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Editor's Note: It Is What It Is (Whatever It Is)
Dobar/Bodar Bent came to us in a blitz of electrons from beyond mundane experience, waving his wares from a world within. Our vast holdings in the Outer Provinces allowed us to offer him a base and laboratory for his verbal alchemy. Literary conventions and normal editorial practices were largely suspended, as there's something of the otherhoo at play in these lines of enigmatic expression. We have no code book to lend you guidance. Your wits and telepathic faculties must serve if you seek the meaning behind the eyes of Dobar Zundertrout Bent. For our sporting editors, it was enough that they had found fresh curiosa with which to field a novel presentation for the Great Museum. |
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From: Dobar (Bodar) Z. Bent It has been contended my script be of scope at a Provincial Journal of complete outworld Thought. A counterpart in fruitfulness and growth of past, upon an overdue unseparation heard some of these the words of Dobar Z. Bent telling tale of Lester Clastomanovich and his counterpart Alfons Chapasacowstavich. That counterpart suggested such Journal as a portal of exposure to unwilling comprehensive compulsories. The return compulsion to Osious Thadious Zundertrout instigated this entire transcripture. Osious E-scribed such JPT inspiring any such recorded ruckus as is nexted. “In yarning your whim I sensed of sight some literature of obscure and indefinite origin at the end of your direction. It seems I read ramblings of a soul, the soul of creation and vocabulary, darkness and palatable grotesquery from a potential nonreality. I know a Lester Clastomanovich and another Alfons Chapasacowstavich of very very similar origins. Origins of doors of darkness and distress seemed to be ''their'' one shared attribute. Their ability to develop conversational conundrums of twisted understandings and coke bottom views of all-isness. Lester and his counterpart hold to the rung of a crumbling ladder and seem to constantly struggle to reach the next, the whole time with feet on the ground. They fear a lonely darkness or a tormented reverence. They seldom find serenity, would the tweebs of bulldorf never have been prescribed. Such tweebs being ultimately unavoidable yet repeatedly repulsed. Tweebs of planes of serenity and happiness in a transposed consciousness. They (Lester and his counterpart) seldom of late transcribe, neither did they wish to share. The strange darkness never seems to leave the scape, the sparkle does however nearly always lighten heaviness. And the last of the period becomes very tired once the whirlwind subsides.” Speak of him currently: Dobar Z. Bent, resider of Yak-covered tent, carrier of oblivious renderings and transparent soul........................... ___________________________________________________________
From: [jpt Editor] Dear Mr. Zundertrout or responsible entity Dobar/Bodar: Apologies for our inability to do more than speculate on your legal identity—assuming we are in fact acquainted with you. There are no fewer than eight likely suspects from among whom our fine ear for dialect cannot deliver a positive identification. We could, then, resort to historical analysis of modus operandi and to what we know about these eight intelligent but mischievous creators, but would risk further offense should we err. The acronym from Osious Thadious Zundertrout, for example, would seem strong evidence indicating one of our suspects; but high coincidence or smart misdirection is possible. The Lester and Alfons names (and the names in general) seem the handiwork of a certain overseas nuclear engineer, but spellings and punctuation in the document are American, not British—more possible misdirection. Other strong evidence points to one whose stylistically similar work and sneer of cold command have appeared in the JPT Outer Provinces. Any of these suspects we would welcome back. Likewise the haunted stranger. Ordinarily we would rave to the submissioneer concerning qualities exhibited, but you will agree that your duly submitted piece is quite beyond ordinary. Fathoming your purpose is but ninth on the list of our ten editorial tasks; whether mockery is your game or creative exuberance your fond indulgence, there is no denying your abilities to think and to order your expression cleverly (some of the plain sort would charge "eccentrically," as surely you must know). We particularly enjoy the crumbling ladder insight and the expression "tormented reverence," both of which we wish we had thought of. Damnitol. So yes, Mr. Zundertrout, we will proudly display your genius (perhaps as poetry structured as prose, and probably under Outer Provinces jurisdiction)—or are we to attribute authorship to Dobar Z. Bent? And we will defend until death or disappointment your right to say it. Thank you for spending these precious moments of your life with us and for permitting us the same luxury with you. Life. What is it anyway? That’s not rhetorical, there. I’m asking you what life is. With official affection, ___________________________________________________________
