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the flowering of the future in and around Callisto's Garden

where the rule of love has deposed all others,
arranging everything into a skein
of strangely sophisticated synchronicities...







for overview and full contents
of this b(l)og*, paste in
(if you have not yet arrived at):

http://callistosgarden.blogspot.com



*somewhere between
a blog on the way to a like
and a bog on the way to a lake



Tuesday, July 5, 2016

NOTE: This history of everyman only more so begins
at the following link.  Please go there if you have not come from there:




 Epilogue

The Queen of Between

32
....and so she took to writing, 

 for what is language, but ineffable Flubber or Crazee Clazee -- neutral, a skin transparent to the skin, or ghastly bright in the mind's holograms, printable, stretchable, breakable, moldable, all dried out by time and if not well structured crumbling, an imitation that, if now is always the beginning, if nature apart is an illusion, as is time apart from space, might be the original, laugh as you like.

Leaking Vessel 2014

33
writing in any case being the best thing for cleaning the rare book of writing, when dastardly divisive dirt, degraded usage contributing to the rot of the root, converting the poetic original to an arbitrary code -- starts to dribble into its very dictionary.


34
From a kerious kernel of his cob, this corn's now as high as an elephant's eye, worthy to inherit the family monkey business.  This time Veri's got hold of Toto (Terry Koko) and won't let him go and tear away the curtain, no calling your bluff this time. She just sees your bet, reader, and raises you, prepared to keep churning out more and more of this minimally pre-crystallized illustriously illuminated, moist tacky -- reader, you should be able by now to feel language on your fingertips and be eager to roll it around in your hands and make something sensible (meaning not just logical, but also sense-able; but be careful, then they'll call you as crazy as I am) with it before it crumbles or melts on your clothes -- fishy salty wordy stuff you illuminated so illustriously, 

35
be it be the book that's a face or a mask, be it the thing itself or a degraded imitation, or, optimally, one is the warp and the other woof, one the form, the other the dappled, freckled shadows -- hoping to give the world a lifetime supply that will do its part to extend our potentially and sometimes actually wonderful life indefinitely, on Mars or wherever.  

 In short, the last, Crazee Clayzee, crazy enough to be right, not mean enough to be too crazy, is the first, the missing link, neither world nor word, and sticking them, so long lost without each other, back together.   Everything is such a missing link, in truth, this is just the demonstrative case.   




36
God bless America and the open frontier. Different as they may be, and Vive la Difference! that yin and yang, words and world, naught-y hole and naughty peg  -- the metaphor, not him! The voracious Victorian just didn't want Kathy to move into an apartment with male roommates when he slipped into Deadwoodese and cried I don't care if it's your best friend, I don't care if it's your brother, sometimes nuthin'll stop a man but a 45! -- could synchronize so swimmingly in this vortex of synchronicity, that language play such putty in a nobody's hands!  It's a dastardly miracle.  The devil must have done it.  Lord have mercy on me!  



Willem de Kooning: Rainbow, the Devil at the Keyboard





37
This just in from the Vatican: Veri's not excommunicated!  They say a demon rushes in whenever somebody endeavors a good deed, and by the garish bulk here, the good deed intended must have been formidable.  (Phew!  Thanks to Harry, also a coin collector, for the publicly anonymous contribution to the Vatican of those papal coins.)  Far more unforgivable is to aspire to so little good as to conjure up no more than a poor little retarded illiterate demon with no global aspirations whatsoever.  Those timid aspirants are the ones who destroy little children with gestures of love. 












many thanks to Hirsch clan facebook page for photographs.  The only ones there that illuminate the text are fortuitously, coincidentally* apt in expression.

38
*despite degradation of the original code, the word, co-incidence, does not imply judgement as to the source of, or reason or lack of reason for two incidents coinciding -- by random chance or divine guidance or anything; see footnote TOWARD THE END of the scroll entitled Why is Ray Smith revisiting Picasso? -- on the necessity of restoring the roots of language and reviving the original meanings of words -- FOUND AT:

and special thanks to Doc Cousin Mary for wisely prescribing some 
all natural hair of the hot pink punk gunk that bit me




by Harry's Potter, 2014

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NOTE: This history of everyman only more so begins
at the following link.  Please go there if you have not come from there:






The Crazee Clazee Company and Factory






28
After harrowing the hail of hot enough fer ya?s at the loading dock, we enter the warehouse smelling of wet cardboard, rotting wood, and spicy, landlocked sea salty Crazy Clayzey chemicals.  Arrived at the far end, we mount the creaking wooden steps to the office packed with toys and stuff he trafficks in, hand holdable cubic clumps of the London bridge, Teddy Roosevelt piggy banks, Wibblers, hoola hoops, scattered with aging signage reminding that, for instance, HARD WORK IS THE KEY TO SUCCESS.  

