Tuesday, 26 May 2020

A Home For Mr Blubbery Tussle: A Collage Novel Part Four




Those waves were also observed by the House of Ghosts, crying with laughter at the fate of the robber who sang of the Red House at the end of every day. The way through the woods, the narrow path and the whispering door: these Mr Pickering would never return to, his face an orange of obligations. “All is mystery and all is misery”, he claimed to the mouse, a cherub of wisdom and with the smile of the Knowing Darkness, who merely laughed.



In a vision, the Diadem of Subsidium found a scent of the famished hemisphere that had been written in the infamous Manuscript of International Hopscotch. A comically conical clue but one that had resulted in the fenestration of the Lamed Wufnicks. Festooned in their growths, the home of Iolanthe Feint affronted the Blubbery Tussles. The flaw in the law was that the cellar augured badly for the home – and what was this? In the festering vestibule, hugging themselves and giving pious chase, were none other than the dreaded Black Coats of Diadem of Dark Mass. And again, a gust was felt in the gibbous vestibule. 



This reduced the wisdom of Mr Blubbery Tussle, but the pipes whispered in his ear “The Orbs! The treacle! The Men are on the highway! Digging trenches”



“Wormwood of my soul!” cried Mr Blueberry Toussel. The domicile of Cagliostro Cosmos had pursued the Orbs of Flat-nosed Pete. 



Elsewhere the Orbs of the Peanut Devotion had deftly located Irma Collusion. Bordeaux Castle, where snugly hidden was the Plinth of the Eleventh Ganglions, was threatened by the foetid teeth of the Orbs of Tourniquet Mount. The helicoidal cohort shunted the domestic fortress in sceptic triumph, while the scavengers eclipsed the tumour of the pedant. “Woot! Creed! Cultivate!” cried the Magdeburg Hemispheres.



And Twenty Five Orbs, within the humid orbit of the chasm, passed the wisdom of the Goblin Archive which shuddered in shame and in vain. The House of the Isle of the Vein allowed Merry Phillip Glimmer to present his fatal victory. But in the Country of the Demented Compasses, the Olive Orbs awaited the approach to the Island of Esme.



And the actor, Lasky, knew exactly where everyone everywhere would be. His friends, in those moments, lived not by the White Horse of the road but in the exterior of tomorrow. But when he got there, the chasm opened and the Orbs and Prisms pulled him fatally within.



And in that pungent dawn, Mr Blubbery Tussle sat and thought. And as he did so the guileless song of a Ball and Hammer arose within him.



“And all is quiet now, as the sea sees the ant. The wisdom of the night weighs the doubt of the sun’s fall, the folly of guiding the paths of tomorrow and the wisdom of lamentation and love for all birds. This is the wisdom passed down from moon to sun, daughter to father until the very end.”



And the actor, Lasky, whispered “And all is quiet now, as the sea sees the ant.”



And the rest was salience.



Monday, 25 May 2020

A Home For Mr Blubbery Tussle: A Collage Novel Part Three




And meanwhile the orbs, the orbs, the orbs.



The Islands of the Vortex always made Uriel wistful. The Corresponding Altar of Happy Fathom arced light across the forest. “Hoot thee,” he chuckled, “St Boswax’ murder has foisted wisdom upon this blossom.” His companion, Azrael the Crab, had been lost until dappled flight had led her to observe the balmy wooden hat of none other than… Mr Blubbery Tussle! And with him was The Miasma of Fingeon. “What a Crimson Occasion!” she gaily thought to herself. “The most very Crimson of Them All!”



The dance had begun, all were startled by the very neverness of it. The Prisms of the Doublet and the Cordons of the After sung in unison the plainsong of night – the night of us all. And yet a shimmering dawn was seen above the crest of their Father, a Prism forming in the haze in the shape of The Lost Cleric and The Lost Button, and of the Song Thrush at Dawn.



Over their own vittles the criminal Quortex queried the Cleric Kappres: “You always did rely too much on the House of Szabo. The loss of Sorrow O’Clock has left your Sylph and Sceptre alone and unloved.” Ventle the Cleric searched herself for the mistake she knew she had made. Quortex continued: “Now you must grind the hunt for Sexton Friday. The Lost People thought his cake was the worst but it brought them the Palsy of Aureton. The Forbidden Orb is the utter witness to this.” 



The criminal thought to himself, sourly, “This augurs love – a blasted straight thought aimed at the Nine Sorties of the Dominion!” But the Cleric was sensitive to the suddenness of the change, and 
was sadly resigned to the fact that the sigil would yet meet the claims of itself.



The night had fallen and the Rise of the Scorpion and the Fall of the Binding battled within dreams that allowed for no quarter. Why did the priest allow this? thought the children. It was unlike them to worry, but today was a strange a day when their slumber had ended with a gentle crispness of a dawn that they had tasted on their open mouths. And the men were afraid, and the miners sung the song of the Chaffinch, to The One lost nevermore.



