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An Attempt at a Hitchhike (Part 2)

Jim Meirose

The bug quashed. The short rewired. The pipes rerouted. The rooves reshingled and the matter agreed to being resolved, which agreement must be fully documented in two perfectly-matched Times New Roman single-spaced documents no less than three reams thick, respectively—and word for word manually matched and certified identical, then! Then stamped thusly.

—twice the distance to here as well, hippo; con hippo con sweet sweet she maintained her verbal headlock on the Kevin, to keep him within range of her perceptions of the law; but all was half-formed re her—while all round re Kevin was full-formed by tradition, so. Being a hitchhacker the big square chrome grille shed the last shimmer of distance, and its hazy aspect became all sharp “Horse”’s truck, though Kevin could not know this; his wigglin’ thumbnub grasped down “Horse”’s quickdriverin’ eye as what had been all chrome grille just became it pulled clean one feature of “Horse”’s all-truck, and over, and in got Kevin and it pulled—

Then and only then! May the rest of the checklist checkover be resumed, until be resumed until finally. Yes, be resumed, until finally. Yes, finally. Finally.

—pulled clean finally over after pulling down the latch.

Ho!

Yes, finally.

It pulled clean over clicking phatooey into the Ms.’ Face, and and, she recoiled—he sprang out her in got Kevin she recoiled—he sprang out her and in one blur-up sucked himself after into the truck, slammed the door, and told “Horse”, Hell—as Ms. VonderLee stood out there—thanks for the lift, to which “Horse” said, No problemo, threw ‘er in gear, clutched her out, this time thwarted but trailed by the ranks of her ‘men and ‘menettes rolling gassed her down from whom one or two clipboards sank unused to their clerks’ trouserthighs—but but but but—the transfer from one over into the other maybe done using the muscle of the entire gathered gang of ‘men and ‘menettes. Phew.

Ho.

So! Then, Kevin—do you now agree to these procedures?

Hey man, said “Horse”, as they rounded up sixty. Where you off to? But—

This driver stopped thinking twice about boldly stating what may be too much to the hitchhacker Kevin, who sat back breathing in hard, but after all out, soft, having cleareared his nostrilholes of the glistening slimecoat it had been six hours eh; ‘men where what we’re alone but “Horse” seemed to see on the road so far about the bigs body but yet soon to be seven after all it had been six hours on the road so far on the road eh; after three pails of ice water’s started in first gasping, then spitting, and; Hey, man, you look like you’ve been through it, my ‘menettes where what why we’re alone after all, but but like you’ve been through something but no matter really no matter at all—then now, thank God, free breathing flowed easy yes ‘s it might even get eight yet easier still oxygen all and soon to be seven on the road might even get eight nine all twenty—sodden straw under, eh, eh—but no forty yet no forty yet no no forty yet no forty yet no not even close yet, though each and every moment looks just like every other day—regardless of the sodden straw stench and the rudely boarded overbuilt nature of your unexpected cabtype, all around—but safe, nonetheless—as the Lent truck stop waitress had said of that biblical Samaritan—so Ms. Brucie-Yon VonderLee sat on her stones, flipped open her sturdy plasticized all-weather emergency sheaves, and made reading left to right down and left to right again, in whatever order desired—do not judge harshly who’s been placed in your path, to aid and comfort—to find how’d her very first day get off from her and hers, so. But so, he sat past it flowing down the road. Yes, the day’d flowed so far through a sauce much different from the others.

Do not judge harshly no.

But, so, he set past it flowing ‘tlast toward July morning.

Hey so. How far you headed?

I, uh. What?

Snakey footchains snaked forward, pulling ‘way under the strawgrassed seemingly properly rubberized footpads—so why?

How far? Where you headed out to?

The hazy winterbreath curling ‘round the barebulbed hanging lamps cleared away, as as if though maybe has been sucked to nothing by “Horse”’s question, which sounded. Yes yes, which sounded. Up clear from down his short-term memory, just in time.

Oh, sorry. Yah. About a state away—and, after having told “Horse” the town name, and milepost number, he’d researched ‘fore leaving, he added, I’m meeting friends for the July morning festival. You know about that?

I, uh—“Horse” then got hit by knowing the answer, which he said this way.

