“We sex-neutral enfants terribles of supernumerary entailments, we satyr-nymph enjambments, we sylph-elf ensembles, we synallactic nephrostomous epicenes who have been fortunate enough to sneak, slither, dodge, and skirt the prude prurient gaze and textually censorious, nuncupative estrapado of the patriarchal munis and clever nuncios and have remained, thus, intacta, we have no other option, given the lack of any extant viable tradition — what, with Pan silent, the dryads dead, the nautch outlawed, and the maverick freemartin domesticated into the docile camp of your average intersexual? — to guide or constrain or inspire or encourage us, we have no other option but to embark upon the serious novelistic encounter with the singular noumenal epistēmē of our somatic nudibranchiate entelechy, and then to draft the schizomythic narrative of our exile and estrangement thereof sometime before the never unineluctable sloughing out of reality’s urochord snare transforms us into something else entirely.” “Careless and uncaring, crass, craven, fractious, meretriciously vestal, rude, intractable, ungraceful and ungracious even when she, speciously divine, pole-prances solo in front of her cunningly crafted Hawaii sex-mirror — sarcastic, arcane, acrimonious, sacrosanct, narcissistic and autarchically absent-minded, uninventive and inconsistent to a degree that would belabor Mnemosyne herself, Reality is a farcically gendered bitch prone to the most protracted bouts of loquacious lochial cramp who tends to plagiarize herself, and not in the good way. This, in a nutshell, is the cardinal thesis, the overarching raison-phare, crux vera of my Case Against Reality which I have proluded in the manner that I have supra, not simply to belabor Mandelbutter’s substitution by a wanton barmy baume blafard, but to emphasize that our mendacious pyxis war reimisch, sozusagen, mit that of another dyad’s, which invidious plagiary the sinister tyrranous racoleuse then flaunted on the most de rigueur and cutest trails and debonair ruts and cattle tracks and crepuscular and tittering streets of a city, Paris, for instance, sans pudeur! But she’s not content to spread her facetious harlotry of bravado copycattiness, her factitious erscheinlicher crap merely by plagiarizing her own idiosyncratic simulacra, tinted stromata deprecata, cack-handed musky-soil parenchyma — no, she extracts her sarcoid, mineral, and mute herbaceous bric-a-brac from the intracranial hobgoblins, the incarnate ambulacral imaginings of the live beings incarcerated in the dyscrastic prison of this, her abnormally plump pleroma. This plundered farctate mix — air, wires, wax, rime, risible nothings — of larcenous gimcrackery she’ll then scramble, splice, and cobble, rescramble, resplice, and recobble, into the sacrificial scarecrows and macaronic scaramouches formicating her anfractuous scarious macroscopic epicarp. Hence the reason we schizomythologists must needs on occasion clitalyse dreams: not because they are oracles or help us peruse secret atavisms or guide us ultimately through the broad vacant avenues of the Bardo Cave to the épipôle pic de nirvāṇa where the initiated will rub sacral sacra with the otherplace yoni-husks of exploded stars, but because our dreams are often pierced in Pavlovian places by the obscure stray nocturnal tracks and needle-lace traces of the nonchalant ruses, turgid taunts, cruel shameless canulars she utterly torments even our most achingly sweet diurnal acts with.” Circumscribed by a locus of heterolexical subjectivity, Dado Udidi (Hamiltonian) — native of Iagip, Wyo., purser and erstwhile captain’s boy aboard La Boussole des Sept Mers, graduate (1991) of the Gertrude Wells-Intrussyan Free Academy of Gertrude, Wyoming (GWIFAGW) — constructs the nut-hobbled oinkus of his absolute book, The Compass of That Sea, by constraining, through a discipline of spiral retrogression, the thematic quanta of literary blood, elevenses and nines, interatomic jest of that accent, etc., which the complementary rituals of reading and writing transform into tertiary ludict such that myth roars code to shade watch load with terror in the same nut-hobbled oinkus of this absolute book, The Compass of that Sea, constructed by Udidi at the Institute of Sociophysiology (ISOCPHYS) in which the author’s locus of heterolexical subjectivity is nautically, not to say, naughtily, circumscribed. As part two of M.—S. Strickland’s work-in-prog., Towards a Schizomythology of Ritual, Divastigations functions as a sort of distaff companion to that opus cursorium’s first part, Compass (2001). In Compass, Dado Udidi’s pugnacious, subsultory rants of diurnally solipsistic masculinity ramify into a lugubrious, palilalic rhapsody of discordant, traumatic illuminations. In Divastigations, by contrast, Ouida Willoughby Johnson’s lucubratory praxis of prosocial womaninity unspools dithyrambic axiomata of oracular carnality such that a “lucid flow of fact and fabulation,” as Ouida says, brings about a flippantly haptic, insouciantly pornocratic “ductility of glyph and word” — that is, ludict — which “molds form from form’s omission.” Undismayed by the minatory prospects of the furious deserts of inelegance, the satirical swamps of solecism, and the hyperborean heights of impropriety bristling with tautophonous thorns and swarming with the vipers of incongruity whose sought-after sting catalyzes, in the textual alchemy of the textworker’s blood, trauma’s venom into the intoxicating nectar of the fabulist’s rare art and the glairy ambrosia of the agile rimer’s gimmal’d lyrics under the tumefying influence of which alone can textwork discharge itself of. Ramshackle Incidentals charts a clean mind’s likeness in metrical chalk, daedal charms, kinetic slant chimeras, linen-slack damascene skaldic inthrallments, ideal anarchic sketches, and slick laminar similes. A crankled chant, it is; “a chance knell,” as Dr. Mañes Kirschman called it in ideal terms. Can Schälke (sick charlatans) limn delicate dark channels mistaken as I? Calm children sneer, think mad classical-chained minstrels lack a certain shame-clad skin; lack a sense, a mind; thrill careless; think manic cladeless dramatic ink-lanched kitsch is manna recalled in calm realist hack-snitched clinamen. As larks skirled chance talismanic instances, dark hell amnestied karmic challans.

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