[Rimbaud]

There was a soft whinny, and Tofu trotted (to the surprise of many) into the bower and straight to the Salad Bowl, without even a by-your-leaf. Saladriel arched an arched eyebrow archly as he arrived arrestingly at the arboreal amazement.

Without any warning, Tofu slurped his long tongue straight down into the salad bowl and apparently swiped a few croutons and what looked like (to the experienced lettuce-ologist) a fine red coral Bellisimo leaf, before falling into what appeared a deep reverie. Being far more highly erudite than any other present, Tofu quite naturally received his message in Latin.

The first of the missives, swimming lazily upon the shimmering surface of the psychic vinaigrette seemed to refer to Merisuwyniel’s mare, which had cast more than one horsey eye upon his normally equable equine equanimity, thoroughly discomforting him.

Falafel formosa est multis. mihi candida, longa,
recta est: haec ego sic singula confiteor.
totum illud formosa nego: nam nulla venustas,
nulla in tam magno est corpore mica salis.

…said the Salad Bowl, and Tofu nodded emphatically in agreement. The thoroughly learned steed knew his Catullus from his catalytic converter. The Salad Bowl held one further message for Tofu, referring to Merisuwyniel, and it thoroughly scared him. Est vemens dea: laedere hanc caveto said the Bowel of Saladriel. Tofu whinnied in dismay. The warning stated, in the common tongue, “She is a violent goddess: You will beware of offending her.” Tofu whinnied in anxiety and backed quickly away from the Salad Bowel, lettuce still protruding pathetically from his equine maw.

Halfullion stepped up, seemingly oblivious to Tofu’s discomfort, and stared deeply into the leafy shadows of the future. The Bowel was confused by the abrupt changeover in minds focused upon it. Letters floated up to Halfullion, pretentiously fonted and horrendous in their apparent faux-erudition. Si qui forte mearum ineptiarum lectores eritis manusque vestras non horrebitis admovere nobis.

To this Halfullion exclaimed nobly, “Yegadzookerzoids! I appear to have lost the facility for speech and understanding!” Many of those gathered nodded sagely, apart from Vogonwe, whose nod was more reminiscent of parsley than sage.

The Bowl spake to Halfullion’s mind, a veritable cornucopia of saladorious delights, a veritable radishment of ravishmental ramblings. Halfullion became a bit confused but listened intently. Sorry, about that, young Fellah! said the Bowl, unexpectedly cheerily. Mixed you up there with that grand old minded horse you have there. Allow me to show you your future in pretty pictures with nice bright colours.

Halfullion frowned, suspecting he was being mocked, but given that he was being addressed telepathically by a giant bowl of salad, let it pass.

“Just one thing,” he said. “Please translate what you said to me. Please, just one good movement, oh great Bowel!”

The Bowl sighed and bowed its head (suspension of disbelief required here – it’s a mythology and not any kind of allegory, phew…)and answered Halfullion gravely.

“I said to you ‘...If you who are brave will be readers of my foolishness,
Then your hands will not tremble as they reach towards my poems...’ and I meant it.”

“Oh,” said Halfullion a bit blankly. “That kind of humour’s all a bit, well, post-modern, don’t you think?”

“Rhetorically speaking,” said the Bowl somewhat sharply, unused to being addressed so. “I would argue though that the jesting was not truly of, relating to, or being any of several movements (as in art, architecture, or literature) that were reactions against the philosophy and practices of ‘modern’ movements neither was it ‘typically’ marked by a revival of traditional elements and techniques – due to the somewhat anachronistic nature of this entire conversation.”

“Hmm,” said Halfie thoughtfully. “That’s a very specific answer when the original question held an inherently wider view. It is not simply that the postmodernism does not believe in "truth" so much that it understands truth and meaning as historically constructed and thus seeks to expose the mechanisms by which this production is hidden and "naturalized. I would argue that contrary to the very roots of the word, it can refer to any discipline of any Age."

“Then it is redundant,” retorted the Bowl sharply. “I don’t know what kind of poor deconstructionist literature you’ve been dribbling your meager mental resources upon, but I assure you, you have no knowledge of the concepts of which you speak.” The wise Salad paused for proverbial breath. “Anyway you are missing the point. Here is your future.”

And the Lord Gormlessar saw fabulous haircut after beautiful bouffant while ever in his mind loomed a great pair of scissors and a rotating black leather chair.

[ February 03, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]