I sure do. At midnight on July first of each year, people gather around fires, play music, and wait for the sunrise on the Black Sea shoreline of Bulgaria.

 Kevin brightened fully—easing the fears of the observers beyond he and “Horse”’s confines, that the struggle to board for transport may have been too much for him—they withdrew as he blurted, Eh, ah—you know all about it, then. That’s great! You’re the first I’ve encountered that has heard of July morning.

Sure, yes—I also was told that Uriah Heep’s July Morning is the main refrain.

 Kevin turned left, and said fast, Told? Who told you about it?

—mayhaps someonce else may have crossed paths with this trucker, and and if it was on this veryroute, there may be a larger gang of friends a’waiting for when he gets there; more revelers equals more reveling equals—

I got the paperwork a few miles back.

—equals but huh what eh—

Paperwork? What paperwork?

Kind of like—I guess like a bill of lading. But—it’s to tell me I can expect to encounter such as you, within five miles of docu-receipt. And so, here we are. I found the concept of this July morning fascinating. So—there’s no such tradition in other parts of the world, eh? And you plan on taking part, eh? But, tell me. This is not Bulgaria. Is the information I was given inaccurate?  You better let me know right now, because if I was given a flawed document, we have to stop, and then—and then—we will throw the eggs into neutral—no matter how many or few dozens of fractions thereof may be involved in the what’s my cargo question—and then the top-drawer on-call executive staff men of each regime or regimes will meet regardless—they need to provide contact men on beepercall twenty-four-seven excluding in the middle of ceremonial turkey dinners involving over thirty revelers, or—

Ho!

Pop!

Instantly—back down the shoulder’s behind, Kevin’s eyes popped as he knew yes knew more actually realized, he’d blown it. The truck’s potent backwind waked over him, where he stood on the shoulder, still surrounded et et, still unboarded. Surrounded by the Brucie-Yon VonderLee and her ‘men hic ‘menettes hic hic and a downwave of terrified heatered down his front back and sides instantly tempered by relief all at once, but at seeing his bulged over travelpack instantly tempered by, tempered by, relief at seeing his bulged over travelpack by the edge of the shoulder which he had forgotten if he had actually been by the edge of the shoulder up the truck he’d of forgotten and if he’d forgotten which he had forgotten if he had actually been up the truck, all’d have ‘come to be disaster, so. He was grateful to her he was grateful to her and her men he was grateful to her and her men and ‘menettes which swarmed over him her ‘menettes and her men and ‘menettes swarmed swarming him over in his own warmth. In the warmth of their buh buh buh warmth of their relief. Better to have a chance to try again, than to have lost forever. But then chainy snaking out ‘neath the strawgrassed rubbery footpads that she and hers stood on. All readying.  

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By Jim Meirose

Hold it, stop, said that an innerself anger has been sparked off by frustration, alarmed out all inside the increasingly nervous Kevin, being told hold it, stop, by that same woman Brucie-Yon who, as he stepped out to the shoulder for his next thumbdown, for the first time began to see the Earth have has to have phased over, for else why’s he hearing hold it, stop from that same woman Brucie-Yon VonderLee, and admit to his inside parts he may not make it out, all fazed over, into the July morning festival on time, into the July because here she is with her hold it, stop she’s that same woman Brucie-Yon VonderLee who’s ordering here she was morning festival again on time the Earth has to have phased over on time, for the July morning festival somehow because her bottom line’s hold it, stop she’s that same woman Brucie-Yon VonderLee did it last time while ordering her men to come on time, the Earth has to have fazed over, phased fazed phased over somehow, ‘cause here she is and her hold it, stop says this same woman Brucie-Yon Earth has anger, it has to have has to saying and saying hold it, stop saying have phased over fazed over Earth has to have fazed somehow, ‘cause hold it et et eck Earth has to have fazed over, hold it-eck July morning festival et and that’s where she thwarted Kevin down last time what led him to say this time, Get out of the way, this is ridiculous!

Yes quite very truly!

Whew!

The idi in ridiculous vibed together all preceding words into one vertically skinned yellow vessel of a kind, which, before he could know he had no idea what was happening, opened a

door from which stepped Brucie-Yon, beside a severely belted apparent lowclerk, whose sharp yellow two sized lead stabber’s held ready to write in his flat brownbacked dull edged slanting back, perfectly positioned for immediate use, clipboard. Apparently, everything Kevin was about to say was to be recorded, albeit in this archaic manner. So, he spoke slow.

