Deluged So Few nor Dampened So Many

(Continued from

Rigging walloped the Wisp isthmus with a vengeance. Rigs to melt permafrost for pus collection. Rigs to truck scoop to reservoirs. Rigs to tanker and pipe it to spillways and railheads. Rigs to salvage grounded and derailed carriers.

Plants burgeoned like twinkling fairy cities in the night. Plants to introduce gain of function additives. Plants to process pus derivatives into plastics and personal lubricant and coffee whitener.

Support and service jobs broke out like plethoras. Jobs to do and undo, start and stop, perforate and plug, buy and sell, furnish and dispose, advise and teach, protect and serve, adjudicate and snuff. Odd jobs, hand jobs, put-up jobs. Jobs to stencil “Danger” whereall it needed to go.

Everywhere you looked there were pieces of work; both hard and soft labor found at the drop of a hat in the teeming, melt-field pus camps; temp gigs and side hustles and life hacks galore in the honkytonks and greasy spoons that bloomed like venus flytraps along the shorelines of runoff lagoons.

Just how and whether Todd’s ancestor Astrid issued from this rowdy mileu remains to be seen. What’s important to remember here is that there are more plausibilities than the deniable kind, no matter how lustily Texas governors assert the contrary. Let’s put a pin in it there.

(c) 2021 JMN — All rights reserved

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News of the Incident Got Around in GOB Circles

(Continued from

Scientists converged on Exit 186 to examine the fluid that had preserved Fred’s effaced face. It turned out to be a highly extrapolated sublimate of West Texas light sweet crude. A massive tectonic blister of the stuff extended from the Wisp isthmus all the way down to the Mar-a-Lago Trench.

The indigenous word for the fluid was ñiññ, meaning “earth pus.” In Wisp folk medicine it was reputed to be a balm for anal afflatus.

The Department of Wasteland Security reclassified the Wisp protectorate as a national park. This opened it up to intensive melting for earth pus extraction. Exxon-Roxxoff stranded expectant tankers in the Wisp shoals and started a ruptured pipeline to spill product on serial compass points radiating southward.

A device pioneered in labs of the desert converted to CO2 the waste oxygen spewed by earth pus combustion. This removed the last impediment to ruthless monetizing of the miracle goo. It was Katy bar the door — a Klondike level of churn paired with a Niagara of trickle. Not since OPEC times has such untaxed wealth deluged so few nor dampened so many.

(c) 2021 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Crear con arcilla – Las Creaciones Artísticas

Partiendo de un dibujo sobre un plano de arcilla, se pueden crear formas plásticas: con el bajo y el altorrelieve las figuras emergen, se separan del…

Crear con arcilla – Las Creaciones Artísticas

Alba, me encanta el objeto y la descripción del proceso.

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Smegma Boom of the 2020s in the Wisp Isthmus

(Continued from

Astrid was the fatherless child of a tool-pusher named Kirk Frick. Her core story is that she franchised her way out of puberty to merge with a founding partner of Huff Pugh Fuchs. We’ll develop Astrid Frick Fuchs when we need her, but let’s do a little foregrounding first.

It was the fraught decade of the aughts. Trophy hunting was pitiful. All the wild game was virtually shot up. Sportsmen had to plink at domesticated prey to kill anything at all. In this bleak scenario a lucky GOB named Fred bagged a quasi-extinct tundra coney. As he emptied his clip skyward in celebratory gunfire, Fred inadvertently shot off his face.

A search party found Fred facedown in a puddle of smegma-like fluid. The icky ooze had exerted startling antisepsis on his effaced face. The mess of bone and tissue was still pink and vibrant.

They were fixing to trundle the cadaver back to town when a fella named Wayne noticed their dualie was sitting on empty. Fred was rapidly putrefying now on the Dodge’s tailgate. The party discussed thumbing a ride on the interstate. “Let’s try some of this stuff first,” Wayne said.

They scooped fluid into empty hooch cartons and dumped it into the dualie’s tank. It not only got them home, it tripled the truck’s rated MPG and improved its performance. News of the incident got around in good-old-boy circles.

(c) 2021 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved.

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Your Kingdom Has Dang Near Come

(Continued from

You believe the nuttiness sickening the land could be flared off by a good fracking. For a guy who will sue the “bejeepers” out of someone if provoked, you’re oddly comfortable with the word “butthole.”

You lead from closed-door meetings. “Absolutely not” is how you say “no.”

Did we mention you’re a man in this figment? There, we’ve said it. Step into the light. A woman risks being collaborative, unassuming, flexible, subtle, kind, empathic, modest, and strong. We can’t work with that.

You’re a stinker, Todd, but you’re not complicated. Mile wide, inch deep. Your life is a business plan. Here we float the standard disclaimer: If someone out there resembles you it’s not Nick’s fault. Give a nod of assent, that’ll do.

Now that we have a contract, let’s try to make you interesting. You descend from Astrid Frick Fuchs, a doyenne of the rentier class spawned by the smegma boom of the 2020s in the Wisp isthmus.

(c) 2021 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Let’s Imagine You Successful

(Continued from

Call you Todd. Or Rand, or Blake, or Trent, or Rock, or Chip. You don’t want just to make money; you want to invent money. You swing in and out of cocktail colloquies like a metropolitan Tarzan. “Let me stop you right there” is your conversation opener.

