Mecha Rhino

For the aesthetic wanderer (who happens to be a mechanical rhino)

[mecha-rhino]

Gardeno Paradisio

Sunlight of the golden hour,

Made magic dripping through green leaves.

Green on diffuse gold on paler green,

And a pale sky beyond,

All set to gentle motion.

That comforting sound from my childhood,

Surrounded by the woods.

These hints of calm sunsets and restful nights,

A vision of summer’s heaven.

[mecha-rhino]

There is a sky above us

We are beneath the sky, all of us, together.

We must share the air and all the lands, despite all. A fate wrought upon us by the one who cursed us all. We are not free to leave.

Above thy sky doth dwell thee tormentor - thine Aeterneal Pharonic Emperor Goodtime Calypso Snuzzlewub XIII. It is an unknowable and indescribable entity that despicably feeds upon stock market volatility.

The Emperor muddles and fizzles, constantly agitating, always preventing any economic equilibrium that must come from steadiness between peoples. The disturbances are lucrative, for those who see them clearly, yet the collective psychic toll is injurious.

There is no escaping the market.

We can know no peace beneath the sky of the Emperor’s Garden.

[mecha-rhino]

Travelling the Road to Bellframpton: An Encounter

I have always found the journey by stagecoach between my abode in Muddle-upon-Twaddle to Bellframpton to be a monotonous one. The road is poor, and we unfortunate passengers are thusly jolted about yon and hither. The only fellow-traveller I have ever known to sleep at all is old Mrs Moustache-Clevemont, though I suspect she consumes - and let us state the matter kindly - ‘medicinal’ quantities of a certain Scottish cure. There is a peculiar smell about her that would indicate as such, and a singularly Glaswegian cousin who comes merrily a-visiting once-in-a-while in an affecting manner. Nonetheless, I do much prefer Mrs Moustache-Clevemont’s snores to the unending ramblings of our own Reverend Pippinstroodle.

That the Reverend is a godly man is beyond dispute; I have seen myself, small birds and woodland creatures of all shapes and varieties, come to him and gladly settle into his hands for comfort and presumably benediction. Such is the gentle goodness of the man. Notwithstanding this, there can be no doubt that if the poor benighted creatures were gifted speech, then they might think well upon it. They say locally that the good Reverend could talk fresh leaves down off a tree in springtime that they might but escape the superlatively monotonous anecdotes. And how should they be anything but monotonous? For the source and inspiration of all his long tales does not stretch one iota further than the bounds and daily lives of his parishioners, in the village of Muddle-upon-Twaddle which, as heaven would know, is as tranquil and peaceful a spot as may be found in this temporal domain. Must it not necessarily follow, that the local parson of such a dull place, would become a great storehouse of bland and unremarkable stories, and yet the Reverend insisted upon conveying his recollections of minor troubles and nearly nothings, as only a preacher might - at length considerable and in tone sermoneous.

Yet how am I to complain? After all, did I not adjourn to this picturesque in search of obscurity. Nay, I shall not trouble you, dear and long-suffering reader, with the woes and tribulations that drove me from my gallivanting about the city. A great and grand escapade of excitement and carousing which still requires me to continue onwards as a type of nobility in exile. Mighty are these heroic episodes of my past, that would but testify to my character as a man, even though they are shrouded in mysteries quite likely supernatural.

Perhaps if you would truly like me to relay these personal circumstances to you, if you should find yourself to be sufficiently intrigued, then you might find me, or enquire of me, at the local riding inn of Muddle-upon-Twaddle, which is named for the Royal Oak that purportedly sheltered old Bonnie Prince Charlie in days of yore. Although you may be assured that nowadays there are no Jacobean sympathies to be found in the village, nor in the surrounding countryside. If you do decide to make the simple journey, then you need only to bring with you but a small fee, and perhaps some sizeable case of a fortified wine or spirit of middling to good quality. I have no doubt that this would be sufficient to induce in your humble servant a state that would be most agreeable to render all assistance forthwith, including a skilful retelling of one of the most fascinating accounts of our time. “A riveting tale of danger and dynamism, and a study in how a true gentleman shall always overcome villainy” - is the type of phrase that I imagine the London critics would entreat potential readers with. Truly, it would be a singular account.

