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captain_element's Journal  s much as possible, the world situation turns on a dime. this dime laid down by Fu Manchu, that ambitious, detail-oriented professional-scale rapscallion who will stop at nothing to further his plans to rule the world. crazy man, and you can see the sea from the top of this hill, and clouds (below) from the top of Everest. and when Yeti, big as advantage, stumbles into camp, all the merrie-making deathwatch types (I skied down Everest with an anvil for a friend), on the mountain (looking) for a reason, go so scared. I mean it's like, hey, what up with this sudden, and I die too soon, and the winds suck me dry, even my compelling legend. and so on, often with photos. the fierce importance, including stopgap against Nepal becoming a footstool, or Tibet the background music to the next to last movie, all this patently redeemable, like mica once was, the glory days. Fu Manchu consults his mojo. only keen, pipesmoking Nayland-Smith can cope with the exigencies, tho he at a loss being normal and English. Yeti wears no clothes, which is scandalous, and seems untrained in riding bicycles (look how he stagger walks!). so it all comes together, briefly as the meeting of lips or, perhaps, that agreeable moment when love. crisis fades into crisis, even while not fading. Russians and gangsters and Yellow River polluted with pee, and this Army of the Americans with its machine-quality global repositioning act. tired, can't think, need water, oxygen would be nice... and then Fu Manchu said unto a minion, who had spilt the vial of cucuruku blossom essence, the most deadly poison known to man, you retard, look what you've done!! later, the minion feels much remorse, having to clean Fu Manchu's underwear as penance. days wear on, clean underwear a must. without warning, Dr Petrie removes his pipe from his mouth, fishes in his pockets, removes a pack of matches from his vest, and lights his pipe. relights it, that is, dash it all. his pipe doesn't seem to draw well. not drawing well, he tells Sir Denis Nayland-Smith, to whom he is attached like Watson to Holmes. take classes, Petrie, but only after we've finally defeated this arch fiend. peering at the stem of his pipe, Petrie mutters, what's that Sir Denis? Sir Denis gestures violently. not now, Petrie, the game is afoot. look: two of his Burmese henchmen!!! oh Reader, you are just too, too lucky to witness this action! Thou of reading ability and who can laugh at the boss of snow, you share the action words, the thing words, even those odd little ones that are hard to exchange. a title poem somewhere dies unread: that power is yours. later, the world teetering, Tarzan wakes from a dream of elephants. Jane snore, says he as he not so gently wakens his lady wife. for Christs sake, it's Cheetah snoring, you dingbat. Jane pokes the brilliant chimp sleeping in the next hammock over. Cheetah roll over, doze again. world without end. then Captain Element returns to the picture. and returns again. yet again, he returns to the picture. the picture is vast as vocabulary and just as tricky. the situation is pictured, with rushing sounds parked outside. terror fits the name of many places and the people in them. a cold loneliness to die on Mt Everest, or on the Arctic uselessness trying to find a real home. Captain Element and his never merrie band of practical help against the force of evil feel the lethargy of the age. the world, like, is way too much with us and all, that's the basic helpline consideration. so some writers, artists and the like have got to get cracking, wake the generation. because it's like, wow, look! Reader, really, LOOK!!! a terrible, tremendous world fits in fog, said Fu Manchu, icy glare telling worlds to fall. George Bush guffaws practically. their nosecone heads for lunar landscape. the vantage is to see the orb spinning and delirious. on Earth, the little precinct, Sir Denis Nayland-Smith, invincibly English, conducts tea to his lips. to travel then, that tea, down throat, bump along the merrie alimentary ways, piss away like the last breath of justice. he will vindicate his poor attitude towards Du Manchu, that incarnate evil holding cards of purpose. and we, peons glowing with nice clusters of Kevin Federline Just changing my perception of myself in the public eye is number one. the big trees then got busy. they rang appropriate bell-like tones from their limbs. the blue sky adapted to the promulgation. words were spelled out clearly. literal losses were examined for reasons of torment. who would want more than a creation of vanity in the sport of trying? thus do the nodes endure. George Bush as the rock face staring into the sun beguiles with a loose drawing down. waking is a sly riposte. no one really gains a footing, the mountain crumbles with toleration. what war, basically. Nayland-Smith savours oil as a means of production, as in, how can this desert betray its foundation, and who are the crying people? not to say all words begin with sentiment. the English government, swiftly rebutting Stanley's query of Livingston, tickles newer regions for spirit. Sir John Franklin and crew freeze in death. death was sick all over. our particular hero stops to think. yo no soy marinero, he dashes thru his thinking, soy capitan, soy capitan. Captain Element, that is, who missed part 5 for having been caught in ashes. those ashes finally, with narrative effort better left unsaid, have