Mr Blubbery Tussle fled his conical house: hopeful and hopefully in disguise. He perceived a woof from the Contingency of Chimes, next to the Vestibule of Jubilation. The equator hinted, apocryphally, of the hunt of the 25 Satraps whose screed at the expanse of Eusebius Love had brought them back home to the islets to hunt. Furnished, and in pursuit, the spooky miasma that governed the home of Smelt the Cyclamen, blurted at the chasm where, hidden, was both the treasure of the sun… and a map. “Search for the orbs!” said the wind.



Mr Blubbery Tussle halted, feigning horror that the Spheres were afoot.



“Once more from the top!” the Culvert cried, sobbing at the House of Ghosts, a house now empty and adorned with peacock feathers. The peacocks of the night who were opposed, lightly, by the sun. “Ignorance,” said the Friar in response, “Is the bliss of the never known, the knowing of the never ought and the seeking of the devil’s eye.” That very eye sang that night and was heard by all the people who witnessed the dance of the waves.



Sunday, 24 May 2020

A Home For Mr Blubbery Tussle: A Collage Novel Part Two




The Myrtles and the Bluebells saw all this and whispered to their own shadow brethren that all was lost – and yes, all WAS lost that had not been found. That is until the barbarous Battalion of the Field came to sweep with majesty the Man with the Hat of Tomorrow. At this, the Statue and the Stature aligned themselves and assigned their selves to Glory, the theft of which had caused the whole town to nail and wash their teeth.



That wailing said: “We, the voltage, exclaim this ban with current dismay! They’ve been at this thing, and not the possibility of the large pans from Manchester of 1955, and even though we’ve done the exercise it won’t reach the three people who attend to these people. Those who attend in films are never composed of air or that air that is within the air. The direction may be with the tykes that impress you, but you will see no curves!”



And at that the actor, Lasky, shuddered.



Meanwhile Curbus carried the glistening and most hidden Shift to the Tiny Kingdom, pondering again about the sweep’s smile. Oh, that she should disband the home of that most vulgar nemesis. The chasm neared. Stopping for her own vittles at that Grim Place that was called Tuum, she approximated chaos. Then, asunder, continued her search for The Simeopath.



A punitive moth was sometimes seen by the signalmen as a portent for the building that contained what they called The Types. They who pulled in front of the sand in the morning and in the evening danced until they stood, one by one, as a protest to the dreaded AKEGENEVA. The result, as ever, was an animation whose cost was incurred by the stones that covered up both the Prisms and Orbs. The protest to hear their demands resulted in factions to see the results. And with these, the direct inquiry of the beauty employed to keep their brother succinctly. Because, as the actor Lasky privately thought, these inquiries were WORTH MAKING.



Elsewhere. That Which Had Been Found That Can Never Be Lost watched the Pharisee who spoke out towards the black heath. Somewhere a Heron laughed at a Swallow.



The machines resumed their employment. Their handy work with the Runic Devices had gone unrecognised, and the effort - linked to Ses Fonctions Isotionnaire - had been witness to the coverage of the Ore Sound. Mr Blueberry Toussel, a shadow known, overheard the honour of the selves. It began: “To go down, a round line in nature depends on the ones that drive an independent ensemble producing such fine work in these times.” Within each other there was a distinct monument that was amply met, especially the information about the furniture. But, thought the actor Lasky, they cannot do this, even in spite of the ecstatic, rolling chamber.



Cortex the Cat squandered the house of Vorhaus, just as he had squandered the Visage of Unt. He watched the Orbs float over the chasm, abandoning Calliope Heft to its depths. The cat felt first joy and then… aghast! He observed night fall upon the terrace, adorned with the raiments of wisdom of that Eldritch Hall.



Throughout the Black Night the Cowl of This Childish Dawn danced upon the lawn, singing the song of the Terrapin brothers. “The dream of night and the children they love, the end of tomorrow and the wrath thereof” they sang, “the end of the gown ground around town, and the teeth of the maestro above” All this was witnessed by the ducklings who, as ever, greeted the day with a round hallow.



The Dead Stag reached into its leather belt and produced a Theatre Map, and written thereupon was NOW AND AGAIN IT IS BROUGHT FOR THE FINISHING. This was the truth of Ruth Escobar, and her experiences of operations in independent London. But the Dead Stag privately exchanged his longing for his brother for that of the lithe pug like minors that showed him how to cross the thick bodied whiteness of the Gothic Street. This street, hidden in Plymouth as it was, allowed a viscous depth as solid as the earth itself. And then down, down to sections where gardeners were taught of the God of Contractions.



