How I Became President of The Boeing Aircraft Corporation
So I told him, I said, “Air is not merely the absence of other elements or the presence
of certain very distant and spacious assemblages of select and yet common particles
brought not so much together as into a suspicious proximity in a particular sequence.”
And he replied in kind, saying, “A deceptively young man was in my office the
other day and I gave him what for, cut him down to size, I did, waxed his potato and sent
him bootstraps over shoelaces into the hallway with his suspenders in tow. What does he
mean by airing his personal withholdings in our place of worship?”
And so I enunciated more carefully. I spoke slowly and I interjected, “Neither is
earth as solid as it seems, and remains, in fact, surprisingly compatible with the
assemblages of air, which consist of the very absences which fabricate the structures of
its own existence.”
And the clever dissembler answered knowingly, saying, “Well I sure enough
slapped him upside the head and gave his ears a good twist until he sat down respectful
and I still had to get in his face with a few choice expletives to sharpen his attention span
or the dense bugger-assed numbnut would have hunkered home without an echo between
It was at this point that I began to suspect we were really on to something
redundant. I closed the invitational crow, rationed the blackbirds and repealed sparrow
privileges. I was dumbfounded. I was working.
Three days later the potential for hurtling through the air had been extended and the
machinist’s union thrust themselves into a strike. While the moon pulled quietly at the
transient tide with its greasy ancient wings, its workers flung reflections through the
increasingly commercial air.
It was too late. We had understood. We had communicated a basic principle. We
were all that was necessary for our continued explorations. We were determined to arrive
at a conclusion without daily alterations of the potential for misdirection.
It was a kind of epiphany, an irrevocable feathering of the universal discourse on
arrivals, an acceptance. I was not yet tired of being merely correct.
For which mistake in judgment I was handsomely reimbursed.
Fiction. Modern Abstract Fables.
(First edition, hardcover with dustjacket, 524 pages, $36.50 USD.)
Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days draws from fairy tales, a condescending of a 1938 Social Studies reader for 6th grade, an 1890 handbook on marital compatibility, numerous annoying educational advancement studies, the myths and legends of third-world countries and minority peoples, pulp fiction, a history of carnival side shows, folktales, frequent conversations with Crows, Owls and a wide variety of underground inhabitants, insects and the people who collect them, Joseph Cornell, Günter Eich, Russell Edson, the French Surrealist poets, the Quay Brothers, letterpress printing, and the author’s inability to channel his imagination linearly.
Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.