From: Dobar (Bodar) Z. Bent Dear [Editor], I am flattered. The flare for erratic contrivances shone of the time of our being better-bound carbon units. In development of grey matter in exploration of alternative vocabulary and during the mournful loss of countless cells thereof. I mean no spiritual spite or nonreverence of the initiative in un-''normal'' conjurings. The initial Revelation overwhelmed our feeble conscience for several light units. Mischief ah mischief, there is no un-like-ed-ness ever intended, as appreciation is a better conclusion to be drawn. Mr. Zundertrout and we spent the body solution excretion times together, imitating bobbies on their com wavers or philosophizing times of unrestrained genderous protrusions. Zundertrout: a perception of ours; I registered of eye his conspicuous parables of siezureness (Mr. Zundertrout and his Obob co-realized this Lester of interest.) Mockery—the ploy of the material contrivance we tend to repulse but can never unabsorb. Mass communications of dismal ethical content overwhelm our senses. JPT communications refreshingly inspiring stagnant cranial compartments, have nothing but a place in the sparkle. We Lester and his counterpart Alfons are best communicated via our Dobar Z. Bent. It is actually Dobar and/or Bodar pendest on the current waves of the speck in vast universe. Precious has been the speck, but time is a sparkle, as the wheels of long ''regular'' are turned to new tracks. The chains of the burdens of darkness have finally been compromised. The burdens upcoming intriguing and unpredictable, gorgeously exhilarating. The brightness of the sparkle a joy of ours to behold for the whole speck of each light unit. Life................ah Life.............a speck, a unit of little in the wholeness of a creator? A contrivance of consciousness? A happenstance of coincidence? Potentially experienced in the dark or with the sparkle, the inspiration of debate and pain. Dobar observes the wholeness of the sparkle and the inequities of the dark, so we do too. Adhesive compound to be kept in rotating contact below, and the sparkle up, Post-rant: The poet of Lester or Alfons ensued of the resurrection to the sparkle. The poet recorded but never, no never, shared, as darkness lives under the ink on the parchment. Poet of sparkle never inscribed or considered, non-dark combinations of written verse intriguing at least. We will eye the potential but fear potential stumblings could inspire the dark. ___________________________________________________________
From: Dobar (Bodar) Z. Bent Mr. [Editor], We rest in contemplation of pleasant burdens of this light. We use the melodic assembly of some ''10 days out'' to appease any early inner anxieties. We'll need to accrue substance of equinely consumption on this universal speck. Our carbon base in need of such exasperation but not reveling in the inevitable shed of saline. We hope association with information acquisition in organized establishment doesn't bear requirement. We universed the Mystery an assembly of ink in reference to the abyss. We are all little but one dust in an insurmountable puzzle. Embrace the sparkle, light the dark and revel in the existing speck, not one yet to fly. The wholeness our guide, the sparkle our light in realization of true unadulterated presence. Mystery a verbiage often feared in itself but seldom truly appreciated. The resolution of mystery as awe-spacious an accomplishment as any in our speck. We are Lester Clastomanovich and Alfons Chapasacowstovich and Dobar or Bodar Z. Bent. Our existence spontaneous and simultaneous. Our true am-ness is well explained. We are in all, or not, we dwell on every river, or one, in all assemblies of internally motivated carbon or one. Please realize the existing light, we will, ___________________________________________________________
From: Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent Here is the contrivance of Kruuzer Hrtuu; In time of beginnings when world moved quite slow, a simple and innocent transformed as we know. He used of forbidden to twist his world seen. He departed and rebuked all things he had been. He moved to a world of the easy and fun, the world of all friends but if needed are none. He learned of the shortcut, the easy, the wrong. He lived more in shadows, so most thought him gone. He found sense of power in substance and dark. He felt super giant while high as a Lark. This tale’s of the Kruuzer, the Kruuzer Hrtuu, of course not his given, no not at all true. Kruuzer the giant he smelled quite of sweat. He sometimes would shower but would often forget. His best mode of transport was always old junk. He kept extra tires and oil in the trunk. The brakes were not working, the engine would smoke, behind big bad Kruuzer he was eye of the joke. Forbidden held greater and greater control. And great big bad Kruuzer appeared very old. The giant did weaken, his power far gone. The substance now owned him, it couldn’t be long. He grew now in size that his pants didn’t fit. He suffered breath shortness in arise from a sit. He smelled so he hated to open his eyes from sleeps of all days and all nights in all dives. He went to one day of powerful light. He fell to the brightness, as he had no more fight. His size did then dwindle, his shape became small, an insignificant speck in the infinite all. If one was to notice a speck in a ray, a ray of the brightness on any bright day, It may well be Kruuzer still floating in space. Still no destination, no good resting place. The story began of a life at its start. A life of young Lester turned with broken heart. The breech in that vessel too much to contain, and out came old Kruuzer, and this tale began. You wonder of Lester, oh, what of his life. You’d think of such story he’d succumb of the strife. He managed survival though easy it weren’t. His body some twisted, his inners some burnt. A friend known as Alfons was there at his side, he held onto Lester for all of the ride. It seems that true friends form a bond of the soul, those friends of a lifetime who’ll watch you grow old. So if somehow you’d come of old Lester and heart, you’ll find him with Alfons, his beloved counterpart. Contrived in the year of the Lord 2010, September’s end, ___________________________________________________________
