“season of reason” (old)
SEASON OF REASON
A Collection of Summertide Vibrations
By Stetford Obencrombie
FOREWORD
We begin as we often do, at the end (and keep in mind, we will end there too). The story you are about to read has not yet been written, but it is an ancient one, imperfect fragments and translations of one at least. In that (and perhaps only that) it is a cousin of masterpieces. As the author, I was delighted when I was asked to write this foreword. Though I have not yet read the collection (I don’t believe it has been written), I have read enough reviews to make an educated guess at its content. From the dulcet tones of “#60 Carbide Lawn” to the complete nonsense of “#24 A Treatise on Peace in the Universe,” each selection in the anthology has its own unique character. There are stories of princes and paupers, and even love (but not loss). But what makes SEASON OF REASON so precious is not the words at all but the underlying current hiding between the lines. Lemon stains and bible codes are sprinkled playfully across the pages, divulging secrets of our past, present, and future. In fact, I think one of them says my eggs are done. I suppose it’s time to wrap this up. Enjoy the novel! (Is it a novel? It might be.)- Stetford Obencrombie
#1 The Lights Cast by Plato’s Shadows
It is a well-known and experimentally confirmed fact that we are trapped in chains, gazing upon the projections of realities we cannot understand. What most do not realize, though, is that there is more to this allegory than your mulch-chewing teachers have taught you (for a full treatment on teaching, see “#35 Bug Cake”). Besides the men in chains, there are women in chains, as well as those who object to the binary gender system. In the latter group we find the most important prisoners of all: the shadows themselves. What separates them from your run-of-the-mill illusion cinema slaves is that they do not see images of others, but images of themselves. Take the case of the young shadow Stetford Obencrombie. The poor creature gazed upon himself for so long and so hard, he fell right in. And as he fell into his shadow, so his shadow fell right back into him (as an abyss is wont to do). Drove the old fellow mad. The following entry is taken straight from his latest autobiography on the subject, SEASON OF REASON, in which it is titled “#2 I Can’t Stop Sleeping.”
#2 I Can’t Stop Sleeping
When I was just a youngish Bloke,
my Father told me quite a Joke.
“Unfold yourself” was what he said,
To waken Me from Sleep in Bed.
Until I’d heard those fateful Words,
a Thought like that would seem absurd.
Lest I should catch a Cold and die,
with Caution I would always cry:
“Away you Killers, leave this Space!”
should any call Me from my Place.
He spoke with such Conviction, though-
in two Words banished thoughts of Snow.
Not fearing Death, I deigned to rise,
great Tears came welling to my Eyes.
Tears that froze in open Air,
obscured my Vision, killed my Stare.
And never have I heard a Joke
as bright as that my Father spoke,
when rising I was caught by Cold
and died in Bed, the Joke untold.
#3 An Analysis of the Previous Passage by Renowned Literary Researcher Stetford Obencrombie
I am deeply honored to be writing a guest passage in Stetford Obencrombie’s latest work, bless her soul. I am one of a lucky few who have ahd the privilege of meeting her, and she really is an extraordinary man. I do find her a little overconcerned with wires, though, and I requested she not give me a passage on them. She was very kind about the whole thing and gave me this poem to discuss, which contains a minimal 342 mentions of wires. Now without further ado, let the analysis begin. The first irregularity anyone familiar with Obencrombie will notice is that the poem ends with “untold.” No other Obencrombie work ends with “untold:” they all end with “twofold.” If we look closer though, we see that untold is in fact an anagram of “lotund,” which is not a word at all but which she has used before to describe forest fires. We can tie this back to the twelfth line, which ends with snow, and there we see the traditional Obencrombie 3:5 thesis paradox on which the whole poem is based. I’m pretty sure you can work it out from there.
#4 An Analysis of the Previous Passage by Renowned Literary Researcher Stetford Obencrombie
I choose not to dicuss the previous passage on account of its gross overuse of wire-related imagery. Stetford Obencrombie is a hack and I refuse to dignify her work with a critical analysis.
#5 My Timeworn Traffic Lane
I love buildings. I’ve never been happy outside of one. So it’s no surprise that I hate driving. You might think that cars and buildings are similar, but to a man with such heightened perception as my own, the difference is palpable. It is the size and texture of an orange, but without the seeds, and it is absolutely disgusting. Speaking of orange, there is perhaps nothing worse than a traffic cone when you’re on the road. They loom up in front of you, often blocking your view of the entire road, and there is simply no way to get them to move. After many years of commuting, I have devised a route that avoids all traffic cones. It is a scenic one, and, interestingly enough, it takes exactly one hour to travel no matter the traffic conditions. I would leave the house at exactly 7:00 AM (see #16 Painted Volumetrics for more on that) and arrive at my place of work at 8:00 AM on the dot. I was constantly frustrated by this, as the trip time coincided exactly with “Cellulose Hour” on my car radio. The Hour was hosted by a man named Morse West. He would play my favorite songs - but after each one, he would describe how the music related to plants. And in this way he ruined every song I have ever loved.