been blown askew and away. he now can center stage himself, and as well the merrie folk with whom his crimefighting courage bounds to glory. namely, amongst those, Ms Merizer, whose effect is to beguile in the good old fashion sense of complete obliteration of will for the sake of gaining upper hand against forces of evil and what not. another might be called Sargent Semblance, who can disappear by being so much ordinary and seeming such and such. and veritable other names too important to list here. explicitly, Captain Element and Ms Merizer seek a juncture where the human downgrade works the hardest. some bully place where Washington is a watchword or how you say. and they peer into instances, pausing to reflect. the indignities that have mounted remain in constant battle with the dignities. political upheaval is only one watchword, there are so many. trembling in the decadence, and still, people want that narrative to go somewhere nice. perhaps a quick uppercut to infinity and the laying on hands of nations of possible votaries and way stations, until finally, in the pinnacle years, the true growing light makes hay... oh the lovely hay... Captain Element ponders... Captain Element, then, such and such. are you interested and prepared, Reader, your day full of time? the poetry of what can language realize, ho hum, future days will be with us now. abysmal contrail beneath unforested moon, muttered Fu Manchu, taller than other dentists, as he looked up. the moon itself, unperplexed, let a scant reflection of the sun fall unto the moon. silly moon, added Fu Manchu. a nearby minion, half human, half some racial alternative, grunts. Dr Petrie peers into the pleasant depths of his brandy snifter. the entranced essence of grape juice, poised on terms of oblivion, smelled like universe. Petrie places his nose over the globe to sniff. having snift, he snorts. the universe in the snifter gasps for the moments still retailed in its offing. Petrie looks into the golden amber brownish clumpy gloomy colour-of-Emily-Dickinson's -forlorn-eyes of the brandy. he sips, and the fire heads for parts unknown. let it be nice sometime. Jane in determined English spunk blends into the civilized venture to which back is she. Lady Greystoke, even so, with tiara for a plan. there is a ball at which she, thinking possible good amidst the brokers of days like this. Tarzan, that once and future lord, has been elsewhere with his own urgent need. Jane can do two worlds, jungle and ball. the tinkling of the serving bell and some rogue arm appears upon which she should hang. dash it all, she thinks, the story's going somewhere but I'm not. resourcefully, she transits. yes, indeed, she remembers. Petrie, that doctor, wasn't he a tale somewhere? to find him, team up, yes, Sir Denis and that. this could solve narrative for pages at a time. exeunt glittery towards some possible knitted completion. Sir Denis has applied for evil entry into the world of going on. he clenches pipe between his teeth as usual. some secret the doctor wanted him to seek, a pressing murmur in the green rolling field of his brain. the mad doctor controls him—Reader stay tuned— but then, lucky to the nth, the smell of Earl Grey tea brewed properly, yes, from the doorway of a teahouse. all is Proustian reverie into the present and right mind where one and all and especially Sir Denis Nayland-Smith belong. do you see? Sir Denis thwarted the diabolical doctor's will with his good racial memory. dash it all, raps Nayland-Smith, I've been befuddled. the Ministry, the horde, so much to do and time burns fast. I must find Petrie! so all goes better, better, yet still, inklings remain of the trouble to come. not forgetting Tarzan and Cheetah. they fight off Nazi-inveigled crocodiles and torrential rhinos in incited politicized stampede. the world soggily sits in the turmoil that makes civilization so vast. Nazis crowd all over the Sahara as well as in places where bombs agree. the natives are restless and their drums are strong. Tarzan will always face forward, and so too Cheetah, except when Cheetah backflips expressively. thus the engagement looms, and tip of the iceberg shows more beneath. world too much with us, sighs the ape man. the ape agrees with cry and leap. at this juncture, closed or open Reader, let us gather our wits. messages from Mallory's team up Everest inform of great deeds. no sadness can mediate touching the sky. a poem or dearth remains. England as jaunty as the future accepts others as targets. a poem or death remains. at this time, and at all time, which is any, we come to the node where we see Nayland-Smith: up close, impersonal. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith, in a bundle of trouble because his stiff upbrought feeling (currently) shivers in contra nature. how evil, personified so ably by Dr Fu Manchu, the mad colour of those eyes, and because effort means something. and heralds fall apart (sloppy) in the strung sentence. Nayland-Smith, with the tape recording of all impetus in his head, rings self-interest. not his self, but the one that carries people. this political thwart needs a country down, to wit: vital gas resources, oil on the skidway, practice of understanding the integrity of the net: all stutters in the misfire. practicing stupid headers, tailored footers, lack of text, ouch. sum of something that Nayland-Smith will fight for. against his nature, his Ezra Pound sentence structure poop. common and ground