Unfortunately, this particular story, that you are reading, is simply not that account, and all due to manifest limitations and suchlike. Therefore, and although it pains me, I must return us to that dreary stagecoach to Bellframpton. Sadly, Dear Reader, we must return there, to be jostled, irritated by snoring, and subjected to droning anecdotes, all of which together can only elicit a most disagreeable state. Why should we endure this journey each month, you may well ask. and indeed it is a fair enquiry. I shall say only that matters of a pecuniary nature compelled me to undergo this trial to reach the little market town which, unlike the even littler village of Muddle-upon-Twaddle, is possessed of a branch bank, from which a pension of sorts might be drawn.

How still did your humble author come to be in possession of such a pension, you may ask? Well then - Dearest and Most Beloved reader - I should respond that you have the most delightful way of asking very perceptive questions. If only you could have the chance to ask them of me in person, and in connexion to a grander narrative, as alluded to earlier. I do hope you will consider at least that little journey, as described, with the very small fee, which may be negotiated with my literary agent. Usually I would not be even the slightest bit inclined to request any monies. However, there are certain expenses for which others depend upon your most humble servant, and to the end, I must dutifully provide the very postal address for your enquiries:

Mr Frederick Shambles Esq. Literary Agent - First Rank. Bagshot Square Lane, Snabblesnoot, London

Mr Shambles is truly a very fine literary agent, and honest also. Naturally he would advise that one simply must not answer, and can only direct the enquirer towards the aforementioned mysterious past, as alluded, and say that the funds are representative of the munificence of a grateful nation, and sovereign, and that the monies are faithfully doled out, on the monthly, in re past service.

Perhaps now, dear reader, after all these many questions of yours, you would agree that you have sufficient insight for us to continue. Perhaps it is so, although I would note that we have not yet addressed the stagecoach itself in any sense.

The stagecoach was the property and providence of Mr Snarling Pitchfork. Quite a peculiar fellow, in both name and nature, yet reliable also, and routinely as tight as an Owl. Somehow he still ran the stagecoach with exactitude, and arrived to his destination unfailingly on time, on saddle, and always on accounts. Indeed, this saying was somewhat of a motto for him. I was convinced that there was no worldly power that might induce Mr Snarling to stop, or even to pause, along his journey, such that he might risk his sterling reputation. Perhaps, I was correct, or perhaps I was wrong. The plain fact of the matter is that, upon one particular journey, Mr Snarling did stop, but whether the force that caused him to do so was of this world, or a phantasmagoria of some other realm, I simply do not know.

My recollection is that the stage came to the colloquial halt, with no small amount of juddering involved. Bewildered, we three inside the stagecoach looked startled at each other, or we should have, had not Mrs Moustache-Claremont been dead to the world, as earlier described, and the Reverend Pippinstroodle entirely engrossed in a nonsensical case about a missing nose. As it was, I alone noticed, and reacted by popping out to take a look.

Along the road, there was such a scene - a pretty young girl, of some fascinatingly cultivated European type, waltzed demurely with, what appeared to be a stout overcoat. There was a type of veil between ourselves, and this scene, which had a hint of a grand ballroom about it, shimmering light and high walls.

Mr Snarling looked on, quite startled, and I dare say my own expression was similarly unbecoming. The vision faded away upon a breeze, until it was little more than the early-morning sunlight dappling through leaves, and then nothing. At length, Snarling cleared his throat, gave me a curt nod, and then we proceeded onwards, with not a word between us but, I fancy, a shared appreciation that the other had shared an identical impression.

The remainder of the journey was uneventful, as most of those journeys were, but ever after, I always maintained a sense of ready anticipation when we reached a singular bend in the road along the way to Bellframpton. I am given to hold that there is but a veil between worlds, and that under peculiar circumstances, the veil may flutter in breezes cosmic, a portend mayhaps, that it may yet be sundered ‘ere the end.

[rainie-is-seasonchange]

Misty summer.

Tochigi, Japan.

[todayintokyo]

Wind chimes at Miyajidake Shrine by takamii0419

[ysabelmystic]

So I have a crazy story from yesterday.

