Dawson Filter as He Relates to Emigration


Sylvester Denny shivered, along with the large block o’ timber which he had begun to carve into a  one-log-cabin; as Dawson Filter’s ankle attempted to cry out in pain; but was silenced by its sheer lack of cry-out-ing muscles, instead begging Dawson to howl for it. Dawson Filter submitted to his ankle’s request; although Sylvester Denny would never know of this event; but be left with a fleeting sense that a thing was amiss. He attributed this thought to how he thought a great many things; and abandoned it; just as he’d abandoned his twenty-two previous thoughts. This thought, however, was the first in seventy-six seconds that he had dismissed for an attribute other than containing too many whales.

He surveyed his wood-tastic block of lumber; finding it to smell of pine, look of power, and taste of leather. Concluding that this discovery must be a Volkswagen®, he lumbered away, refusing to deface such a prestigious work of engineering into a log cabin. Noticing that he was being waved down by a man holding an off-white cane fairly well, though not well enough to write home about, were writing home an option at this point, he turned to the man and said an exact replica of “Hello”; but without the same nostalgic value as were he to have said “Hello”.

“And to where are you off?” The man asked, in a faux Portuguese accent.

“Oh, I do not know quite the yet;” Sylvester replied, “though I feel driven to go there to escape the burden of temptation from this Volkswagen® appearing so ready to be whittled into a lovely log cabin.”

“‘Tisn’t a Volkswagen®. She’s as block-of-wood-esq as any other of her breed, that being the one one about which we are speaking, alias ‘a block o’ wood’. It’s just as well that you do shear her to a cottage; on account of how it’s what all o’ the hip cats are doing, myself included.”

“Who, pray tell, are these hip cats of which you speak?” Inquired Sylvester, his left nostril aching with fury.

“‘The fourth rank of The Illuminati For The Blind members’ is the answer to the question which you just asked. I’m (name removed for publication), by the by.” Is a thing which the man said in order to reply to the question o’ Sylvester Denny.

As a result of (name removed for publication) answering in this way, Sylvester said “Oh.”, ‘n’ continued to whittle. (Name removed for publication) joined him, revealing his cane to double as a machete.  The two human beings hacked at the pseudo Volkswagen for some time, followed promptly by more time; allowing the Sylvester to discover that he was rather incapable of perspirating in this section of the universe. He noticed that he was disturbed by this, and feared overheating strongly. Please click upon this link to view the exhaustive list of things Sylvester Denny has feared at some point, bearing in mind that only seven of the items apply to the time-frame of the events described in this section o’ the text: http://www.denvergov.org/

After four-point-seven-three hours of whittling, the cabin emerged from the angular pine-block. Sylvester and (name removed for publication) waddled into the structure with a bang. As they did, half of them saw a woman mutter a thing to a ginger ale shaped man, who updated a population marker from twenty-seven to twenty-nine, and highed their fives in a motion of triumph.

Sylvester strolled about awhile, sipping the provided refreshments which allowed themselves to be sipped, and not for the others. The room was moist, perhaps to the point that it was; and dim, nearly as dim as Spain at times when Spain is marginally dimer than the room. Sylvester Denny knew that these two attributes alone could not occupy him for longer than twelve minutes, and so, like the waiter that he was, he walked his self out o’ the cabin. Screams were heard by him; and, assuming he heard the voices say:

“What ever is that man doing?”

Promptly followed by: “Which ever one do you speak of?”

“The one who is leaving via the door.”

“If I had to guess, leaving via the door.”

“We never planned this system to account fo’ emigration!”

“You’re fairly right, Pontius! Why would anyone want to leave such a place as this?”

“I know not, Walter; but this shall surely thwart the existence of any order in the universe.”

“We ought to discipline this lil’ anarchist hippie with not allowing him to accomplish any o’ his life goals!”

“‘Tis a dandy idea, and one which we shall surely implement approximately now.”

Then he heard correctly. Regardless of what his ears told his brain they heard, however, he ran off to tell Dawson Filter of these opponents to all of his life goals; and warn him of the impacts this may bring about on their crossword-feelings-meaning quest.

 

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Beige


The last word you read was read was “was”. The last word you will ever read is “moist”; assuming (probably unreasonably) that you are the lanky, eye-patched, woman who trotted out of The Illuminati For The Blind headquarters in the year 2040; in an event regarded by the majority of historians as the moment when tenses jumped the shark. “Hello, Twelve-Anne.” Benedict Oakley greeted the woman.