I don’t know who you are, or why thumbing a ride has become so difficult, but you blew my ride last time, causing me to lose hours, and now here you are, ready to do the f’uckin’ same. By and let me pass.

To where, she said—there is no receiving vessel even near this port yet.

The lowclerk’s hand disappeared into a blur, longhanding everything down and around on the clipboard.

What is a receiving vessel?

The transport you will be loaded up into by my men. After we make sure all the paperwork has been properly filed, and that the owners have signed off that you should be loaded. After all—with the hundreds and thousands of loads handled in this and all ports daily, careful track must be kept of such as you. And, additionally, once the assigned transport vehicle is selected and arrives for us to transfer you into, no transfer can even be prepared for, much less take place, because two of my team must be selected, screened for suitability, checked for height, weight, and health, and and and and and that they are correctly matched sort of, well, kind of like—actually precisely like the tongued board of a shelf corner meets the grooved board of the same shelf corner, and together they make up something wondrous, yah, all beautiful, and then—

I am sorry Ma’am, shaved the Kevin into her outspouting verbalesque performance—but, why do I have to know all of this? No wait but—there’s a better question. Why is all of this shit necessary at all?

—she only went on with, with that they will be issued brand new checklisting digital virtual clipboards, and one will be sent to your main office, and the other to the transport vehicle’s main office, and then the master of each will be questioned at length, to ensure, yes, to ensure, that your offloading will mate up perfectly with his onboarding, and that there will be no issues after all we do not want a repeat of the chain of grossly ignorant errors that led to the great Bantereenia Bay tragedy, where both pitcher and catcher’s steel spines gave way, and that very port was clogged with quite fatal wreckage for months, which only could be cleared by a million-dollar contract award, to Smitty Smit Da Big Smith’s underblocking and regularizing of any general channel, any car, any color, just seventy-nine ninety-nine from that latenighting Schieb guy, okay, so; any questions so far, mysterian-face Kevin—which name I hope you will not object down onto, because my crew has already grown fond of it as a nick—yah a nickname—namee or nickoo or namenick or it’s opposite which is very close, it will turn out when all is said and done, a quite good guess, good good, guess guess, good. Good. Guess—so—

The Kevin having noticed during this polite listening, that Ms. VonderLee was reading off a time and space quite the other side of him far and farther away—some boilerplate cover-her-ass speech all possible Kevin now and later have to hear to avoid legal action, he moved on a whim. His move was nearly involuntary as a big tic. He pushed out his arm thumb up, thrust it through her, then so emboldened by her lack of interest in this violation, he stepped forward their two spaces, ‘came one and she stood within him he stood within her his arm out to the road thumb up classically hitchhacking American-style, and her arms at her chest her mouth gone on straight on, on and on all proclaiming yon furthermore, But, regardless of what we may call our customers’ cargos in jest, fun, or dead seriousness—hic—once inside your opposing forces, it

will then be my clerks’ full responsibilities to do the following as follows following on, et, et, uh!

As she went on Kevin faced the horizon from which flowed to them the road and kept his thumb high, though it was sorely buffeted by the longshoremanette’s verbal blastery winding super breezily all ‘round ‘bout him, straining to rein him, but he not being horseflesh or any lower stock and purpose than that of an innately superior human blessed so by God in his rules for the Eve in his garden which still apply, though cockeyed blistery and even banned by certain off-center faux-christian sects over the far brink of creation, a square dot appeared glistening and growling, and it was a large—extremely large truck’s front facing him and it came and—

She kept at it with, They will go down the checklist pulling switches, hanging tags, kicking ass, and taking names, to wit; the first major or minor—size in this case does not matter—flaw discrepancy blurred line displaced mulch pile—whether large or small dog territorial marking clawbacks being the cause, non, yes, or maybe. We will halt.

