Tag Archives: 1782

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Sound

For two years, Dawson Filter and Sylvester Denny had been in quest to discover the True Meaning of Feelings. For nearly all of that time, they had no idea whatsoever how to find it or where to start looking. They’d endured attack and legal proceeding, dragon and Scottsman. But now they knew exactly who knew the Meaning, and had a time machine to get to him.

But of course, complications.

“What is the meaning of this?” a thin man in a dark green cloak asked them. He must have heard them in the hallway.

“Well, see,” Sylvester Denny pointed to his eyes nervously, “we’re search – looking for the True Meaning stove Feeling; and Wayne Rubblefish – or some of his goons, I guess, stole our time machine. That’s what this is.” He banged on the side of Felipe’s time machine a few times, causing it to shed lavender-scented dust.

“I gave Wayne Rubblefish direct orders not to waste his time meddling in your affairs.”

“I suppose we can leave, then?” Dawson Filter said.

“No, I think it’s best if we call Rubblefish down here now to sort this out.”

The man pulled a pager from his satchel and pressed several buttons on it. After several awkward minutes, Wayne Rubblefish emerged.

“You wanted to speak with me, Xavier X?”

“Yes. I would like you to explain to me what this time machine is doing in this room against my direct orders.”

“Well, you see,” said Wayne, shuffling a deck of cards, “this is a time machine. You only gave me orders to leave these folks alone a month ago; but I brought them here a year before that. It’s just that they’re arriving now.”

“They say they’re leaving.”


“I don’t think you kidnapped these individuals. I think you brought them here to conspire against the Illuminati for the Blind.”

Xavier X pulled back his hood, revealing his glassy eyes and bald spot. Wayne Rubblefish pushed Sylvester, Dawson, and Felipe into the time machine and jumped in after them.

“The moon, 1932?” Felipe asked. Dawson Filter nodded, and the machine twitched.

When the door opened, Twelve-Anne Stradivari and Babe Listowel rushed over to greet the time travellers.

“How did it go?” Twelve-Anne asked, “Did you find the Meaning?”

“No, we picked the wrong Sherlock Dracula. We need to find his twin, Sherlock Dracula,” answered Dawson Filter.

Wayne Rubblefish had run out of the machine, and had set to work knocking items off of the Quest Committee’s tables, making sure to pick items at irregular intervals to maximize unsightliness.

“Where is this Sherlock Dracula?” Babe Listowel inquired inquisitively.

“Franell. It’s a dwarf planet, largely uncharted.”

“Oh! That Sherlock Dracula.” Felipe said, “Nice man, bit eccentric. I have Franell’s coordinates for June 27, 2096. That’s when he likes me to visit. Hey, they’re even on the floor. How convenient.”

Twelve-Anne picked up the octagonal piece of paper to which Felipe pointed. 1889127, 1782. June 27, 2096. She tossed the paper to Felipe, who caught it in the back of his hand. Without skipping a beat or skipping, Felipe typed the coordinates into his time machine. The time machine had the habit of making sounds without any regularity, ranging from loud clanking to rhythmic whistling. It gave the impression that the machine was in need of maintenance, although Felipe was never able to stop the sounds with any repairs. This time it purred.

The Quest Committee and Wayne Rubblefish boarded the time machine. Wayne stuck his foot in the door to try to keep it from closing, but only lost his shoe in the attempt. Felipe pressed the button to travel, and the machine gave a sound very much like chuckling.


Dawson Filter as He Relates to Music

“My, a philosophy shop,” thought Dawson Filter, “I’d better enter that shop.”

He found a door, and walked through the hole he created when he opened it. The walls of the shop were covered with old newspaper articles, most of them from 1999 and 2016. They were mainly missing person articles, with a few human interest stories about alchemy and time travel. A leaf fell from a potted tree as the proprietor stood.

“So,” he said, “do you fancy some philosophy?”

Dawson Filter recognised the voice from when he’d been stuffed in a burlap sack, held prisoner on Ganymede, framed for tax evasion, and trapped inside the universe with a large steel orb; but he couldn’t quite place who the voice belonged to.

“Some philosophy sounds delightful,” Dawson Filter replied.

“Let’s end the charade, Filter!” the proprietor said, ripping off his mask to reveal his true identity as Wayne Rubblefish. He knocked over a stack of books and pointed at Dawson. “We both know that I tend to run around making your life worse, and that’s probably my goal now!”

Dawson Filter remembered the door and how bad he was at conflict.

Wayne Rubblefish ran after him to kick his shins.

“Wait,” he said, “remember those people I stole in 2016 and 1999? I only took them to save them from the fire and Y2K. So that’s quite a reason to keep talking to me.”

Dawson Filter turned around. Wayne Rubblefish was gone, challenging Dawson Filter’s ideas about reality and space, thereby ruining his day.

He found his old cohort Babe Listowel, with whom he decided to talk.

“Hello, Babe Listowel. I recently became sad. Would you like to help me quest for this feeling’s true meaning?”

Babe Listowel nodded his head in confirmation, “Maybe first we should find the meaning of meaning first, though.”

After sitting in deep thought for a few hours, Babe Listowel remembered that the power of music helped him think more clearly. He pulled a guitar from his pocket and began to strum.