up. now cackling, Dr Fu Manchu, knowing of the minion status of Sir Denis. he will implement my desires, the doctor asseverated to no one with steely something that really bit. he sips tea and thinks, desire is a nice thing. implemented desire, that is, he added, emphasized. the crown jewel of the world is the world, he busily further thought. a sip, a satisfaction. mmm Earl Greystoke, he muttered, sniffing his cup. presently Lady Greystoke, nee Jane, quickly turns to civilization. civilization got us into this mess, it'll get us out, she said to a friendly giraffe she knew. the giraffe nodded impressively then went off seeking tall things. Jane switched from her usual and politically daring loin cloth to her finest tweed suit. she buckled up her sensible shoes and strode massively, like England, to the first exiting plane to London. ach, with action like this, dear Reader, you must be crucially inspired! momently Captain Element sits on moon rocks pondering the big blue marble. a key element exists in all matters, that central point, that core of pity and distinction that allows the perplexity to abate. a few more soothesome moments pass then he fires up his jetpack and heads back to the crowd called fighting. the odds of everything at odds was high. he and the Aggregate of Justice would be sorely tested. now Dr Petrie flashes his electric torch into darkness. as he does so, an inveterate universe goes solar heat beyond imagining. this causes the filament to glow. this glow illuminates the closet into which the electric torch aims. Dr Petrie sees his prey. fearlessly he reaches in and fetches out his good sturdy boots, for 'tis to the moors, the moors, there is where the next step must occur!!! Tarzan tired in a tree sleeps careless while Cheetah sits hunched guarding and a well-connected boa keeps eye out too. Tarzan pooped from exertions, Tarzan sleep. within the same reference to passing time, hereto further reflection on Captain Element [cue dramatic echo, time to appreciate, and reader]. he flies thru the air with the magic of jetpack, very hither and yon, dynamic, lucky, timely. a sturdy wonder of integrity and go for it. teamed as conjunctions and diligent companions in the rightness of of united going forth for good with: Collateral Damage, who aims towards the centre then lets go; Ms Merizer, who uses the logic of speech or gesture or even action to befuddle the criminal intent; and oh whatever names attached to beings of professing import, all these superheroes, who definitely, thru thick and thin. war zones maybe not intended, but crime waves, and featured bad non-invitees from worlds beyond the stars, the next reel. the mayor of central city honours the heroes as much as possible, with the throne room of people agreeing to keep nice for the days. signals to say when the crime is strung up on terrible efforts to thwart what has been established fairly as good. usually crime borne from trauma, personality twist, ouch, the world in its uses. but it goes tremendous towards the goods of forward day. so Captain Element, agreeable in opposing the crime of such and such, processes the institute and goes forth. exciting verve with his mordant wit, as well! now here, more further extra planed notes of Sir Denis Nayland-Smith. great character, as English as they say. he's been, of course, by the terrible doctor, but more usually, when plot twists don't intrude, smoking that snapping pipe and cracking honest virtue with a stiff upper lip. Petrie alongside and subordinate, more for the virtue of balancing actions with gasps, as in: good Lord, Sir Denis!!! quite a team, and needed in this patent made invidious marsh of after effects and forgone concluding. drastically next escapade is the full throttle to wherever by Tarzan, who yodels like breakneck speed. Jane teams too, Lady Greystoked alongside. can a war in the outer world affect jungle and squeal? bitterly inappropriate Nazis, remember, were needed to be beaten back, when the franchise saw the war at hand. goodness is a turkey set free by a turkey of a president, hahaha. now that we have said that narrative is about people, albeit when they are moved, we can succour the plot with wholesome virtue. the good guys will win, and if they don't, they still will. concurrently again the news of how Captain Element will ignite the futuristic jetpack to situate himself in the dire gaping of those forces of evil® who have thought Pol Pot, or situational CIA, or any what the fuck you've found grown accustomed in your yard. Doctor Element and the parti-coloured comical fixation serialize their trust to deliver us from weevil. well, it's aghast and a gas. the style counseling that says, gruffly, can the Republicans be so thick????? do not now feel unpresented, dear Reader and less dear alike, or that these heroes aren't placed before you in the terminal machine. trust in the process of trusting some process, or trust whatever in the beaming of your game. does the reader know what meanwhile means? well, elegiac symptoms in the night, that's what got Jane. now, with fresh cookies a-baked, she can pondering. the diadem of morning—okay, it's just the sun—fletches the trees with a song of spring. day is for action, and Jane's movie has taken a turn. I shall!, and that's plenty enough to say. come, Cheetah, we must assert ourselves in the name of if not justice then something even better. Cheetah backflips agreement, and they off go. presently, or if meanwhile, Sir