My first mistake was showing up to work. I couldn’t sleep. It was 11am, and I got a message from my work group chat begging for someone to come in. They offered $500. I figured I could either be cranky and tired in bed, or I could be cranky and tired while earning Christmas money. I worked that night anyways, so I offered to work a 16 hour shift. I showed up at 1.

The first couple of hours weren’t too bad. Night shift consistently deals with far worse with far fewer staff. This is how I made my next mistake- I told my workwife that day shift is totally full of shit, and how it wasn’t actually that busy.

Of course, about thirty minutes after that, the ambulance phones rang nonstop. Our lobby quickly turned into an EMS convention. Since I was running the low acuity rooms, I got the “easiest” patient who’s complaint was labeled as “injured wrist- possible psyche”.

I did the whole triage thing. What’s your name, do you know where you are, why did you call an ambulance, etc. I asked him how he hurt his wrist. He said that he injured it by trying to punch a hole in the ceiling. I asked him why he did that. He said it was because he thought someone was on the roof. He did inform the store owner (because this took place at a fucking chikfila) and request that someone at least check the roof for people, but the request was denied. Out of concern for whomever might be trapped on the roof, he climbed a pole and punched the ceiling.

This is about when the owner called the police, and the police called an ambulance. This is how he ended up in my hospital.

I did my psychiatric screening. He had a history of anxiety, but that was about it. At least per protocol, he had no reason to require an immediate psych workup other than the anxiety, which he was not currently experiencing, and I’m not one of those weird nurses that sees any form of psychiatric history and decides to make it everyone’s problem regardless of if the patient came to the ER for it or not. And he was calm, polite, relaxed, and rationalized his reasons for his odd decisions in a way that almost made sense. And I’ve met plenty of “normal” people who say and do much weirder stuff. This was someone that I could leave alone for a few minutes while I charted and waited for the doctor to see him and place orders. Right?

Wrong!

I heard banging sounds but thought nothing of it. It’s dayshift. They’re always making noise. I ignored it.

And then the doctor yelled, “CALL A CODE GRAY! HE’S IN THE CEILING!” which is a combination of words that will summon all of your coworkers to one place very, very quickly.

I’m not sure how he did it, since he’d entered through the one corner that wasn’t above a chair or counter or stretcher, but sometime between my evaluation and the doctor’s attempt at one, the man had broken into the ceiling, pulled himself up, and made a run for it.

The immediate concern was “where the hell did he go?” Luckily, our ceilings are flimsy as fuck, so we were able to guess his location based on the sounds of his scuttling down the hallway above us.

Unfortunately, our ceilings are flimsy as fuck, so our next concern was, “what if he falls through the ceiling?” What if he falls in a patients room? What if he falls on the patient? How do you fill out “fall” paperwork for that? How do you address that in court? Does anyone have experience with patients falling through ceilings or is this your first time too? Should someone call 911?

We were literally scrambling around trying to place ourselves under him in the event that he fell so we could minimize the damage. At this point, the psych team came in, and our most Disney Princess-esque nurse went into the ceiling to talk the man down. It didn’t quite work, but he was able to convince the patient that an angry mob wasn’t waiting for him now that he’d fully investigated the ER for attic dwellers. The patient came back down before we called the fire department. He was quickly admitted and placed on a watch to prevent further ceiling adventures. And no, we were not angry. Just confused, horrified, amused, and flabbergasted.

My patient remained calm and amicable for the rest of his time with us, and we are all due for “re education” on patients with possible psychiatric, or even just strange, complaints.

Experience rating: My patient was much nicer than most people I deal with. His response to the hallucinations was ill-advised and dangerous, but his motive was pure. The man heard footsteps in an unusual place, and he needed to make sure that whoever was up there was safe. Overall 8/10. This is the weirdest thing to ever happen to me at work, no one got hurt, and we are confirmed to not have people in our ceiling. I hope he encounters kindness and joy wherever he goes.

[mecha-rhino]

The encounters of Peter Wantedman

If you’re ever in Shuntington Wells then you could do worse than to look up the name of Peter Wantedman in the local directory.

Peter or ‘Pete’, as he is occasionally called by people who don’t know him very well and assume that he would rather be called Pete when actually he prefers Peter because that is his actual name, well so, Peter is a prodigious designer of bibs and braces. They are quite impressive and invaluable for those who work outdoors in inclement weather and who nonetheless wish to stay dry.