#6 Stetford Obencrombie’s Obituary, As Scrawled on the Walls of the Schoolyard Halls
You’re not ready for this one yet. (If you are, though, skip ahead to #83 Deviced Demise.) Stetford Obencrombie wrote his own obituary, which is not as uncommon as one might suppose. However, he is unique in that he wrote it after he had died. Obencrombie constructed for himself a device which attached to his arms. As he was about to die, he activated this device, which first injected poison to ensure his death. It then received commands from a random number generator powered by minute light fluctuations in a lava lamp, and executed them by moving is hands across the keys of a typewriter. The results were, of course, pure gibberish, but the process is still somewhat remarkable.
#7 Bug Cake, Cont.
At this point she was absolutely livid, so I quickly excused myself and left for the bathroom. Having no actual need for the toilets, I was at a loss as to what to do next. I washed my hands a few times, but I quickly tired of the exercise. I found myself staring at the mirror. And that was when my life changed. I am not sure if I died. What I do know by heart are the words that came to me from the mirror’s reflective depths. Unfortunately, I have never been able to put them to paper. If only I could remember them.
#8 Morse Randal West’s Perennial Fascination
With each new year that came, his message stayed the same,
The same fanatic claim, with equal force in game.
His hallowed northward hunt, a drive not found in stunt,
His creased brow bearing brunt, a soul braced to confront.
Those footsteps in the cold, that to himself he sold,
His quest to meet the old, his search for the untold.
They say he tallied five, before he left alive,
before he met the hive, before he took the dive.
#9 The Pyramidic Rainbow and its Response
In most texts, the Pyramidic Rainbow is described as containing an infinite number of levels. However, the C-8 manuscript which Morse R. West studied extensively mentions only three such levels: Red, Yellow, and Blue. It also refers to a Green interstage, but even four is still considerably less than infinity. Initially, West assumed that the three levels were arranged linearly in a certain order. After twenty years of study, though, he was revising his ideas to accommodate the infinite-height conjecture. His new theory still consists of three main levels, but abandons the principle of linearity. Instead the three levels are completely intertwined. The West Primality Hypotheses, as they were posthumously dubbed, are as follows:
o Color is constant over paths but not constant in the vertical.
o Height is chaotic over paths and linearly increasing in the vertical.
o Movement in the horizontal is impossible without movement in the vertical.
o Movement in the vertical is possible without movement in the horizontal, though infeasible.
This view of the Rainbow is now almost universally accepted. The most intriguing law is the last one, for which West provides no proof. Were it possible to move in the vertical without disturbing the horizontal, post-infinite horizontal trawling could allow a climber to reach the Response - but to date, pure-vertical travel has not been achieved.
#10 To Whom It May Concern
“I will die soon, I know this. But I cannot go without leaving my mark. I am constructing a wondrous device, and I believe it has the potential to solve our problem in its entirety. After my death, my final manuscript will be released. Your directions will be there. Follow them to the letter, and we will know the answer at last. Do remember me.”
# 11 Attention the Gentry
Seven years. I-Madness-Tossed-I stand brinked on the poise of elemental wildemess. Thus taken to components of I-Madness-Tossed-I-I-Madness-Tossed-I casping for the grand fall. Skilted broken I-Madness-Tossed-I whirled amongst the wind. Comes the fall withal unstall. Yet our furthest reach of I-Madness-Tossed-I, I-Madness-Tossed-I alone in endeavor. Together. Farther heights reached scanning I-Madness-Tossed-I watched and watching the operant operator I-Madness-Tossed-I directing in action the actor scratching at catch and scratch. The orders on high on I-Madness-Tossed-I passed down up meeting I-Madness-Tossed-I. The course coursed I-Madness-Tossed-I descending towards ascending I-Madness-Tossed-I met in separation and the ever true world false. The Word. The perfection of first infinity best know I-Madness-Tossed-I but further the stretch further the ongone staircase. This self-caught lace inturned upon self and I-Madness-Tossed-I gripping I-Madness-Tossed-I-Madness-Tossed-I holds hope of only yet only in hopelessness. Pseudo-begets begets only yet only in I.