From: From: Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent Combination of conundrums totaling the unrealistic existence of the original Lester Clastomanavich. Once in a burg of the simple and real came a life to the world via similar ordeal. Birthed to a mother beyond birthing age, the first and the only could be thought rather strange. Though plump and pink as new life should then be, there seemed something of difference quite easy to see. Not in the body of fat little boy, but more in the eye that seemed inexplicably coy. The male of his sire was elder in years, was often quite loudly inspiring of fears. The elder his end of existence required, yes leaving young male for his mother to inspire. Examples as set were that of a saint and the youth in his youngness lived a life less complaint. The mother though loving and caring of heart, for all she could do couldn’t stop drift apart. The younger grew stronger and smarter with time, but lack of real wisdom was nearly a crime. He learned of the motor, the lever and tools, he picked up the skills as to make others seem fools. His list of acquaintance was varied and long. He could fix someone’s car or sing a good song. Now came of his life a girl then so fine; she was beautiful and smart with curves quite sublime. Their youthful existence was little but lust. The existence of real love was not seen a must. As now his dear mother did succumb to her age, she left for the next world or turned the next page. This time our young hero he felt pretty small, he perceived quite alone few real friends he could call. Then young Lester he wed in sheer lust and desire, in hope of replacing lost heart thought required. A union of lust can’t be long to exist, as loving and caring aren’t high on the list. The lust loses luster in such young and quite wild. The heat of any moment becomes boringly mild. The last of the union as usual quite mired in “I wants” and “you gets” as he grew more and more tired. The last day of wed-ness was quite as would be, as she carried the child of another young he. Here was now young Lester quite hollow was he, now thirsty for substance, not caring to be. Enter friend Alfons who’s there from the start. Always there was young Alfons—they seemed joined at the heart. Alfons knew Lester’s mother and dad. He was there when they left us. He was honestly sad. Lester he walked on young Alfons all along; quite like Lester’s mother, Lester treated him all wrong. Alfons seemed oblivious to the bitter and cruel, he hung with friend Lester as he played quite the fool. It’s now Lester changed for the worse for some time. He lived self-destructive, often considering crime. He stepped out of Lester. He left him behind. He changed into the Kruuzr, he changed deep in his mind. The story of Kruuzr is told in the next, the story is told in quite similar text. So observe tale of Kruuzr, the Kruuzr Hrtuu—should that be your craving. It’s quite up to you. 4th period of light, 9th bunch of days, millennium and ten, ___________________________________________________________
From: Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent [Editor], I find it best to become the character, or be in character for any results I find even somewhat acceptable. There is a fear involved as I think I have mentioned of return to some things better left unremembered. The Kruuzr was real, all from character, the beginnings of Lester leave me questioning myself, I don't know that I can morph into Lester as Lester is what I am or have been and a comfortable realization, recollection seems complicated. … … I reference ''we'' and I hope this is understood. They are all there, they all have part of any and all of my existence. There are deeper and quite darker characters I don't know if I can actually comfortably recall. To fictionalize a light chapter I have trouble with, I haven't characterized the lightness of real existence. I simply don't know about sharing all the darkness; would regular people get something from all the darkness? I don't know that the lightness is that interesting? … You bring to me the ultimate outside point of view… May you realize peace of the soul, ___________________________________________________________