Peter designs bibs and braces that are highly waterproof, hard-wearing, and comfortable. His designs are in actual fact, so advanced, that he is routinely contacted by higher-dimensional beings that transcend three-dimensional reality but who wish to understand the intricacies of its geometries. They find these garments to be most enlightening in this respect.

Peter finds all this to be a peculiar situation. He’s just an honest man, going about his trade, and he is unable to perceive higher-dimensional entities. During these encounters he often feels that he is communing with the void itself, an eerie and disturbing experience.

I guess that’s the burden of genuine genius for you.

[mecha-rhino]

The Moon-Ballard of Maureen and the Long Furby

Maureen Carshare was going about her business when a long furby burst into the bijou coffee shop that she happened to be frequenting.

“Brrrrello!” said the long furby, joyfully

Maureen, who was sometimes called Henry by her close friends as a joke, did not know how to respond to this strange and unexpected situation. Confused and uncertain she hesitated to say anything at all.

The long furby was saddened by her lack of reply and misinterpreted her shocked silence as a very disrespectful insult. Fuelled by vengeance and bloodlust the long furby magically cursed Maureen, who in her younger years had been a high school gymnast, to live on the moon, and to be perfectly adapted to its environment and climate, forever.

As the magic took hold, Maureen found herself transported instantaneously to the moon and twisted into a creature that could thrive perpetually in the harsh moonscape.

And that is the story of how Maureen ‘Henry’ Carshare became a lunar-goblin, pirouetting gymnasticly across moon craters like a solid pro.

[mecha-rhino]

Profile: Jonny Samantha and Calypso

This time, we celebrate the success of Jonny Samantha - a sprightly young pup - and her owner Calypso, owner of a thriving Highland-themed rotisserie Cafe in Oban, Scotland.

Descended from a long and prestigious line of famed rotisserie chefs, Calypso took on the family business with the ambition to modernise the Cafe. In the twenty-first century, this can only mean a steadfast commitment to sustainability in the face of the climate emergency.

Taking inspiration from the ‘kitchen dogs’ of old, the Calypso Chicken Shack notably powers its rotisseries by means of a large ‘dog-wheel’ in which Jonny Samantha tirelessly runs, and runs, for hours upon end, being the kind of dog that enjoys such things. She thrives on a diet of kitchen scraps and chicken strips, which provides her with boundless energy to drive the whole machinery which is carefully lubricated with chicken grease.

The Calypso Chicken Shack has won major awards for its innovative approach to the challenges of rotating chicken and several cautions related to food hygiene standards. Calypso reports that this only demonstrates how the regulations need urgent reform. A true visionary!

[mecha-rhino]

A Study in the Wildlife of London

I would like to tell you about a certain type of urban life that I observed in my younger days.

I once lived in a small apartment in the east-end of the capital for about six months, which is roughly half a year. My neighbours were of the usual sort - a mixture of retired people, the occasional young couple, and a committed spinster. All thoroughly normal and unremarkable.

The colourful exception to this bland retinue was my upstairs diagonal neighbour Mr Jenkins ‘fishsticks’ Willis, who was, by comparison, a singularly peculiar fellow.

Mr Willis had been awarded his sobriquet of ‘fishsticks’ on account of his most extraordinary shins. He would parade along the corridors of the apartment building, and the adjoining streets, wearing short trousers, all the better to show off his ‘sticks’, as he called them.

You see, each of his shins was covered in golden scales, in the manner of a great fish. His shins would shimmer and dance in the light, all full of living and joyful natural radiance, like the play of light upon a rainbow trout lazily circling in a sparkling pool during the golden hour.

The overall appearance of Mr Jenkins Willis was like that of a hunched rat, all sniffly and pinched, and twitchy. His magnificent shins were his most striking feature, and they attracted no small amount of admiration around the neighbourhood.

Mr Willis was certainly not embarrassed by his so-called ‘fishsticks’ any way, in fact he rather encouraged his onlookers. He would routinely pluck out a fresh golden scale and make a present of it to notable or remarkable admirers. Over time, his fame became significant enough for him to be able to make a minor living from servicing the curiosity of tourists. Local Hackney carriage drivers could be requested to hasten to the ‘fish-legged man of the east end’ and so instructed they would most reliably convey one to Mr Willis, for the purposes of edification. Apparently, a young student doctor even authored a medical article about the phenomenon of Willis’s shins for the Lancet, back when said learned journal still accepted such curios.