Saturday, 23 May 2020

A Home For Mr Blubbery Tussle: A Collage Novel Part One


I've been doing lots of collages during lockdown and have used similar techniques - automatic writing, cut up techniques, bits of Oulipo - to generate some text to go with it. It's all a bit odd but will be coming out a book sometime later this year. In the meantime here it is, serialised. There'll be more collages in the book itself by the way:

***


An actor’s available range depends greatly on the weights of his lady’s maids. So said the famous regime of Les Journees du Shots. In those weights, the turn of the key and the curve of the C were, in their theatre, far more pointed. The actor in question – Lasky - thought “La Nuit!! This is reminiscent of the performance contact itself.” But six performances of his revised Elijah had only uncovered in him panache. So he decided to look over some old shops and accept the looks from the passers-by. And with them he also accepted their fingers, words and, in doing so, took the actor back to a particular place. Somewhere in his past he remembered it clearly – the Dauphine! Dear old Etoile Tapadero! And then, with a creeping realisation of fear, he remembered the Mall of Guilt.



Elsewhere…



Orcady, the solipsistic fish, whose venerations regularly swept Mr Blubbery Tussle through the Alabaster Meridian, watched the beast. The beast’s holy wisdom strummed and hollered with the nostalgia that so often depressed Orcady. He searched within himself and decided that the Orbs of Kodaly would provide him with the glee he so needed. Yet he knew that the Watchmen would be there, weeping as ever in their semblance of grace. Upon a nearby carousel, Monsignor Cate Early and her pet Tibi, the Prism of Bliss, watched all this with longing, while perched on the hat of a nearby Watchman.



Elsewhere once more. Le Petit Bourgeois had agreed that the situation was perfect for exploration. Everyone had heard the transports arriving: the baby carriages – three gallons deep and middle class – were ever changing and their music silently waiting, as the toddlers - with dolls for their puddings - trembled at the sound. It was the sound of butter, of whisky and of relationships. Some kind of nurse was meeting a rodent within the city. The doctors, whose intendent intellectual shops were now clean, were taking them out of their houses, and with signs and wonders they left them on the stoop.



Mario introduced himself to the actor, Lasky. “The living: the scent’ll bring them back. The people will be made appropriate with that precedent.” But privately Mario remembered the mother of St Luke, and those speeches that were so artistic but only when they performed the type of friendship to the night that one never remembers in the dawn.



Seeing this, the Man with the Hat of Tomorrow cried out to the Sceptre of Nine “My house is on fire and I can do naught to save it”. But all laughed in joy, as for them it was a time of celebration. Thus the town square became alive with voices shouting “JOY!” and “RAPTURE!” and sang in thanks to the Apostle of Tomorrow.



“IT IS RELATIONSHIPS!” shouted York to the night, as the Player’s head was described to him. At this, the Player, striking up her steady shoulders, used her animal’s gaze to watch the fallow deer. This was to be the animals’ great rescue. It was to be written and published by Rolle the Barber, who taking the sky’s blackness with him, knew that the lodge was seldom where one could see fallow deer. But he did not speak of this.



At home, Halloran considered the lost menace: “Consider thy lot… chaos?… a test?” His butler, Brennar Primp, entered. “Ahoy,” called Halloran, “How did they hide the key hence?” Primp replied, “It lingers with Lord Maxwell Crumb – within the Wisdom of the Private Hell of St Noah”. Oh dear, thought Halloran.



The Sparrow of Night saw all this and flew low and fast – low and fast – into the veil where it promptly awoke the Little Fat Baby from the onslaught that it lay sleeping on. And at this, all those in the town square cried. And also at this, the statue of The Great Man – and its echo, the Stature of the Bad Men – arrived to fight that shadow behind the curtain, that shadow that lives in the House hidden in the Night Woods.



Safely in Sweden were three artists who, young and attendant to the Puffin Ruskin, described exactly the sights inscribed by the Barber Rollei. Watching this, the actor Lasky, saw the arrangements made by the wife of the Three Chunky Advantages. At this point in the rehearsal he had stopped to consider an extension whose purpose was a touch of genius, in much the same manner as eventually happens to all men. In addition were primary, subsidiary notes that were subscribed, noted and inscribed in grateful remembrance by Albert, the Famed Circuit of Figure One. He had been Hitler’s Viceroy, whose sentimental dance had been the succour of society, yet had wiped out Dr Best in the process.



Later, Mr Blubbery Tussle was much vexed by the Sentinel of His House. Aghast, he heard that the Thirteen Obsidian Wild Waves had entered the city at nine. The curve had not held and chaos and hell both beckoned. Disguised, and with the Deciduous Sceptre at his reach, he had lost his mind the last time this had occurred. But the thought of Gabriel the Recluse gave him some soporific relief.



The Viceroy, that Famed Circuit Albert, was concerned by his patrons who had pursued Henry the Previous, who had lately allowed various characters to become his furniture. This ricochet had resulted in an everlasting tour of England, and the force had stopped his banishment by the Orbs of Joachim. “He makes his word in linen”, he muttered quietly to himself, in remembrance.



Art Diary Day Five