! Servant of Fawlty, native of Spain, student of English and eager to learn.

To learn, perchance to think: aye, that's the rub. For in that learning comes sleep deep as death. You'd think they'd have better air conditioning in those classrooms.

Classrooms. Narcissus-X has known classrooms. Desks in columns under rectilinear array of acoustic accouterments in planar alignment: softening sound, dulling thought. Drone of the pedant, patiently plodding through pastures of preferences. Ostentatious offerings of overtilled fields of study.

The whisper.

Narcissus-X hears the whisper.

Hears the silent whisper.

Nostrils of Narcussus-X whisper silent songs of dirigible dance. Thought's dirigible dance carries Narcissus-X to - What?

No matter.

For Narcissus-X follows the silently whispered song.

Narcissus-X Contemplates the Penguins of Rancor

Iridescent onyx, pale depths of sombre pitch and sway of a deck in some ancient gale. A thousand coats of atramentum tectorium will not hide sable stains of charcoal thoughts.

Narcissus-X had that dream again: Grim penguins with loon-red eyes rise up and cry, "where are the fish? There ought to be fish! We must have our fish!"

Then the red soil of Biwabik and Buhl trembled as malignant moose meandered meaninglessly while manic mice munched moorings and mansions crumbled.

But terrible penguins abound in unrelenting malice, marching, marching, marching to the sea. Their eyes of flame! Loon-red eyes of flame! Loon-red eyes of flame, transfixing gaze of illimitable malevolence, rancor without end, vicious venom of vindictiveness piercing flesh and mind. Will none defend the borogoves? Must the vorpal sword be drawn? Begone! And leave my sight! Banquo's inheritance is secure, but at what cost?

Both heard alike, but the choice! The choice!

Narcissus-X Among Toadstools of Forgotten Kings

Elephants of doom tiptoe menacingly around toadstools of forgotten kings.

Alas! the aardvark cries: but not for joy. Edentate cousin of elephant shrew and elephant, ask not for whom the hyrax shrieks: it shrieks for thee.

If a million mushrooms sprang from a million stumps in a million forests, would a woodchuck chuck wood?

Pale parabolas of muted joy sprout inverted ailerons while gyres of untamed dream sing nightsongs of flightless birds and you'd think they'd have at least covered his face but there is no accounting taste, for the proof is in the pudding and in veritas vino veni vidi vici which sounds funny if pronounced the way mighty Caesar would have spoken for but someone took it anyway there is none but the lonely heart of aortic attraction dispelling the shades of forgotten stones that roll and gather no moss.

Does Morris Quigly dance with Eleanor Rigby?

Narcissus-X Broods on Anguish and Art

Brooding gnostic conundrums drumming dreary dirges of dysfunctionally dichotomic dialectic. The corpus callosum of Narcissus-X a battleground of reason and ardor, affections of wonder assaulted by lances of logic!

The Artist suffers for Art, but enough!

Narcissus-X has suffered for Art. Perhaps now Narcissus-X should make others suffer!

Narcissus-X Broods on Flawed Inspiration

Thirteenth day. The fifth month, yet not the fifth day in that arbitrary cycle which begins with a day of the moon and ends with a day of the sun.

Thirteen. Thought unlucky. Thought is fleeting, art is not.

Ars longa, vita brevis; e pluribus unum: Caveat emptor; batteries not included.

Oh, for leaden skies and howling wind! A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse! So might cry the poet, the artist, the misunderstood genius.

But no: Narcissus-X was surrounded by blue skies and chirping birds! On a 13th that isn't even a Friday!

Narcissus-X Ponders the Unticking Clock

The ticking of a clock. Symbol of time, symbol of interval. Symbol of time past.

Narcissus-X watches the clock: silently it marks the passage of each second, each minute, each hour. One number supplants another, only to be supplanted by yet another: until the cycle is complete and begins yet again.

So sound, no movement: nothing but the ever-changing, every-unchanging cycle of phosphorescent symbols.

If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is present, does it make a sound?

If a clock runs, and Narcissus-X is present, yet it makes no sound: does time pass?

If Narcissus-X watches not the clock, will time cease to be?

Narcissus-X Wanders a Wasteland of Wonder

Mendacious minions! Duplicitous deceivers! Manic marauders! Pandering poseurs parading dramatic reenactments while announcers smile and smile and yet be villains.

What good is a lifetime guarantee, to one abandoned by creativity's spark? Narcissus-X abandons late-night promises of untold wealth and perfect julienne fries, to be marooned in a morass of iterated competitions: encounters of commonplace persons, strangely animated by tantalizing promises of riches and renown.

Narcissus-X cares not what lies behind Door Number One, Door Number Two, or Door Number Three. Word association, blind guesswork. Not even set design of decades long gone offer Narcissus-X hope of release.

Perhaps the stylized combat of geococcyx and latrans will re-awaken creative fires within Narcissus-X.