From: [JPT Editor] Dear Sir Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent, Thanks for well-wishes, and backatcha. … I am more apprehensive on the fear-and-darkness issue. I would think that the advisability of delving into things perhaps "better left unremembered" might best be evaluated in consultation with a professional schooled in such matters. I could not conscientiously recommend one's uncounseled unlocking of seriously dark or damaging issues, or unraveling an effective retirement of old agonies, just to produce a set of documentaries, narrative fiction, etc. That to me is an unacceptable self-exploitation and seems to dare a dunking off the deep end. It also undermines the satisfaction motive I mentioned. I don't want to encourage … risky biz. Head for the light, Dobar/Bodar… Cheers, ___________________________________________________________
From: Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent Editor, I am fine. We are fine, all the flowers smell of autumn and the worms of the earth anticipating inevitable stiffness. Interesting the idea of outside evaluation. As long as the door of light and sparkle is never closed, the doors of historical darkness are little more then a shadow of past happenings. I observe, absorb and ponder the scribblings of Bodar. He came to consciousness nary a month ago. The tale is of old but a subject character never really considered until the observation of your interesting exhibition of creative scripture. The dread of the “deeper and darker” is quite like awaiting the proverbial icicle licking in a place of perpetual elevated thermal units. Any power of such deepness far the lesser of brightness and sparkle. I have never done such in-character transcription. It was incredibly exhilarating. I am thinking better, then increasing the temperature to combustion of old herbals of places such as would have been quite tropical. Or educating Ethyl in the ways of inverted concentrated consumption. I wrote to you as I thought, I will hereforth refrain from sharing such confusion. I am confirmed-ly repentant of several communications, I hope you can ride the canoe over such bridge or under cerebral dam without the light unit blowing in your ears or the waves of resonance irritating your portals of sparkle and brightness. We know what I'm trying to converse. Incredibly powerful the area of hat holderness. Could you imagine the Herculean hullabaloo could all the resident cellular units cooperate in one collective collaboration? We will land of terra firma posthaste (the spin of tornadic confusion has quite run its course). There is a knowledge-fortified little mouse called one Beeber K. Beautness who tells daily tale of uninfluenced intelligence. Her opposite/same lives as Dukie W. Wings, he cares of the curves and leverous creations of young confusion. May the molecules of brightness penetrate the restricted caverns of your soul, (Today we are Dobar as the line of sense has progressed/regressed and or stabilized) Our trade is that of creator ferris contraptions and fossil excrement extermination, purveyor of philosophical intuition and experiential bruise-ed-ness. We have carried the wrench of the knight and calipers of sheer size, the blade of samurai and flit. We inspire dragons of speed and observe their competitions for fair maiden. We share tale with scholar and fool, and find true definition in one God, family and friends. ___________________________________________________________
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From: Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent The tear of our eye has swelled in the absence of truly complicated compositions of publication. We too have the red/green infestation running rampant as the sparkle thrives in the season. Our peace has come to near constant existance and the light perpetually evident. We hope such solitude and simplicity can find its way to the publisher’s plate. The derailed of today will certainly become the masterpiece of tomorrow. Bodar (Dobar) ___________________________________________________________
From: Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent Hope-ings all ever, Take air in the deepest and untense all the tight, peace is all available upon realization of our light. Bodar (Dobar) Z. Bent, Lester Clastomanivich, Alfons Chapasacowstavich, Kruuzr Hrtuu etc............... ___________________________________________________________
From: Dobar (Bodar) Z. Bent Master of com your [Editor] of shine, Our largest of flanged pokers sure compressed the wrong switch on several the try. [...Several corrections of earlier text are made by Dobar...] The rest would be well corrected as your wisdom would recommend. We stopped to share vibe with the wisest of trees. A place prior to Kruuzr where anyone could just be. The tree of pure wisdom did mention the truth, that to share of life's sparkle will rekindle lost youth. Remembering the darkness a necessity must well be, to contribute to brightness so we ''ALL'' can best see. May the fires of thermal well warm your domain, as here on the river lies quite frozen rain, I happened on old friend of Kruuzr Hrtuu, remember some conquests we lived our way through. Should sundial stand still for the slightest of speck then the chapters of Kruuzr could well come erect. The breakage of barrel was a story to tell or the poolest of flipping might be something as well and the chance of last Doris was on one Sunday night, maybe best all would once be brought to the light. ___________________________________________________________ |
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Dobar/Bodar
est. Jan. 2011, jpt #19 Issue 19 Entry: scroll down |
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