It is perspiration season here on the prairie, its’ even hotter in other places. “To whit” (as he credits this moment) Yorick notes the pain, and remembers the burdens of flesh; and, even a skeleton appreciates certain contraptions.
If all goes well, and the fires don’t spread into prairie-digital worlds, then next Friday Yorick will provide an answer.
As usual, Yorick, (lacking the fleshy problem that leads to love poems) must utilize his romantic yearnings on utilitarian objects. Being a jester by character and profession he will leave you, just for a week, as you ponder this riddle.
A week from today … the answer.
What could be better for time-refugee enfant terribles than to be cast upon the prairie at a reunion housed in a disused circus tent, on a discarded farm, a bit upstream from the middenheap. Middenheaps matter, waste-piles downstream a bit (lest a nest be fouled), away from habitation. The middenheap, the piles of revelatory refuse crushed in convoluted layers, canceled and discarded stuff of bygone refugees. A story of wanderers in convulsed pattern.
What did they eat, what wood or stainless ladle did beat on some drum or dinner bell, what poetic pottery, trade items, pets (or supper) bones; burnt and crushed, once valued – now eroding, discarded evidence of passed lives; even the affection in those lives.
Once wandering refugees left scraps from flint-tipped hunting somewhere around here. Now our circus tent rests on farm ruins of but a few generations use; plus the middenheap bits of steel, bones, glass, plastic and bundled papers; erratically layered.
After commercial skirmishes destroyed their daily pattern, circus tents and quaint farmsteads are now mostly gone…industry and raucous media replaced what was singular or family, small, clannish, close, (even romantic).
The ancient way is to rebuild on ruins and middenheaps, layer upon layer – that leaves evidence. Our tent (The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture) will no doubt leave some mark – for awhile; but certainly no stone reference of its’ mighty empire, just partially burnt and bundled discard.
Refugees from some new disturbance are bound to show up, and build their own. Maybe our enfant terribles, anachronistic anarchists, will remain; then here will be another haunted place to be uncovered in measured layers.
Someday, maybe, someone who wonders about stuff in the middenheap might find useful evidence that is not yet consumed. 
Projects of hands, maybe document bits recording homespun chores, numbers, affections, sentiments, burnt and crushed, layered among the middenheap, evidence not consumed, evidence of those who discarded and wondered on.
Floods, they come and go, usually taking with them the fallen. But some of the fallen become embedded; anchoring the edges of ancient and present times, and, this is to surmise … a place for fools.
Yorick has been missing for awhile, a professional fool’s skeleton, medieval jester, princely tragedy’s companion; lived, died, and resurrected – by virtue of art. He has rested awhile at the river contemplating another apt comment or juggling trick to awaken the witless to their folly, and nudge them to better behavior.
The jester’s goal…(jesters are congenitally about Joy and Truth)…conjure an insightful smart-aleck one-liner pointing to the consequence of hubris; war, rape, hunger, blood-letting that ends with the onset of malaise, the misconstruing of fun with joy.
Yorick’s perceptive comments, and clever juggling, are largely out-of-date to political celebrity royals. Flat cartoon bubbles are the vehicles for modern times; jokeish profundity in snappy little tidbits…perhaps.
Inflated, cartoon balloons could spread ideas far afield, if the winds blow right; still, there are limits to letting wisdom float free. 
Were cartoon bubbles Medieval, they would have been in danger from below (an oligarchy’s crossbows), now they are probably doomed by drones from all directions.
Considering that, Yorick’s balloons were sending variants of airy thoughts (ideas about peace and harmony, brief warnings about violence, treason, and treachery); and, considering that the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture hosts many artistics from other ages, an antique form was re-construed – banderoles – those script holders from medieval manuscripts and the late circus.
To that end Yorick conscripted theatricals to perform, but, as it is;
the winds still blow and jokes (especially dry, witty ones) don’t translate.
Apparently presentation means are variable, even if similar, as is the cliche’ message. It is difficult to deliver the wit that accumulates into Joy.
Yorick retreats. The default settings for amusing present fools are digital scores, ticker tapes, and virtual tragedies scrolling the screen edges for the emotives: folly is Fun.
Yorick harbors on a long-embedded log and illuminates (passé) banderoles; thoughts of recurring floods and remaining fools.
Fooled in the twilight, a clanging…to look or…to replay convoluted stories …creatures, a chimerical plot, a misuse-able craft? Confusion – a mechanical, persistent heart’s cognition, a dark dull force in pursuit- a raft of fear?