Denis Nayland-Smith with eyes a-bead scouts the world view that has entangled him. the empire is any sort of group of catchphrases, he realizes, under Fu Manchu spell. and he can mess with, something, being as his eminence is read about. you know, meets with royals on a daily basis, smokes a pipe, stands tall. he can enter the ring of intrigue with deft step, the dark side, totally darthed out. a cunning plan by the insidious one, heartbreaking like a republican neuron. our Sir Denis, trailing into bad... in a rough concurrent, Captain Element engages in the first trope. he sees the hordes as bad. they were there with Marx, sure, told stories of apocalyptic grounding, and oh glory if we could just ascend. ascension, which is like a birthday, is a way to crow. Captain Element sees this impact sun, and starts a gamble. his goodness, philosophically self-evident, registers in acts and action. those are twain yet go together well, like Michelle and ma belle (très bien ensemble). ah, humming a moody tune whilst the very rich hours pass, scudding with jet pack alacrity to a junction of good and evil, somewheres about. very intent, Captain Element, a good part of the equation. in coeval time, Tarzan has astonishingly navigated thru the vines of his special jungle. chattering monkeys and wild looking birds and the occasional elephant with decibels a-booming have informed Tarzan of bad tidings like full moon nut. the case is this: the can of political anchovies of a bad sort has been opened. no shit, the murk is situational. can the preyed upon pray? there's the best of Tarzan, racing to help, yet with a philosophic wit. some bad types sink into quicksand, the engulfing volume of narcoleptic enjoinment. collected like a drag, that is, in the same sort of stew that crazed out Lovecraft. that is, no criminal except in normal racist speech and general rant, Lovecraft cankered in the death and dull images, respendent depth to deeper depth probe. gosh! well, we depend on Tarzan, put it like that, and we're good. good's inherently good. and at about the same time, Dr Fu Manchu, the nervy dentist, knows how to get to you. or me, even as I type. or anywhere and one, with the smell of fear. that's his prognosis, participation and general way to go. we accept that nasty side, so we can drolly speak our better. okay, so Hitler was one canker and Stalin went rather poorly. and that pal Pol Pot. we can name more names but the point is, here's Fu Manchu, very from the dark important hellishness, and he gives us little chance to breathe. what if England fails as England? and that tyke of England, USA, the commander of different sorts of future completions. all this is politics as a smooth smothering and incomparable messiness. just like we planned. everyone take bow. simultaneously or at least subjectively so, Dr Petrie, um, drinking tea, um, maybe a sup of port later, um, fireplace, comfy chair, um, oh yes a little stilton would be very nice, newspaper, um, wife, um, later, yes, later... Captain Element became suddenly perplexed. a night of steel, fortified with longing, stretched across a natural space between loud weary commercial, yikes. this television shit buggers all, thought Captain Element. launching into a mode of inquiry that serves to add a justifiable nurturing to other plans for the world, Captain Element bounces off, mindful of needful, as shouldn't we all. meanwhile, Dr Fu Manchu, rascally capture, chortles in high gear. the suture of his famous drug has compelled Sir Denis-Nayland Smith into an irregardlessness. this could be trouble, Great Britain would say, if Great Britain could say, or even know. in the secret den of iniquity where Dr Fu Manchu (a degree in dentistry from some bellicose Asian school hangs on the wall of his lair) keeps his captives, much amusement. minions all astir, as if they just watched the Republic National Convention and still knew what sanity was when it left. meanwhile, Dr Petrie, in his own charming, bumbling, English way, has decided something is wrong. meanwhile, Jane wakes Tarzan with an eerie feeling. I sense trouble, she murmured over the jungle racket. trouble Tarzan middle name. also Howard, said the jungle man, haha. no time for levity, Tarzan, the world at large and the forces of good who serve it, need your assistance. Tarzan all serious, says: Tarzan down with assistance. the ape man rises from his hammock with destiny in his eyes. no, that's the full moon glowing like it does once a month or so, to what purpose no one knows. Tarzan get to work, said he, intuitively knowing that he spoke no infinitive. I'll bake cookies, said Jane, that's the kind of movie I currently got.. meanwhile, Captain Element flies thru the air. his jet pack carries him towards trouble and the possible rectification thereof. he's in his element with such ventures. meanwhile, Dr Petrie grabs an electric torch, always handy in a pinch, and a revolver. little universes are placed in chambers in the revolver. at times of puncture or inquest, a trigger is pulled, a hammer lurches violently, striking a little universe, and a big bang occurs. that too could be handy. meanwhile, Fu Manchu sends Nayland-Smith out into the world. Fu Manchu has applied arcane drugs and wicked knowledge to inveigle decency from Sir Denis. to wit: Sir Denis is now a bad acorn. go forth and do my bidding, said the doctor cheerfully. but will this action not be too late? |
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