—oblivious he stiffened up his thumb hand toward the ramped-down chute-road up ‘top which the apparent tractor-truck, seeming close, but announced as far by the rippling heatwaves densely padding down a’front of its shimmer, to be some greater than one-half or so miles away yet. His thumbthrust ‘came steely to withstand her. These new procedures, he reasoned, had to be a product of the growing surge of his mind. Hitchhack after the same again he had seemed to get nowhere. And July might as well have been riding out ‘way from him, shot out the back of the approaching seeming truck, and sliding down out of sight behind and off—

We will stop, she said solemnly. We will pause, throw our eggs into neutral—no matter how many or few dozens of fractions thereof may be involved in the what’s my cargo question—and then the top-drawer on-call executive staff men of each regime or regimes will meet

regardless—they need to provide contact men on beepercall twenty-four-seven, excluding in the middle of ceremonial turkey dinners involving over thirty revelers, or.

—from the great wall of the horizon, considered Kevin, upon which no one may stand; over which no one can ever leap; and away from which no one can ever dart; but mystically speaking, no effort’s required it seems some odd way to be behind someone else’s horizon, just. Just turn around; there it is again; somebody else’s horizon you are facing the back of, ‘cause it’s known, known and true, that someone’s out past and facing the same but the front of; but again no no got to turn back ‘cause on the front-turn inspired by this muse of a daydream threw off-joint his upthrusting thumb, but, but, realizing this in time—

If two or more turkeys are involved, the minimum reveler requirement may be waived, if the opposing parties’ stockholder bodies call emergency meetings, and take no more than thirty days to prepare a full vote—which time may be extended if it spans over summer recess—and and, once the matter is resolved.

—Kevin spun to face the square-engined onrush again, shockened by how close he’d just come to let the trucker by; and that he would have blown it totally on his own. The sudden appearance of this spanned Ms. VunderKnee, would ought to have been just one of many several factors. Whew! Thank God. But; she went onnan’ on raving inside him, as he was also her inner her, so; the balance was tenuous at best, sir; what we witnessed that day, sir; was quite revolutionary; as down the slope the truck had come through half the haze’ shimmer and its grille twice the chromed over and of the third kind—

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This document compiles the last writings on the pure form of the pneuminous accretive theory. The theory is one which attempts to acknowledge the epistemological ambiguity of occult phenomena whilst subsequently laying out the implied phenomenological metaphysics involved. This document underlines a certain phase in CEO research, which, whilst building on this, is now being overtaken by the evolving reticular ontology.

Please sent any comments to ceo47@outlook.com

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What is the Hyperqabalah? Quite simply put it is a regular Qabalah whose paths between the Sephiroth have themselves been transformed into Sephiroth (or nodes as they are commonly referred to herein). Different arrangements of paths are then played with.

These are recognised to be totally contingent and thus the chosen model represents and aesthetic and not necessary choice. Of course this can be said to be true of the tree of life itself in either regular or Gra tree form. There is in this instance though something more of the appearance of necessity (especially in the Gra tree used here). The Hyperqabalah has no such appearance of necessity. The chosen nodal arrangement and quantity of paths is deliberate but only represents one small possibility of its unfolding.

In this way the Hyperqabalah works along side another current CEO project. This is that of the ‘reticular ontology’. The reticular ontology posits an a-spatial a-temporal connecting series of fibres that, when viewed by humans look like fibres of light. These run between all accretive nodes, either human formed or otherwise. The Hyperqabalah is a snapshot of the reticulum at different level beyond the archetypes found in the regular Qabalah. The paths in Qabalah can be understood as harmonies between the two Sephiroth. The same is true of the Hyperqabalah yet the concepts here are of necessity more alien and complex.

This call for submissions asks for persons willing to in some way conceptualise one of the paths of the as yet inchoate Hyperqabalah. Such a conceptualisation could be in any medium as the nature of the path will be quite abstract. If you would like to conceptualise a path for the project please contact us at:

ceo47@outlook.com

For further information on the hyperqabalah you can look at these posts. Understanding the maths is not necessary, though familiarity with the shape itself is.

Book of Numbers 1

Book of Numbers 2

Book of Numbers 4.

Hinted Communications from the Outside.

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Archaeology (Part 2) by Jim Meirose.

