Monday, June 1, 2015

exctract from first, thought to be LOST novel 2006

The child’s dekko was a boy’s dekko. The two fingers personifying legs walking up along the abnormally mature-looking curve of his mouth, traipsing leisurely over the sweep of flesh above the upper lip, and making a sharp turn around the bell-curve of nostril were a mother’s long and weirdly clean fingers.
It was exceptionally shrewd of the mother to start at the gob and traverse each facial nicety before eventually returning, in a harrowing tremmorshpiel of suspense, to the gob. It reminded the boy that the gob was essentially the hot zone of the traditional bedtime wheeze, and prepared him for when the fingers eventually returned and clinched their formidable spider trick. This was when the temptation to smile was very great, at its greatest, in fact, which having been initially switched on the moment he felt the fingers’ tassle starting with the gob turned the gob into what could only be classed a burning hot zone, such as that the wheeze in question had finely selected for effect. Those fingers represented a man’s trousered legs ticklishly moving away from their starting point as walking fingers would, setting out on their trans-facial journey.
The boy whom it may concern was nine years old and had never been to the theatre before. 
It scourged muy as if he grasped the concept of the theatre on the glider he had grasped the concept of mathematics, like how when he first got initiated into it and mathematics delivered itself unto him with the sole proviso that the limitations of his knack would make mathematics go phut, but as a concept was relatively cream-palatably grasped. Like quite. Humans needn’t have evolved to understand what a theatre is; humans are dumb up to the point some high-blinker invents, say, mathematics, or a theatre house, and what’s the next thing you see but everyone’s on the bandwagon. Heh! Had Bully not understood the concept of the theatre it would have been reasonable to dress the professor on why he wouldn’t smile when the mother’s fingers came back after peregrinating all over his face in a teasing monkey with her personified fingers and capped her wheeze in signature style—but he did understand the concept, so that ruled out that gloomy professor.
The boy grinned toothily by gap between two tits, and two-titted breadth, so that he zeroed parallel sky-hensies with the purpose of the wheeze, or otherwise snacked wine and bucolic terms with the main goal in the wheeze’s crosshairs. According to the wheeze, the mother’s fingers personified a person trying to find the theatre, walking all along Bully’s face that in turn personified the building in which the theatre was housed, the walking fingers eventually finding the door that lead to the theatre and upon finding the ‘knob’ of the ‘door’ leading to the ‘theatre,’ the mother who then turned this said knob; the mother’s walking fingers that seemingly first needed to walk past the nose, by turnstile reaching the inner corner of the boy’s eye, then turning and tramping along the bulge of eyeball to the eye ridge and on from there towards the temple, reaching the carpeted terrain of hair before swinging down past what she explained was ‘a very large vestibule,’ represented by his biological ear; the boy who grinned a little too wide-mouthed when after the mother’s fingers had walked past the large vestibule and trekked over the wide mound of cheek expanse in a steady bearing towards the actual chin, but before reaching the chin veering sharply up towards the mouth and this time skimming the outer corner in favour of a beeline straight for the nose; the fingers that had on this trans-facial voyage assumed a leisurely but determined gait clip-clop so as to sustain the tension on the boy’s part and the suspense of knowing that soon she would reach the nose, but grinning very broadly when after the bosom friend in question had found the nose and, as it were, tweaked it.
He strongly had to resist the temptation to laugh while the bosom friend’s fingers stomped and caromed over his face in the strange shape of a man comprised almost wholly of two fingers, and a very strange torso involving vertical ribs that flexed in concert with the walking legs, and of course no discernable head; Bully who couldn’t resist the temptation to laugh after she had reached his nose and tweaked it, but managing to withhold his hilarity for the most part in the run up to his mouth’s being tweaked open.
Well now, if Bully hadn’t known what a theatre was, which of the boy’s developmental jugs did it fill festal and dopamine when the mother, all the while talking and delineating verbally the area of his face the fingers were currently traversing, extrapolating the rudiments of her entire voyage in a manner so humorous and catchy, in tandem with paraphrases whose primulus may have done with the actual destination—that is to say, the ‘theatre’—reached her destination and made it scourge muy as though being there was really what the boy had been biding groggily for all along? In short, what did the boy care if, in the forgivable event that he didn’t know what a theatre was, she had just reached the last-mentioned much-anticipated theatre? 
The passive bystander who would not be thought culpable for mistaking the boy badly for twigging large A’s re what the mother was trying to do and, moreover, where the mother in question’s fingers were walking to, for though he hadn’t been to a theatre before (the boy), the last mentioned omission of life experience didn’t neuter live A’s about the finger’s destination, so that the aforementioned passive bystander would have found himself more impressed than high super boggled that, when the mother vanced her intention of opening the door leading to the theatre, the actual suspense which was meanwhile seen welling up in the boy’s eyes all but palpably, with every progress the mother’s fingers made on their journey, as a side-effect to the joy expressed when she turned the nose and shouted, pointing at his teeth, ‘There are all the people!’ the boy gurned in a manner like a lion in the throes of masuchi bad-ass toothache. Though only the mother and the passive bystander knew that she really meant audience by ‘people,’ Bully smiled widely in an expression of joy that reflected surrounding the concept of a theatre large, fully twigged A’s, and though the boy was only nine years old, at the time, he knew that a theatre just wouldn’t be a theatre without an audience—as though this, in our evolutionary run up, had always been a fact. 

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