“Hello, Wayne,” She replied, informally enough that I would still be unjustified in referring to Benedict as Wayne Rubblefish. “your guests smell rather beige today.”

“We’ve been trying to help our members better understand colours by associating them with numbers. Twelve-Anne has a form of synesthesia that has her mentally connect scents to numbers. One of you just smells like some fancy number to her, and that number represents beige in our respect for the sighted classes.” Benedict told the true-meaning-of-feelings-ists, feeling that Twelve-Anne’s statement deserved an explanation to defend her sanity. “I think that beige is 1782.”

“She hasn’t gotten synesthesia.” Babe Listowel stated, his voice seventy-two semitones below what it typically was for most of his daily activities. “I do smell like 1782. I am 1782.”

“Why, that’s simply as fancy as the day is long!” Exclaimed Dawson Filter, in stunningly little synchrony with his lips. He soon after decided that it wasn’t really all that fancy, mostly on account of how it didn’t bear an incredible amount of resemblance to truth.

“Let us abandon our state of being outside; in favour of getting all inside-the-building-ed up.” Benedict Oakley suggested, as far from being Spain itself as he ever was. The others agreed with this suggestion, save for Sylvester Denny, who wasn’t paying attention. Rather, he had chosen to whittle a log cabin out of a single block of wood he’d found resting next to a rhinoceros.

Once the band of genuine-flesh people-beings had arrived in the Illuminati For The Blind headquarters, which took four days longer than most would have anticipated, they were greeted by an outrageously tall, narrow hallway, resembling the valley that Barry Stanford would paint white, build five foot walls around, roof, turn on its side, and place in his collection seventy-seven years later. Down this hallway they marched; accelerating rapidly as they realized that they they had no reason not to. There came an end to their march, though, shortly before they found that they were no longer marching; which they deduced by noting that one cannot march and fall at the same time; in combination with the fact that they were falling down a deep, leather chasm. The tunnel appeared to span for several dozen kilometers, with platinum stakes protruding from its six walls; but fortunately, it only appeared this way to Benjamin Humphrey three years earlier, before it was renovated to an eleven-foot drop with complementary pretzel bags.

“I’ve been broken!” Dawson Filter’s left ankle thought, after discovering 1.462 seconds earlier that it could think. Babe Listowel read the ankle’s mind; and kicked it via his foot, enraged by its blatant lie. The ankle’s ensuing concussion resulted in its next thought not coming for another nine minutes; and every thought after that was unfortunately unprintable. The ankle, in this way lost its every chance of expressing itself in print, all for a moment of glory, willing to sit on any throne available, even if it was a throne of lies.

Dawson Filter strongly emphasized with his ankle’s pain of being kicked; though the event had rendered the appendage mute, never to speak to the lad; the first of many relationships to be torn apart in the quest to find and record the true meaning of feelings.

 

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Blindness


Dawson Filter looked up from his right knee to the sickeningly un-red landscape beneath his feet for 97°; and for another 16° to this stone-planetoid’s sky. After he had finished this exercise, he noticed that he was being greeted by a gold-plated man holding an burlap sack of memories. Recognising the man as the old bloke who was trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement twenty-four years previously, Dawson pranced over to where the man stood, offset by two-and-a-third metres, and forced himself to say “Hello, you neck-scruff-defiling goon. It’s been what, two days since last us spoke?”, setting grammar aside in this moment of reunion-istic fun.

“Twenty-four years, but you probably didn’t know your tumor  was a time machine.” The old bloke replied, his eyebrows growing cold. “How ever has your crossing-word puzzle been?”

“Pretty dandy, mostly, is the answer to the question which you just asked. It’s having a bit o’ difficulty getting me to fill out 57 down; but come the time when I know the true meaning of feelings, I do declare: I shall fill out that whole line of boxes within the four following minutes.” Dawson tricked his vocal chords into saying; completely unaware that the level of symmetry of his left knee had just swelled to meet that of his right.

“Who ever are the people-beings to your backward left and backward right sides, respectively.” The golden man asked; put off by the recent developments in the state of Dawson’s knee.

