And a Ratio of Worrisome Machinations: Voicables

“The Machinery, madam, is a term invented by the critics, to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons, are made to act in the poem.” A. Pope ~ Alexander Pope wrote this in a letter to Mrs. Arabella Fermer in regard to certain potential confusions which might arise for her in The Rape of the Lock: An Heroi-Comical Poem, dedicated to her.

Dear { },

I have unauthorized news!

The state is on fire and the technical manuals have fled their offices. I am writing you now because all other coffee break channels are jammed, and I am burning from the seizure.

Because of the current rate at which emergency isn’t getting due credit, I have determined to raise a new machine at the speed of a very old foundation, and you [Dear { }] are at the center of the shunk shunking redundancy that will inform its auxiliary sound. I trust you will bode as well as a glass cog in a barrel of luminous facets here. You will split prettily on this new/old foundation: like a long thin crack in hard logic. I look forward to how your swiftness will report.

My empty platitudes aren’t the ones meant to influence you. I have many requests; the facets of which are measured in angstroms, and may draw exception to my range (in empirical radius). I so have to warn you that some local obstacles have become their own race. Never the less side winding in the sidelines; we will see, we will. Allow me to flyer this warning around town, and flag the characteristics of your cracking reach in return. [You will find my invitation to a celebration in a later letter.]

For now in this dark hour I must consider your potential contribution to colonial import. Post marked, of course. Unequivocally, the languages will come to gossip over this. But, you are, after all, a careful shape that grows in correct proportion to the space you inhabit. So I don’t worry the residue in the jar, or of size. Let it settle and stay behind. Let it talk back and forth to itself when the table’s bumped. It is important to be sensitive to our respiratory function, the wings of our tertiary structure [there is always the three of us in every room] and the singularity of useless liquid – under attack by the lowering of whatever lid.

I feel sorry for the rest in an air that has not befriended your gaze. You can be an elaborately cruel apparatus! For some reason, when I think of you in an automobile; I imagine animal tongues will soon begin falling like hail; wildly wordless heirs of the war cry licking a long dead sky. Too much slack lacking much needed practical levity. Soon the land is cumbrously littered with disembodied lingua. I sure hope I don’t cringe posthumously from this aftermath. Most death isn’t much of a death.

I have slipped on my tidy application. Forgive me? You seem thinner the more I write you.

All eyes want to buy you groceries. Want to buy you food and clothes and put you in a wooden bed in a room made of wood. Want to weave rings of medicinal herb to string to trees. Want to heal your view from the technical ladder. Our hands are not as tied as our ambition is you know; so much is possible. Instead of a volley with our dream crushed voices wishing to spew: reductio ad absurdum; all this could happen. By hand! Up north, vast fields are already in private communication, and in the places where the water is clean clear through; a terrific impressionism supposes its way to the bottom of the sea. What else could it do? We haven’t skippered its boat shapes to cut in…

I swear I never set out meaning to demonize your beneficial obviation; so how does it always come to this? Maybe it’s the distant syntheses of your terms. You are so deliberate, fundamental, and yet nothing and barren et all. Time doesn’t understand.

You must speak with your carrier pigeons! They keep dying face first in our windows! No matter how many dirty marks we leave to lessen their speed toward them. Monday through Thursday are weapon building days, and we have no time to gather dead feathers and messages from outside these buildings. We can’t afford grounds keepers, and the weather is always too hot. We are not concerned with the techniques of civilization in these planes, so tell your pigeons your anonymity is useless.

In closing; I do plan to name a fairytale city after you: Nevermind. This week I will build a strange weapon of hypotheses. My two edged little weapon thinks of you so much it cuts a forehead for you. That will be its exact goal. No longer a friend of whalebone or whalebone a friend to me, and at the accelerating pace of all systems; I will never have time to use it.

Now: how to get you through your day…