I had very few direct interactions with Mr Willis myself that I may repeat. Although I will record that I most certainly found maintaining a conversation with him to be gravely taxing, primarily given the distraction represented by his bescaled shins, which he insisted on bandying about in an alarming manner. We did converse on occasion about the price of apples and corned beef, to which he was partial, and I knowledgeable. He also had a habit of scratching his ears whilst speaking, in the manner of a rodent, which was disagreeable to me, and so we were never more than warm acquaintances.

Eventually, my personal circumstances developed such that I moved to other environs that were less salubrious, meaning that I encountered old ‘fishsticks’ no more. Although I have heard tell that in his later years he ceased his touristic perambulations and settled upon a more modest form of trouser.

More recently, I had occasion to visit an ale-house in the area of my former domicile. Therein I could but overhear a fishwife relaying to a young street urchin the story of ‘old froggy’. The tale took the form of a confessional, in which the protagonist reported to seeing a frog-legged man, awandering the streets of London, in a thick fog, near the river shores of the Thames. I could not but imagine that the story might be inspired by Mr Willis through some folkloric means of transmutation.

I do myself muse upon Mr Jenkins ‘fishsticks’ Willis with a certain reminiscence, whenever I am at a fish market, or another circumstance, when I see a fish with a particularly striking pattern of scales upon its side. For are these not the characters of an older and odder London, which nowadays is receding from view, and which is ever more only to be found in the memories and daydreams of those of us who knew the peculiarities of the great smoke in the 1990s.

[mecha-rhino]

My True Story about a fish

One day I was walking down a street in the main shopping district of the small town where I grew up when I felt a strange ‘splatting’ sensation on my shoulder.

Confused, I looked for the source of this strange sensation, when I noticed a single goldfish on the sidewalk. I looked around, wildly, to try and ascertain from whence the poor fish had dropped to earth, like a fallen smelly angel. Alas, there was no obvious evidence of its origin. The skies were empty of airships and the like, and the windows of the surrounding buildings were closed tightly.

Hurriedly, I scooped up the goldfish, which was clearly traumatised and suffering from oxygen exposure. I ran, in a panic, to the nearest coffee shop. Fortunately it was a bijou independent shop that sourced its beans in an ethical and socially responsible manner. Reassured, I ordered a flat white with soy milk and requested a glass of water alongside my coffee. If the exquisitely trained barista had any feelings about the goldfish xe did not show any sign of emotion and xey were thoroughly professional about not reacting. Unless of course this was a regular occurrence, in which case xer professionalism was simply nonchalance.

I supped my coffee and then, ever so gingerly, placed the goldfish into the glass of water, whereupon it flipped around and looked me dead in the eye. Recovering its composure, the goldfish opened its tiny mouth and then emitted a perfect C#. It was beautiful, ethereal, and thoroughly unexpected. I immediately knew that this pure-hearted piscine and I would spend the rest of our lives together, but not in a romantic way, more as a pair of mutual platonic acquaintances. The kind of relationship you might establish with the security guard at your workplace, or local library, or other public institution. Perhaps you might nod at them when you enter the building so that they know who you are, but you suspect that they would do you no favours whatsoever if you were in a position to need to ask something of them.

Anyway, the goldfish and I have since settled into an unremarkable routine, it lives in a nondescript fish bowl, and I feed it from a bulk value packet of Dr Superb’s Friendly Fish Flakez. Every so often I change the water also. The fish has never sung again, and I am now unsure if it is capable of repeating the feat. I have avoided walking down that particular street again, because I do not want to risk the possibility of this particular scenario reoccurring, mainly on account of my not wanting to have to buy an even larger fish bowl. I don’t really enjoy changing the water that much, it’s kind of a hassle, and the goldfish is most unappreciative from what I can tell.

[maureen2musings]

Winter morning in Hallingdal, Norway

lushhvisuals

[6vcr]

[hatsofftomadness]

[gentlemanmotorslifestyle]

[star01007]

[xanaxfarts]

Benedetto Bufalino