The Reality of Knowing Nothing at All -Part 3
Jim Meirose

No one knew the why, but my dear, there’s an ‘efinate process; yes, a process, a good process, quite fine; to returnback for—plant these rose—f’ recoinsideration ‘f any possibly mistake ‘f lack of presence of any character ‘f number forming any of the words—rose seeds—which, strung together, form the name of the thing less than present, and one unusual day the Paul came to work on time, all calmly putting palms down ‘n soothing gestures with, No, I am fine—I had a neck problem. Got hurt in the pool. I had to get surgery. I was gone for that reason, eh deftly swiping the next available excuse in the ‘x bin for fitting the ‘gory of universal no-show, the prior being, I went to the dentist for a cleaning—with the x’bility to be ramped up into, and I ended up with a broken—plant these rose seeds—jaw no I don’t know why they didn’t call you that’s just one ‘nother facette oof there indocompetenance, maybe they don’t know you exist—no I said no I don’t know why they didn’t try and find you out, dig you up, clean you raw, as existing I cannot answer for their dos, or do nots, and even so if had it been done, how the ‘eck ought they have figgered ‘ow to du-it. Then, as for me, after my wiring, I could not speak a syllable ‘cause this jaw’s wired immobile okay, okay, I know this’s off topico’ sinn et’s know not big shot Paul’s excuse, how dumb do I look I did hear you know that yes his was I had a bad spine, and yes his was also; I had to stop lay down and lookie heah’ listen, gaaa. Gaaaa! Stop, let him fix things using tools some long and sharp some short and blunt—these rose—some in be the ‘tween so. Stop, lookie here I do seem to you to be a different person now, say that you all wrong all that hey, ah? Is that—seeds—it? Well, bah. Ahh, you don’t know me. So you say? No, shut, listen. You may look at me. No, shut, listen. You may look at me. No, shut, listen. But you don’t see me. You don’t know eh o’ look at me. But me, you look at me, you don’t? Yes you do—but you can’t see me, don’t know me, now ‘r never. Hear me! I am Paul Repititian, I am here to work out my way! I am yes, the big Papa and Paul and all that, just like that. Let me work. And. He being ten. To. Plant seeds. Being ten feet. Of. Ten feet tall and half as less sametimes. Tall and tall and half-broad as tall, nobody questioned Paul any times over then,’bout any possible hoax, more afta’ that. Paul, the big Papa, and both of all others go’ resurrected, went on to sainthood, the one already, the other, no, not yet, but—surely soon after. There are those that—and sorry, but the scroll rips gone down diagonally at that point. And so that is it. But knowin’ half—if that be the number— ‘s better than knowin’ nothing at all. The reality of knowing nothing at all, is not I’m afraid, my dearie o’ dear-o, all there is, so no it is not all—plant these rose seeds—there is no not no. Yes? Not in any way, either. No. Accept things please no or all’s gone by’s been flat wasted. There he goes; plant these rose seeds.

Jim Meirose

The Reality of Knowing Nothing at All 

Part 2 

So; we looked back to the first next behind snaking low up back o’ the Poole Mayorality’s behind, and there was a man pulling at his laminations, down in his pocketsacks, and the largest part of his name was Repititian, and. We said first, or last, and, if neither, or uh, not having no ‘dea what of our senses were speaking from the seemingly multiple holeframes of, ehh, it’s said he said, Well there’ neve’ goan’ ‘t be another soooo’ it Mustafa bean the last. Taken aback, we scattered into our second, and third—these—regrouping ‘fore finalizatioining the question at—plant these rose—him, then what of the first—how ‘bout—see there it flies, ah—hook it, in one gill or t’other which’s no matter longs as gillie by goshie, ye’ gets it, Paul! Then the real Paul held it up, waving it ‘roundall slappy ’n flaglike, but, a fast skinny whipman—of which in those days hosts came up from the swampland all wildly an’ woolie, back then—snatched his name back into another, and we thought—I mean I am sorry officer, it happened so fast—but we’re sorry, Meestah Repititianne, we didn’t get you’ name fore it ‘ssolved-so, if Paul’s so looking back now, it seems so easy—plant—it’s taken for granulated  to b’ ‘ble t’ se, buh backity denda’ then, being young dumb and blind, we felt it right, and somehow in the following five minutes or less a newly minted jobrank called Chief Peninsulander popped out that guy back there, and Paul Repititiannette fell back deliberately into the cooling mold of the shiny bright job an’, they fused; all butte the last two letters ‘ne which lopped off Paul’s sho’ last of a oaken-name, leaving  the faux man he was with the final coolly solidified name-plate of Paul Repititian, Chief Peninsulander of Back City, or, betta’ yette, Back City Chief Peninsulander Paul Repititian—and the latest fully adjustable stainless steel style to boot—which was better way better ‘cause of course less is more, bigger’ snot better—these—and economy is a virtue, even a—plant these rose seeds—penny here, and a penny there, ‘cause infinity itself, it was built one penny afta’ it’s very own prior and repeat, Peter, repeat, eck! So that was how, the first three seconds of the start of Paul Repititian’s Chief Peninsulandership began. And all in one instant, compressed, coming critical, and becoming one chink in the wall of our ever festering tightly-firebricked reality. So. 