“Thinking, thinking,” he sang, “that’s what I’m doing / The thing that I’m doing is thoughtful and in my mind / Look at my mind / Can you see the thinking?”

A small crowd had gathered around him and Dawson Filter. The people of Murderville had forgotten about music. Someone tossed a head of wheat into the guitar.

“Golden, golden,” the admirers said amongst themselves.

Babe Listowel reached the climax of his song.

“All of the other things / That exist that I’m not doing / Must not be thinking / Man, I must be free”

The crowd cheered as the music faded out.

“I sure appreciated THAT music.”

“Woah, how did my mind get so blown?”

“You must agree to be the town’s official rockstar!”

Babe Listowel raised his hand to silence the mob. Someone handed him a microphone; and he cleared throat to speak.

“You will have your king.”

Dawson Filter followed the crowd as it carried his friend to the town hall. It set Babe Listowel on a heavy wooden chair, draping fine silks over the back of the seat. It found a nearby laurel to hang around his neck, after which it hung the laurel around his neck. A tophat was found, and covered with tinfoil. A lady tore a string of rubies from her neck to embed in the crown, which she set atop Babe Listowel’s head. A single cheer, to which all in the room contributed, roared through the halls.

Dawson Filter smiled. Babe Listowel had got them a bit off track from their original goal, but Dawson was positive they could get back on course by nightfall.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to 1782

As basil leaves fell to the ground, glistening in the Utah Sun, Dawson Filter turned his torso forty-seven degrees counterclockwise to face Sylvester Denny, his partner in quest-tastic fun; and though the Utah Sun never shines in Regina, it existed just as much as if all the citizens of this planet all those of us who speak English call “home” had been staring their eyes at it all week, shifting Utah’s position every hour to compensate for physics.

“Was that Luther Gigee F. Mansete O’Finn worth his weight in time?” Dawson asked.

“Yes. He is a human being; and by extension, ought to be treated with boatloads of kindness ‘n’ respect.” Sylvester responded, his posture growing consistently better as he spoke.

“Did he know the true meaning of feelings?” Inquired Dawson; and promptly afterward, watched Sylvester signal “no” by shifting his head and surrounding ears back ‘n’ forth several times. Once Dawson processed the meaning of this motion, he asked “Shall we move to the next, then?”

“No doubt in my mind.” Sylvester stated, implying the verb “is” as he did so. Dawson again perfectly deciphered Sylvester’s words, and faced the computer; presumably to read the words on the monitor, as he read the words on the monitor. The words, some say, were “one”, “eight”, “hundred”, “seven”, “nine”, “four”, “five”, “two”, “four”, and “one”. Just as Dawson had transferred these words from the monitor to vibrations in the air, Sylvester converted these vibrations into head-messages, and then into telephone-finger-pushes.

“Hello, customer, it’s service time for you, here at The Wellness Warehouse.” Pat Bin said, via the telephone in her left hand.

“May I have speech with Luther O’Finn?” Sylvester Denny began to say, and finished saying soon after.

“Ja, he’s just here chastising me for being hispanic.” She said, moving the telephone into Mr. O’Finn’s hand-palm with her hand, forearm, wrist, and shoulder.

“Hello customer, sorry about that. I keep telling her to get help; but she comes in here every day with the same genes. Anyway, can I help you?” Luther said, twirling his moustache.

“I was just wondering if you happened to know what feelings mean; but I thought you should know I’m not actually offended by hispanic people. I was sort of under the impression that no one was. I just thought that with your name being Luther Gigee F. Mansete O’Finn you’d have a better idea of the true meaning of feelings.” Sylvester said, completely unaware that the capital of Portugal is Lisbon, although no harm came to him as a result-this time.

“Well no one really is consciously; ’cause that’s all racist; but “hispanic” ends with “panic”, and not one person under the Sun doesn’t find that unsettling on a subconscious level.” Luther reasoned. “About your feelings thing, though, that sounded pretty good.”

“It kind of is.”

“I have an uncle, neat man; he goes on ’bout the meaning of feelings. I’d never thought much about it, he also thinks he’s the year 1782 incarnate; but I could set you two up fer a brunch or some such.”

“Neat. How do I contact him”

“His telephone number is all fives; he asked for it like that because he says that those are the last ten digits of pi; his email address is beefcake1782@email.com; and his face is a round thing, with a lengthy nose, probably about a foot or so, peach-yellow skin, and eyes to match.”

Sylvester turned to Dawson, and as he moved his lips, out of them he said “Dodecadawson, I do declare, the man of the answers is sitting next to you. I’ve garnered a description of his face from the latest Luther, and he’s a square-in-square-hole fit with the rocker to your left.”

“Are you sure?”~Dawson Filter

“Am I ever.” Sylvester said in response.

“Oh, I’m so happy I could blink!” Dawson said afterward; and following that life event, he turned to the rocker and asked “Would you happen to know anything about the true meaning of feelings?”

“Only when I’m in the Amazon Basin.” The rocker said; and as he spoke, Dawson and Sylvester turned their heads once more, both thinking “Boy, we sure should go on down to the Amazon Basin”. For the mind reading rocker of the hour, this was a tremendously neat experience, even more so because Dawson and Sylvester think exactly one octave apart; and he knew that they knew that with the Amazon Basin would come truth.

Spoiler Warning


They were all wrong.