Bonnie, Barbara, Carol, Judy, Jackie, Janie, Nancy, Jeanne,
Betty Ann, Marianne, krVs, Kathy, Marybeth, Peggy
Being the littlest of eighteen cousins of tight clan compounds
the revolutionary urge typical of youngest siblings.
We get plenty of love, but no respect,
and one day just can't take it anymore.
Time to overturn the current paradigm
and take over the world!
Kenny, Jimmy, Johnny, Neil, representing, overtly, the formidable,
patricidally inclined opposition to my novel paradigm, 
where the Shear Hirsch numbers are on the she her her-sh side
in number and shell only; some are surely turncoats to our cause.

29
I've only got half his genes, am only eight years old or so, and am hard pressed to rise to the booming, wonderful wizard's superheroic standards. After he yells his head off at me for messing up the invoices after and before yelling and then yelling his head off some more at her comrades, the apparently equally incompetent Jerry, the blasé secretary who just keeps puffing on Harry's or her Pall Malls, and Solomon, the cartoon accountant who shows up every few weeks to rummage theatrically through the towering, toppling stacks of yellowing papers, he releases me to enjoy her boxed lunch with the factory girls, about six corpulent middle aged ladies in one of the cleared out storage rooms below. After lunch the girls and I march over to a converted classroom with a big hole in the ceiling, and stand around a table with a conveyor belt.  The classroom smells pleasantly putrid with the aforementioned scents, including our sweat, which, as it evaporates steams up the leaded windows.  

30
Suddenly, at the ribald rumbling, as it approaches the hole, of the big blob's tumbling innards and outers, they all lunge forward to grab and pack it, as down through a chute loosely latched to the hole hurls the very unformed, yet super-substantial Aristo-Playdohnic ideal itself!  It rains down like giant clumps of manna from heaven or, by the angry force of it, shattered tablets of the law, and piles up on the belt, higher and higher, as the bready, salty fishy fumes augment.  As skinny as the others fat, the foreman Louella, a tiny old lady aged about eighty, has mixed it up in a vat on the floor above, then come running down to help the girls on the line stuff the stuff in cups fast enough or get buried under it in the sweltering heat.  Sometimes even Harry will help. 

31
Harry, a potter of sorts, also spins up, on a giant wheel in his fabulous factory, Flubber, a flagrant, shameless imitation of silly putty.  By her early intimate acquaintance with these toys, one too a tool for cleaning rare books, the blobs of bread batter rainbow bright as disembodied light,  Crazee Clazee, which it won't kill you to eat not too much of, which crumbles when dry, which cleans the very mess it makes, and rubbery Flubber, which you can print comics on, and which both bounces and melts... 





AND NOW SOMETHING THAT FEELS LIKE ARMS HAVE GROWN NOW PRESSING PRESSING OUTWARD, CREAKING, CRACKING, THEN AN EARTH RENDING WAIL AS THE COCOON TEARS APART IN A BLINDING FLASH OF LIGHT!

once again, as you plant in your mind the seeds of this story, 

organic fertilizer can be found at


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NOTE: This history of everyman only more so begins
at the following link.  Please go there if you have not come from there:


More fragmentary evidence appears in

The Possibly Probable (though Possibly Fraudulent) 
Origins of Play-doh




12
When the wizard, after wandering around Oz, arrives at the long vacated immigrant home, he trades some gold he's gathered somewhere over the rainbow, and so comes legally to own it. The home is already churning out what seems like light incarnate in gunk, because spectral light acts differently from light absorbed and reflected by bodies, but not in this case.  As with so many details of this whole story, the transparent, celestial version and the Aristotelian one, instead of contradicting each other, seem to share a common edge and lock together. Materialized, spectral appearance, the image made gunk, is for playing with, or eating in a pinch, or you can use the idea of it to clean the rare books that are writing the story on the walls of this maze they call the world wide web, which is as much as to clean itself.  The guy from whom Harry buys the home, though, has put the stuff to work and never lets it play, and that's why he strips off all the ornament on the immigrant home, in his charge become a workhouse.  He calls the refined stuff of appearance not Play-doh or Crazee Clayzee, but simply Absorene, because of its miraculously absorptive qualities.


The Immigrant Home 
as the Absorene Manufacturing Company



The Tornado Devastated Immigrant Home 
right now being restored, including the playful facade decorations
removed by the Absorene manufacturer

okay but I hope they bring in immigrants, as the wheel regresses 
so the wagon may progress.