You’re a deacon in a megachurch with valet parking. In your view the Bible is fairly representative of God’s thinking. That thinking could evolve if the Lord wanted it to, but it doesn’t. Nowhere in the Good Book does God say don’t do this, and don’t do this, and don’t do this — and I’ll tell you later what not to do next. The Almighty thought stuff all the way through, and that was that. Rock of ages.

Your palaver has a coy gaminess. You give it ungreased to adversaries; they bend over and take it. If a subordinate underperforms in your estimation, you say he should find a better use for his right hand.

As figments go, you’re giving Nick a chubby, Todd. Even your favorite number is figmentary: bezillion. If your German car has a bumper sticker that says “Insured by Smith and Wesson” and one that says “My Boss is a Jewish carpenter,” your kingdom has dang near come!

(c) 2021 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Branded Figments!

Branded Figments is where the Nickster hangs his tout’s cap. His slogan is: Business can be laughable, and still be business.

Are you unbranded or offbranded? Outgrown your brand? Hankering for bespoke? Talk to Nick Mansfield.

Nick can leverage you into an incredible BF fiction product. You don’t have to be a Kardashian to have aura. Let’s get mythical.

Imagine the guy who murdered an abortion doctor is holding a baby. What would the guy do if he knew the baby would grow up to be an abortion doctor?

Imagine a Texas governor who only acts mean to attract donors. He intends to spring kindness on his state any day now; to smite liberals with the ass’s jawbone of scriptural love.

That was just practice. Now, let’s imagine you successful.

(c) 2021 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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‘Lamento de mujer — En la muerte de un poeta’

El mas de Reus. Foto que me envió Nuria.

[Translator’s note: The blog of Andrés Cifuentes, Eco Social… Ojo Crítico, led me to this tender sonnet by Francisco Álvarez Hidalgo. To my naive ear the cadence of iambic pentameter has an affinity with Señor Álvarez’s hendecasyllables. I apologize for “collywobbles.” It jolts the lyric’s earnestness, but I couldn’t let it go. I mull with interest whether what I read as an elegiac paean to close friendship, not romantic love, need be titled perforce a “woman’s” plaint.]

A Woman’s Lament
On the death of a poet

Tantas veces me hablaste de partida,
So many times you spoke to me of parting,
y en mi descuido no alcancé a entenderte;
and careless me, I didn’t understand you;
tus versos ignoraban a la muerte,
your verses showed no consciousness of death,
eran cantos de amor, gritos de vida.
songs of love they were, and shouts of life.

Pero al fondo eran sangre de la herida
But underneath they were blood of the wound
por donde el alma sus zozobras vierte;
from which the soul pours out its collywobbles;
eras el hombre alborozado y fuerte
you were the man of strength filled with elation
con su noche final reconocida.
who recognized the night of his finale.

Oh amigo, casi amante, sin contacto,
Oh friend, quasi lover, beyond contact,
has llegado al final del tercer acto
you’ve reached the very ending of act three
de tu drama, el telón ha descendido.
in your life’s play. The curtain has come down.

Apagadas las luces, persevero
The lights have all gone out, yet I remain
en mi sillón, pensando, compañero,
seated where I am, thinking, comrade,
que de nuevo saldrás, que no te has ido.
that you’ll appear again, that you’re not gone.

“Antología de Sonetos”
Francisco Álvarez Hidalgo

(c) 2021 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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The Voice

Thomas Hardy and his first wife Emma had long been estranged when she died in 1912: her death prompted a series of poems which are viewed as being …

The Voice

This wonderful music by Thomas Hardy sends tremors. The translation is lovely. I savored reading each line, then reading its translation. I understand much more Italian than I thought I did!

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Travesía (12)

Whitman 1819 – 1892 [Image from]
Fulton Ferry Boat (Brooklyn, New York), July 1890 via The Library of Congress, Washington DC. [Image from]

Versión castellana del poema “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” (1856) de Walt Whitman
English text at
Spanish Interpretation by JMN

[Translator’s note: The whole of part 8 follows. The poem has 9 parts.]

Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemm’d Manhattan?
Ah, ¿qué cosa jamás puede ser para mí más imponente y admirable que Manhattan rodeada de mástiles?
River and sunset and scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide?
¿El río y la puesta del sol y las olas de borde festoneado del pleamar?
The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter?
¿Las gaviotas oscilando sus cuerpos, el barco de heno en el crepúsculo, y la gabarra tardía?

What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach?
¿Qué dioses pueden superar a éstos que me estrechan la mano, y con voces que amo me llaman de inmediato a todo volumen por mi nombre íntimo cuando me acerco?
What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face?
¿Qué cosa es más sutil que esto que me ata a la mujer o al hombre que me mire en la cara?
Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you?
Lo que me fusiona con vosotros ahora, y os vierte mi significado en las entrañas?

We understand then do we not?
De modo que entendemos, ¿verdad?
What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted?
Lo que yo prometía sin mencionarlo, ¿no lo habéis aceptado?
What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish’d, is it not?
Lo que no pudo enseñar el estudio — lo que no pudo lograr la predicación, está logrado, ¿no es así?

(c) 2021 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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