It is winter here on the prairie where we are wrapped in wind and whipping canvas, the former circus tent, now home to the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture. The winter light is brightening a bit, a week plus after the early dismissal of the sun. Back then the world came to the end of its’ wobble, then started over again. Now, a lengthening winter sun is not the same thing as a warmer sun, only a more promising sun, it is still cold.
Tent shelter in winter…a bit chilly, no insulation. Swirling snow (although very lovely) blows in, hot air goes to the top, while the people at the bottom cuddle lit emotion bombs, these artistics crunch closer and closer, erratic opinions drafted in chilled tensions find a topic. The more verbally endowed articulators (poetic/prosey types) anxious for even this bit of fame, begin to declaim on…,,,…comas.
Comas, those old-school upside-down bombs, incomprehensibly-absolutist little dictatorial-divisive-connections interspersing the written as directions, or, governance to – how we speak, or how we mean – something. Instincts re-form the vocalizers; visceral high school psyches face rational-comma subgroups, and concurrently, the threats of little emotion bombs.
Older attendees proffer commas as the output of medieval theological speculation, where a threesome of ideas becomes- a point: to whit, and therefore, – uh, ah, oh, – commas; or something like that. Ergo, comma tyrants claw with religious tenacity as arguments develop. The noise is vibrated aloft into the winds.
While the big comma, winter wind, forms a grip on outdoor activities, arguing anarchists and grammar-lords fill time inside. Smoking enfant terribles enjoy the separation from the grammarians more than the nicotine, banished, like back-in-the-day.d
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On an official note: a new Deciders Quorum has been appointed.
Due to rules thy are first formally presented by their hobby-horse head personae, to whit…
Better to be discussed next Saturday, disagreements already exist over new authorities, and, the issues are greater than grammar…
Once again the punditic heralds bluster calls for others to risk their valiantry (and lives and money) on the fields honor is unified by an incessant “drumming”. Rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot—those driving snaps on the edge! There, wap! wap! wap! the pundits coarse syntax obliterates personal melody and destroys by distraction any moving harmony. The reunion of anarchists promises individual artistics doing their own thinking, but alas, the narrow clan is more tempting in its’ call to belligerence and irresponsibility, and slow-moving coup d’tat.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 