In the beginning, We had sweet and simple idea remember? This was a place where the creative and natural could have a simple reunion: inviting neglected anarchists and enfant terribles from now and the ages, to a country picnic. A rural simplicity joined, sharing art. We refused proper names (except for Yorick) in the hope that all would feel included, even unmemorialized names. We have appointed The Deciders, for simplicity, to service opportunities in this old circus tent become museum. Deciders are rendered as the spiritual hobby-horse head of their youth, a personae, avoiding issues of photo rights.
But alas, there is something foul afloat (some unspittable taste of fear) because of one of the Deciders: who chooses to be called ” -In-Chief”.
But also a rising has expanded; a resistance has formed (quite sensibly) among emotives, including anarchists.
Bartered superstitions lurk, even on the prairie. A conjured ambassador from the city, night prowler (maybe urban myth), a legend about windows to be pried, and bolted doors blankly covering what should be opened. Among misfit children, the myth is a hero (he sticks his tongue out?).
An invented name, The KnightRider. Schooled in emotive bombs, the children regale in the KnightRider, hoping for some excitement among the resisters.
Yorick watching (chronically frayed) afraid of lukewarm immortals, counsels the child…
“You are to small for the bomb, and the bomb is to meek for the problem.”
The legend, the conjured Prybar, gains fame in a circuitous polarized distemper between town and the rural colony of anarchists.
Searching for that which needs, and can be…pried open.
We have just had a mixed media poetry performance ( or endless vitriolic political rant with celebratory cliches ), here in the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture. The poet just wanted to add some colorful beauty to surround and lift the words. Apparently not so elevated as to be pushed into awe, just some run-of-the-mill beauty. But the bubbles were destroyed; there was little hope, they wouldn’t quite stay in the air, sorta just crashed, unnumbered.
After the first thousand attempts, there should have been an outpouring of communal joy. The happiness of seeing the not-so-good get smashed, and then the succeeding attempts; watching a human ( poetic to be sure ) enclose words that resonate, sing and harmonize, and pulsate enlivening other words. That shoulda been a party, it would unite. It seems like a happy haptic public poetic sequence, but we missed it. There should have been a holiday marking the thousandth failure. But it is so long ago and didn’t seem then like a notable event, and now no ceremony is likely.
Yorick, who ponders both the comic and the tragic, would be happy to help the poet. He knows that first there is pain (more than a smashed finger), sometimes then, clawing; that inability to reach beauty, not to mention Awe ( the overwhelming). But anyhow, there is pain, then the reality, something has to be done, then the hope that something may improve the originating pain, then the effort (scribbling), money (if lucky ), then stuff, the manipulation, arriving at – the imperfections. Followed by maybe enclosing all in modern media bubbles, for safe keeping.
Yorick, being born of “olde”, doesn’t quite get the isolation, no matter the utility.
The bubble may be the modernist’s most significant enterprise. That ability to enclose things, quotes, economic plans, political slogans; separating deeds and words. Bubbles, bubbles make people happy, don’t they? But bubbles, real bubbles, happy bubbles don’t need utility: they just are – floating away in the breeze.
Some bubbles don’t even have air, they are built, big expletive markers helping the poetic anarchist emote.
They replace having a touchable community in completing the poets deeds.
Next Saturday we begin to celebrate something easier, the Season.
Ruminating rather than conjuring, searching for an opportune moment to bring forth well-kept emotions, the anarchists have spread out in the reunion. Tables, the folding kind, have been set up in order to facilitate the collections, garnered from the dropped-off miscellany, presumably to make found-object art.
Some of the mostly older emotive types (post-dead and before the days of “found-object art”) have pulled up chairs and apparently expecting a Thanksgiving feast.
As you might presume, anarchists of bygone times have a tendency of being “old” (post-living) and beyond the daily need for food. But, as they are old, the topic of comforting food is constantly on their mind. And with it a need to demand – thicker stews. Apparently the ghostly and skeletal varieties have some hope of the stew adhering and regenerating life – if it were less watery. Thicker stew also has a class character, the higher the class the thicker the stew; and as many of the ancient artistics came from the upper crust, a thicker stew seems a rightful demand.
However, we have not completed a suitable commissary, and so, as much as this early winter might provoke the taste for thick stew; we have none to offer. And we have no servers, except for some of the younger (pre-dead) artists; many on-leave from restaurant jobs (so as to be part of the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture) and so they have serving skills. But probably they are “serving” for a moment, a socially acceptable moment, an opening, to push their emerging art, (as original as a fart from a shared pot of stew), into the milieu.
Social class of course is the determining factor of how one eats, more often than what one eats.
So if the post-dead anarchists want comfort food; conjuring superior thick contents in a soup bowl (empty to our eyes) – it works.
Thankfully conjured, by the condescension of being served…by their lessers.
Join us next Saturday to consider what is worth considering and deception.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 