These finding-frenzies are slabs’ly frenzy-narcosis common to pro archaeologists and most judgeships alike; they alter consciousness and create great waves of greediness and hilarity all ‘cross-out most dig teams, courtrooms, autopsy rooms, embalming chambers, and boss Boyingtons alike, especially when the deeper veins of the issues being probed become unexpectedly rich with high-value jury verdicts, cash awards, and legal rulings, as well as the more commonly found when real digging’s involved, archaeological artifacts—such as the actually proven to exist by this particular effort, a complete Prongs of Torment Vintage Fast-Management Early-style self-coopering ball-binding gameset—prune—as well still tightly wrapped in its tendon; with all sixteen levels fully intact, never ever been played over, and! The pressure driven by the radical wing of the free press to find foul play to be the root cause drove the shovelmen to a higher blur of action, causing the immediate realization that the gameset was not just the standard issue, but, amazingly, to be the red-bound number, of which just two were made—

My God! The red-bound!

—yes, us too—with the first having long ‘go gone to the bottom in the hold of the M.V. TitrationMaster, the deepest yet bulkywide vessel having proven to really ever been sunk. That type ‘f deep-in unexpected and sudden dental work and or dig success can have a narcotic effect on the dig team and is sufficient to trigger such effects when the archaeologists have gone in sufficiently deep, where the fluids flow freely, and are already profoundly fatigued when the digging suddenly turns rich with high-value discoveries plus one emergency root canal—this drove the big doctor-lead of the pathology team to slice quicker to reach the frontside of the

spine quickly—and the message received from the main man of the day, up topside, that they’d reached the rarified air past the danger-threshold of fifteen thousand shovels of earth out ‘f one dog in a singl’ day had been exceeded with no pause at all, as a matter of fact the rate accelerated by the onset of finding-frenzy ‘cross most of the team—and as the head free press reporters stood slavering for a story, the main man advised the deepteam, that the shovelmen would be shortly relieved. Prune; however the coroner’s pathologists, whose skills are uncommon, should be told to prepare to push through to the end—but that extra snacks and beverages would be sent down by stripteaser-vessel; prune run u’, eh; which was the best could be done ‘hat-t day. Never. Jacquee-line Pup-mutt, the greater free press leader-devil, sounded out that news to a frightened small world, but; as that story was premature, it was buried accordingly. Prune.

No point mousing-down the public with fat answers too suddenly—but. Run.

But.

U.

Buck uck kcc u’.

Meanwhile, the professors, who’d burst their bag and receded off to a safe distance, came out of their shock-frozen states, which had been driven by their orders to hold off being so blatantly ignored, backed off o’er their horizons and sat ‘cross the town elders in a crisis meeting hastily-called to formulate a pushback on the crazed over digmen—because they shared bothwise ‘cross the wide table the ‘owledg’ that if the cause of death was ever extracted from the cache of artifacts hidden long back but now being so rudely and illegally exploited—much like the crime of the Elgin Marbles. You know?

Perhaps, but—and here she exhaled deeply and inhaled, and again—making sure to have these appear contrived for effect—with the added dimension of the overall criminality this threatened to uncover, action was necessary. They can’t be blamed, do you think?

They both turned to the window before he could reply, caught by a loud rising and falling siren in the distance—they turned back, with one saying, Here—in this book. It’s—wait.

A thick book came into his hands from the small oak carved table between them, and he paged into it, finally laying a forefinger onto a page, and read aloud, And they formulated the phraseology and for several years multiple drafts of the order were produced, each one smoother than the last, until the final plan lay plainly scrolled out between them, et et—okay that proves the first thing. Then, here—let me see here.

As he paged through again, she raised her hand, saying, No, there’s no need. I get the point. You win, all right? Come on, the bell’s about to ring. I’ we’re late we’ll catch hell.

No! Here—listen—finely printed on expensive paper, bound and illustrated by expensive artists, and housed in fine leather with gold studded trim—wow. How ‘bout that?

A bell rang in the distance—she rose, saying, Come on, break’s over. We got to go back now. Or else we’ll get dinged.