 14
Before taking possession of the immigrant home, the wizard installs in the suburbs of Ozymandy a wife and family, including a boxer named Terry, to whom Kerry (later called Veri or Veronica or Veronika), his youngest, am terribly attached.  Veri owns a few interior Kodak snapshots, along with Terry's smell and the feel of his coat and his weight as they roll around on the ground, then, buried under a pile of broken film reels, he's gone.  Along with snapshots of Terry, Veri finds the characteristic smells associated with, and a few flashes of, buckets of wallpaper cleaner in the laundry room of the basement of their house. Though Kenny doubts it, Veri seems to recall dipping her hands into the buckets of cool moist pungent gunk and pulling off pieces to make things with before it was allowed -- but Harry, by family legend, spills the beans at a meeting of wallpaper cleaner manufacturers.

Though Wikipedia says our arch-enemy, Mr. Play-doh per se, is originally inspired by a newspaper article about kids using wallpaper cleaner as a modeling compound -- maybe that's the case, and Harry's mentioning it to this scoundrel -- not so much for help, but just because the two are supposed buddies, maybe -- puts him over the edge -- our legend has it that the Play-doh fellow basically snags Harry's idea, and we're stuck with what's thought to be the cheap imitation on sale for half price at Woolworths. 

 17
However, as mentioned, Veri's innately patricidally inclined (see Freud) brother -- appearing below in near violent scorn of the arbitrary framing device, accuses the wizard of fabricating that story and mesmerizing us all to believe it, with my dogged complicity in, and now publicity of, the fabrication amounting to criminal besmirching of the Play-doh magnate's good name.  But, in addition to reminding them of any earlier arguments, one must inquire of the prosecutor, the judge, and jury,

18
To what purpose, if not toward the anticipated invention of the original Play-doh, does the wizard bring those wallpaper and rare book cleaner samples out to the suburbs and leave them in buckets in the basement, so that his kids, or at least Kerry, can sneak down there and open the lids, and play with the goodly gunk?  There's plenty of room in the factory, and the atmospheric conditions similarly dank and dark.  

 19
Veri returns in a revery to the basement gloom and the smell of laundry, earth, and cement, and what's no longer wallpaper cleaner, but not yet clay, something that was, and could become, anything.  Her entire life seems to flower out of such experience. All she touches seems to possess the same genes, including this -- what would you call this genre of photographically illuminated non-fictional mythological memoir memorium writing, this blob in a blog shell, as if a blog were not already liminal enough, it must lie right on the line bisecting the blog into its left side and right side -- what but crassy classy crazee clazee, the world's most liminal stuff.   Her whole life is built on a lie, the line on which it claims to lie also a lie -- as there are no lines in nature? But that would mean she imagines what it would have been to invent Play-doh, and then her life grew out of that fantasy; but it is proposed that you just can't imagine inventing something so preposterously novel until it happens, and then it keeps happening, always in unprecedented, unimaginable ways that are clearly begotten, not made. Though the premise favored by science, that there's a material source of a person's anomalous attraction to, and capacity to produce, anomalies, as with all impulses, can't be proven, still, it rests on evidence and experience, however extraordinary and seeming to contradict other evidence and experience. The evidence and experience trump everything else, unless and until thought can make them go away. It rests on deep, quite invulnerable allegiance to the premises of science -- perhaps due to the fact that I'm the loyal daughter of Mr. Harry the original not yet named Play-doh Potter, seeming to have sprung from the loins of knowledge like water from a stone.***

 (If you think the essence of a thing lies in its material substance, and not its function, but if so, as suggested at the outset, there's no such thing as socks, shoes, hats, trees, people; there's only such thing as what subatomic particles are originally made of, if anything, so maybe it's material that's numinously imaginary, and only ideas are real after all, I as much as concluded as Absorene in my hands morphed into Crazee Clayzee )


22
Harry and Kerry are allied in the Westerns they watch on the carpet as, in his boxer shorts, he leans on the bolster pillow propped up against the Bombay Company bed.  In Oz he wears the pants, and he tries to let that go in his suburban retreat, where Suzy's allowed to yell as loud as he does.  He has Kerry squeeze his thick finger as hard as she can, so as to notice how he fails to flinch.  Then he plants little kisses all up and down her arm.  (She's that wineglass, mentioned elsewhere, that stays upright a hair's breadth beyond the tornado razor's edge.) Falling into the world behind the screen, she's soon past Silver City, clip clopping along on Trigger in the golden country, where seldom is heard a discouraging word, even from Harry, and the skies are not cloudy all day.