“To the best of their truth-telling abilities, their names are Babe Listowel and Sylvester Denny.” The man you would have expected to reply replied; motioning for Babe and Sylvester to join him in standing within five meters of the old gold-plated bloke.

“Ah, yes,” the bloke verbalized, turning his face at the most Sylvester-Denny-ish human present. “You’re the one I own.”

“Oh, go build yourself a moose; that’s not even that legal!” Sylvester blurted in his owner’s direction.

“The reality of a situation has very little to do with its legality, Mr. Denny.” The gold-plated man, who will hereafter be referred to as Benedict Oakley, until it is formally revealed that his name is Wayne Rubblefish, stated. “Saskatchewan law may not allow for human-ownership; but I’ve hidden your possession rather well, never exploiting it for any purpose other than bragging rights. I didn’t even report you on my taxes, so I suppose I’ve broken at least two laws; haven’t I, you boatload of boatloads of yourself? You’ll never be able to prove either of them in a court of law, though; and you know it in your bones.”

Babe Listowel patted Sylvester’s head in an effort to comfort the waiter, until the head began to move, along with the corresponding body, which sped to a brisk jog as its mind became more sure that its little eyes were spying a large, cinnamon-flavoured, industrious building. The group followed Sylvester, to see that across the closest wall was printed a simplistic representation of an ear, enclosed in an equalatamazing triangle, with the words “The Illuminati For The Blind Headquarters” printed below; and, below that particular set of words, in marginally smaller print, “Sorry, we didn’t see you there.” Upon seeing and processing this image, the company blinked forty-six times in total; and began to wonder what this crossword puzzle business had become.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Tumours


As Dawson, Sylvester, and Babe sailed, they all consecutively looked up to the sky. Sylvester, the last to conjure his neck to point his face away from the only non-sky portion of the universe, sniffed the semi-frigid air four times; blinked nine times; and said “I’m really not all that fond o’ the fourth cloud from the left.”, wishing the vapour dead.

“Sigmund Freud probably said that everyone has a nemesis. Even if he was right, mine would still be Sigmund.” Babe Listowel replied, his kidneys hard at work.

“If you haven’t anything nice to say, don’t be saying anything at all.” Dawson suggested, knowing that no one aboard had anything nice to say; and thinking silence would be a pretty dandy addition to the vessel.

Sylvester began to make the sound of screaming; and the the half of the rest named Babe joined him in in his quest for two-thirds of the crew to scream together. When they realised that they had met their goal, they quieted themselves. This moment of silence ended, however, when the steamboat’s passengers saw that they had run adrift on what appeared to be an abnormally large tumor, five kilometers across, if I can be trusted. Dawson Filter was the first to step off of the boat; and the last to circumnavigate Ganymede, though that event would have yet to take place for twenty-four more years.

“Well I sure stepped out of a steamboat.” Sylvester said, promptly after joining Dawson on the tumor, “And it looks as though you have, too, Mr. Listowel.” he continued, equally truthfully as his first statement.

“Is this the right basin?” Dawson questioned, shockingly stoic for the second third of his question. Babe notified him that the tumour was not the Amazon Basin; and Dawson let his decision to take up speaking pay off as he said “Oh”.

“This is a tumour.” Sylvester confidently stated.

“That’s kind of a lie.” Babe Listowel told Sylvester’s face, almost matching Sylvester’s confidence.

“No it’sn’t. There’s more than one kind o’ tumour, you narcissistic barbeque. There’s the bodily one with no friends; and the one only the people reading about us and I know about, which is anything someone calls a tumor. This is the latter.” Explained Sylvester, heart beating as his knees buckled, man. Two years after I wrote the word “man”, and four seconds after Sylvester said the word “latter”, Dawson Filter saw and then turned a dial on the tumour so that it pointed to the number “2040”. All present watched as the ocean to their left morphed into a stone slab which the company would later discover was the largest moon in their solar system.

“That could’ve made more of the sense.” Dawson noted with a couple of knees. Babe Listowel noted the rightmost one of these knees; and began to perspire his fluids heavily.

“Has your right knee always been so symmetrical?” Babe asked as a result of that he wished to know whether or not Dawson Filter’s right knee had always been as symmetrical as it now was.

Dawson bent his torso to look at the knee of the hour; and upon doing so, he said “No.”, after which the party of true-meaning-of-feeling-ists knew that this tumour had surely heightened the fanciness of their quest to a much higher degree.