No—listen, it gets better—yes toward the end they worked furiously, burning through multiple fortunate but weakening second and third winds, but, the effects of their continuing on unrestrained, with no one watching over to back them out o’ their mass mad delision, uck, their purpose dimmed back to nothing; and, today there remains just a low grassy mound, which no one remembers the reason for, or what may be buried within it, but but t tu tub bup, prune; but, regardless, the dig dug down deeper seeking more over more—the ribs cut through easily; the lungs glistened with health; as did the various organs, large and small, which were removed—a

process that passed quickly, thanks to the lead technician’s deft and precise scalpel work—a curious structure resembling a small storehouse became visible—all gasped with excitement; the sudden urge to dance and shout for joy, was restrained. These men were professionals—slowly, the precise series of shovelthrusts and long cuts led to one sudden opening; the spleen sprang open as though a key’d been turned—and, the mother lode of trinkets lay exposed for the forking-out—or it did seem so a’way but—they ought of gone slower an’n all ‘cause—danger ‘llway’ rises when-where it’s ‘ease ess-pecctedt—as.

Calm team, calm. Let us be careful.

Let us not be fooled.

Prune.

They silently beheld the massive haul; Who’d ever have dreamed; is-it for the his’ s’ ‘torial books, or not, gas—these and other such cries rose from the deep hole, where on half-darkened bottom they stood nearly knee-deep in the mass of their discoveries—their spades having hand-excavated the hole, being nine thousand four hundred and seventy-five cubic scale model feet in size—ten minutes prior, the riches around them would have been enough for most other expeditions to call it a day, gain the surface, and move forward rationally, but. Prune; the revealing of the indescribable contents of the final spleen, tightened the deep-dig finding-frenzy permanently around them, never to be reversed. The riches the spleen had rewarded them wi’ could never be rationally described, in any language, or in any medium—at last, the professional demeanor of the leader finally gave way. Shovel thrust upward, he seemed nearly to glow; his face rose, and from his mouth thundered upward, Thank you, lord, for the gift of this spleen—not just any spleen, but this one. This one and only this one. Thank you lord for so easily opening it to the touch of our scalpels and emptying it unto us! This is—

No, hold it! It’s not finished! Look—

Yes, look—it’s—

The leader’s eyes opened too late to avoid his being crushed by two huge spleens shooting from the gap. The group darted to avoid them—but their slick stuffed-full saggy bulges mocked them, so. Prune; these two opened each thrusting out two more, larger, spleens and. Prune; those each spawned two more. Prune; and two more and two more and on and on, crushing the dig team one by one between and under them; those not crushed to death instantly slowly suffocated as the entire dig filled with a rising tide of soft pulpy spleen-mass, the hundreds of organs smashed together into a single protoplasmatic reeking surging hell, at the bottom of which dozens were added with every minute, quadrupilitising the deadly pressure, under which nothing could possibly survive. The rocking ‘n rumbling ‘rupting from the dig site as the reeking deathmass grew closer to the top, caused the panicky townspeople to flow en masse from their homes, as well as shaking the senses of the few remaining members of the pathology team, who’d decided to have a few hot cocoas before quitting the site. All stood in place, as they would in an earthquake. Prune; minutes passed, then the rumbling rage died. Slowly the terrified crowd approached the site and found the dig site covered over by an expanse of slick shiny reddish-brown foul-smelling membrane-like film, beneath which something throbbed rhythmically—but, at last, the lead pathologist adjusted the wide bright ER style light above the autopsy table, reached in, touching the trembling film, tilted his head, and knotted his forehead intensely. The townspeople and remaining technicians held their breath waiting for the verdict. After some seconds, he withdrew his hand from the cavity, and straightened. Turning from the autopsy table, he pulled off his gloves, while saying quite softly, The spleen appears normal and glistening, totally healthy. As have all the other organs. There is no need to probe further. This subject’s

death was a natural one. There was no foul play. So—prune; Mackie, Phyllis; close and wrap things up per procedures, then call the funeral home. Prune; knock off for the day then—oh, yes—great work, team. It’s been a struggle, but, take pride in this; this expedition’s discoveries will forever grace the collections of top museums and galleries, world-wide. Cool, but; I have to go and give the press our findings. They’re hungry for the result—an annoying bunch. Want everything yesterday. I, ah, prune; as today, inderunderessnes ‘re scantifying to t’ ‘oit of being nearly fatal over all o’ those went that those these ways e’coptering under that trestle bridge over there.

Okay, Phyllis?

Prune.

Okay, shut up, I think I got the point