Monday, April 2, 2007

Liz Allen

Liz Allen is a massage therapist who thrives on tele-skiing, writing, and spreading her pitbull Tigger's message of peace.



“We cannot interfere. I have to admit these mortals are damned entertaining,” Ullr quipped. “Besides, I don’t feel like snowing.”

Not wanting to further the argument or make another dreaded appearance, White Buff nodded silently, and from their repose on rainbow-colored velour love seats all simply gazed back into the circling blue orb:

“Blixseth development hour on XM radio?” Lenny’s cousin murmured.

Jane wrinkled her brow in the alpenglow glare that graced the dustless windshield of her motorcycle. She wasn’t supposed to be listening on the job, but she despised giving speeding tickets more than eating Lenny’s mother’s tuna casserole –- it was entirely possible she mixed up the Frisky’s cans with the Natural Value “tuna in water,” on purpose.

Jane’s rebellion within the Montana Highway Patrol was sparked by an incident near Bridger Bowl. Reminded of the brief encounter, her belly smoldering, Jane sensed in her core an unlikely kinship with geologic time. Uncannily, Jane’s spiritual growth had recently burst forth, like so much Burning Man apparel riding a Nevada dust storm. Her secret admirers at the station had watched in awe as she patiently fanned these writings, these pontifications, if you will, into a firestorm of a not-unpleasantly-fulfilling “way-of-being.” Jane had a following.

“No one insults Cormac McCarthy!”

As Jane handed out the expensive ticket she queried, “Who’s long-winded now?” Reliving these utterances shocked
Jane. This girl-next-door, Mama’s little-angel, Daddy’s sugar-lump was spewing these horrible, righteous, and assuredly judgmental statements.

“I must sit in my zendo for at least 4 hours tonight. I will cleanse.”

Just then, Sweet Banana Tail II jetted across I-90, bee-lining for Jane’s parked motorcycle. Sweet Banana was suddenly in Jane’s surprised arms.

“What the… Who are you?” Jane managed to sputter.

Her preoccupation with her own filth blinded Jane to the arrival of Sweet Banana and the first blast of light that eerily licked the edges of the aforementioned yellowish-orange putrid soup. It seemed to be pouring out of the dusky sky.

“What the bejesus? Sweet lord…” With the reflexes of a newly trained CIA Official Guantanamo Interrogator and more than five times the mental prowess, Jane fired up her ride and started the horrific flight east with Banana riding sidesaddle, toward Whitehall. The full moon’s giddy belly suddenly lit up like a psychedelic tribute to Furthur, and its usual suspects.

Jane’s motorcycle squealed to a stop on the newly tarred roof of Bob’s Auto Barn and took quick note of the hungry toxic stew’s work on the Montana Central Cellular Phone Communications Center.

The soup hissed and bubbled encircling its next victim –- an 8-foot-tall knapweed fence safeguarding Shady Boulders trailer park. As the knapweed smoked a fiery purplish haze, Deputy Max joined Jane on the roof.

“Sweet child of mine, is that a free-flowing river of ferredentin?”

Max swallowed the lump in his throat and relived the gag reflex he had endured nightly as a child.

“My evil thoughts created this river of bile!” Jane swooned. The 20-odd quantum physics books sitting on her pink, quartz crystal-studded shelf quivered - in unison.

“Is this meth?” Max’s eyes grew wide, he recoiled.

“All this time, I was creating my own reality… I didn’t even get it…” Jane trailed off.

Deputy Max meekly pondered, “Is there more scripture transcription tonight? I don’t feel so well, with that medical lookin’ river comin’ at me.”

“I’m gettin’ out of the force, Max, starting right now!” Jane ripped her silver badge from her bullet-proof vest. She glanced at it one more time, and remembered her inspiration – her cousin Lenny.

“I’ll play a cop in his new play, and meditate in my time off,” Jane decided.

Sweet Banana Tail II approved. With her highly tuned telepathic powers – owing to the relationship of her scale shape and size (not surprisingly correlated with Mitchell Feigenbaum’s universality theory in chaos – 4.6692016090) – her silent call vibrated out to Virginia, her new love, and a request: ant latte –- with soy.

A mixup in her telepathy - possibly a quantum leap - produced an odd result: with all the power of pitbull protecting a trailer, a sudden dust storm blew in the Irish Fairies. Their fists clenching and unclenching signified a grave situation....

1 comment:

Sam Louden said...

And then the wide open is exploited. We get two new characters, some inside jokes and some outside jokes, and plenty of outlandish action.
Liz had a surprise when I contacted her at the last minute to take on the story. She had been told that we were full up of participants and that if time permitted, she was the alternate. Then the monster knocked on her e-mailbox door. The daunting task, made more inscrutable by the last heavenly turn, failed to utterly discourage this brave writer. She got things rolling again.
My biggest problem with New Age spiritualism is I can never figure out if it is being honored or mocked. To make a joke one has to exaggerate a bit but for the far-out, how much further can one go? Perhaps that is where self-deprecating humor comes in. "I am absurd so if I present myself honestly, it will be funny." Much political humor is tending toward the confused in a similar way. The extremity of everyone's views is absurd to everyone else so a confession of belief serves as a more outlandish joke than that concocted by an ideological opponent.
As long as the wave of retri-Butte-ion advances on Bozeman, let the onslaught, slaughter on. Plus two essential elements of Monanity: meth and knapweed, were mentioned, validating the work as authentic for this state.