Un-retouched as found, image of emerald city, 
greener even than usual





Peggy, krVs, Jimmy, Kenny, Kathy, Grandpa, Bonnie






23
Among the scraps, there's a strand from commercial Christmas morning, fully devout to the worship of childhood demanded by the Gospels, and hidden in the basement from our orthodox Jewish Grandpa Is'. Is', who's versus Oz, as is Kansas, is an atheist, but about a century ahead of the rest of the free world, reverts to religion in his wise old age, when he stops taking everything so literally.  Kerry doesn't notice that Kathy finds a miniature poodle among the boxes until she hears him yap, as she's rapt up less in unwrapping presents than in the presence, outside the rainbow world all one white blanket of diamonds melting into raindrops running down a small high window, the strong scent of pine and sap, the deep green tree spiraling with twinkling stars as plucked from the sky, the colored glass ornaments that look like tops, but with eye dropper like projections in which water bubbles to simulate the peaceful motion of flickering candles among the dangling glass balls and the animals and fairies and star shine reflected in them.  It's just commercial Christmas, they're not supposed to believe in anything but Santa Claus, but this goes beyond Santa Claus.

23a
Kathy quickly calculates and concludes that all miniature poodles she's ever heard of are, and therefore should be, named Koko, where conformity to a standard is a good basis, as Veri can then operate on the original figures, combining the elements Terry and Koko to produce the compound terrier terribla, Toto, especially as Kathy, with marked magnetic qualities of her own and, indeed, of the same magnetic pole, including chameleon green eyes, is prone to throwing open the curtain on the wizard; 

the very Kerry (later sometimes called Veri) with Terry, Kathy, Grandpa Isadore,
and Kenny, in ongoing disputation with the bias, by arbitrary framing,
of the record keeping device

Neil and Gretel (showing that boxers run in the Hirsch family).

24
but as when you're being yourself, you can't exactly see yourself, it also takes one who is not one to know one.   To everything there is a season, and after a long long winter in this matter, the season of the one who is not one is bustin out all over, so with all due respect to Veri's elders, the wizard has been debunked long enough. 

25
True, the gunk by any other of its name -- Fundo,  Disney-dough, Do Bee-dough, Glow-doh, when it briefly turned phosphorescent, then the quantum leap to crassy classy Crazee Clazee -- does not sell so sweet.   So even if, or rather as, ours is the original, we harbor no grudges, as it might not sell at all without the genius name Play-doh  appearing to refer to it at a distance.  Harry does well enough, naming his discounted lemon cadillacs Calvin, then Rembrandt. He and Kerry sing sad work songs and happy love songs -- Old Man River, mainly, but also I've been Working on the Railroad, John Henry, Sixteen Tons, You are my Sunshine, and There is Nuthin like a Dame as they sail seasickeningly down Highway 40, when she helps out in the factory in the summer.



Big news! Archeologists find a scrap of evidence
that the wizard made Play-doh like stuff
called by one of the names in the scroll!

26
sea sickeningly, not only because it's a hundred degrees and hundred percent humid, and the air conditioner part he finds in a car dump in East Saint Louis -- "don't tell your mother I took you here" -- supervised by sweating slobs with beer bellies like sacks of jelly sagging over holsters swaying with lethal firearms doesn't work, since Harry knows about as much about the innards of cars as Kerry does, but also because they fail to maintain a steady pace.  Rather they lurch forward as he floors the gas pedal, then releases it, as they coast, in a sickening rhythm.  Harry the human can't get in sync with the automotive personality of the automobile.  The very name says it was born to drive itself.  Yes, that urge is there from the beginning, and the wizard knows it.  Veri's mate, Pollyanni, whom Donna calls the wizard, feels the same way.  Don't let cars drive themselves.  

27
Yes, knowing that the brooms you fly on have a mind of their own, he maintains control, be it of the tv channel flipper, or the gas pedal, guided by infallible intuitions of the counterintuitive, accessed by his free choice freely to choose, as the how, why, what, when, where, tied on somewhere far behind the back of his head, stumbles to catch up.   When the rope breaks, and they all run away, Veri has the distinct impression (one of her mother's favorite phrases) that the errant knight has willfully achieved this sublime liberation of innocent effects confused with causes, in order to demonstrate the true political incorrectness as well as obsoleteness of uni-directional linear thought.  The only conventionally politically correct thing he ever does is to support Veri's conventionally politically correct mother, which by getting her into Missouri's, gets her out of the house.*

continued in next blog entry at

 http://callistosgarden.blogspot.com/2016/07/the-crazee-clazee-company-and-factory.html

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