So. 

This, all as we are sure you are well lo’ th’ under of, took Ms. Poole by the behind, but she said, so be it—if it is May—rose—as well believe, that it is, and get in step, with it as, the big men above require it to be done as you know; else as you there are places you know there are for your kind to be places for your kind to taken you’ll be taken ‘u’ know you are to be ‘n know taken to, locked behind something, shut over, which is much, and locked down—which is locked down much more strongly than you’ll be later, to be the punishment center termed the gaol, or the punishment prison center, or the punishment center prison, oh—seeds—what the hereafter of it all, hot damn, and dog too, you got—these rose seeds—the drift, so; let’s move on. But, Vicki Poole became known as a squirmer ‘ver this Paul Repititian this squirmer of a Poole et Poolette he bashed out his head while backswimming in a pool, did you know? Not one year after like, that Papa, ‘member that Papa who ‘verybod’ was glad of who wok? Wok wok? When many all gone were driving up their fine hills, the beloved Pap went toward their bad warehousing shit jobs, all gone was the beloved Papa toward, and had their beloved Papa, in their radios—plant these—who’ bn’ tuned up for distraction. The Papa it said, was gone, all gone. All gone was their beloved Papa. Snot noses in similarity, stuffed ones sat sides by sides o’er him in the Back City business building, wh’ a separate episode will describe downstruction of—and the children may listen, ‘cause no loss of life’s described though yes, there were several hundred more than a few. Paul Repititian was not seeming sudden and not even sluggish on slowly his ‘rogress up the beloved Papa. No one knew the why, but— 

The Reality of Knowing Nothing at All -Jim Meirose        

Part 1 

Plant these rose seeds; hi, Pachasandrim here. Today’s tale concerns things way back in nineteen ninety-four, the year that a youngish Paul Repititian took the job of Chief Peninsulander. We’ll be homing in on the first three years of his tenure, those being marred by undeserved frightful suspicions and rumors, which we will detail down here. Memories from back that far are o’ course very, very hazy, and few, if any written record keeping was done ‘round here ‘bout that time. But, even as the years dragged by, pushing ninety-four back into the soupy haze of the past which dissolves everything inexorably, several oldsters, leaders in every practical meaning—plant—of that word, these being Earlie VonScarff, noted mother of the already late when born Han-Job, he of the Mighty Grip, and his large small dogface, Lucy. Through the years Earlie had always been by nature maddeningly hesitant and tentative, so much so that one wag termed him ‘er Mistress Hesitation De Tentativette, but; she did manage after several years of no actionable talk—that being very lucky for both of our Earlies, given the dread n’ dreadette’s running the mainland prison system a’ t’ ‘ime, heck, a rare bit of luck indeed. Moved to finally put pen to several score reams of costly hi-papyrette, the hand-made Frenchy inportationed type to boot, and so doing so carefully as to not pierce the foolishlies’ thin-cap, he wrote down as following—and, we hereby quote; these—this—that—Mister—plant—Paulie Repititian, as we knew him back o’ that way, out-mystified us all, in all both our ends, as did the twenty-four year old Vicky Poole, who had become mayor so one year prior, that we all ‘urned rou’ saying, We-hah, s’we got a mayor now? Huh. Never ‘curred to us, we needed a mayor, heh. But it seemed okay, ‘t did, uh ‘cause it’d never occurred in us th’t we didn’t need one also, so we figured now, how much trouble could it cause anyplace even if she wuss cas’ were some bad actor of a human, bent on seeding us under with some rot-tan evil bedpods filled with some sorts of scams—the practical—rose—cause, of our deaths from this strain of bad luck ‘oulda’ been limited, anyway, ‘cause in that time there were barely one hundred dozens of us out here—that leaving out all males also, actually—well, it has to be men-tionned here, this entire passage of VonScarrf’s manustrippe was rendered illegible round one littl’ past two thousand ah’n ten, from a laborious but misguided scientifically aided back-rollout of McScarff’s ripoff of an imported impossible to return fragility to these actuall ‘assages of Earlie’s faulty master sheet of rolloffed gutta perchament he wrote over the cross of—so, those populizationed people-numbers could be spurious in that specif’ ti’ ‘rem’, but it only being less that twenty-five fifteenths of a tenth of the total weight of the solidifying—seeds—mash screwup when—plant these—so, they got served up at us, even though Guy—you know Guy, you surely do, cause everything gnaws for Guy’s simple egg-roadsmack served throughout all Crockett, out that high far out westway ‘timately spilled out over the Salaraha, we premise the weight of it all, God willing—but, let me peel off the backskin from the bull of th’ head-tale, and tell you that no matter this, en no mattah that, Vicki was in having solidly spiked the ball down in overstriped all goaliepostal end-mayoral territory, but, we swore to not let no gnawthing snick up under ourselves never gain-gen, but—one year later—and it must have been—rose—so soon, because the first rounds of beatings had left us weak, and our eyesight hazy. So—