Some people encouraged Doug to begin the destruction of the world

I am Naztko, and I worry.

I had seen that Utcoozhoo had encouraged Doug to write a blog, but even he saw that it would lead to disaster and so Doug began this way:

Some would prefer to say poetry will end the world, but no rhyme will stick to the face of time. Lachrymal vicissitudes, slipping on plates of passion, are insufficient to generate terminal earthquakes.

No, it is this blog that will end life on the surface of the Earth with a recipe for pizza and virginity. No, it is not the High Priestess alone who will do it. Many creatures do play their part to stage a farce, leaping in multiplicity, dark in mind.

True, every seminal blog in the universe begins as a joke. Few end with dessert.

I had heard I should do something bloggy on the Internet if I were going to fit into the up-top world. Perhaps it’s a mistake. Let me attempt a blog this way:


Consider this my entry zero. But if I’m really eokxavexa as Utcoozhoo thinks, it does seem pointless to try to mingle. I was going to just post minor-English poetry here, as a token of expression, but Utcoozhoo wanted more, a lot more that would establish a footprint on the beachhead of humanity for me who would wash up on the surface beyond the limits of the cave. Yet he wanted me to keep secret the wisdom and knowledge of our people the Ut’ishsih, who had gone into the caves during the Great Ice Age as the Gods had decreed. During the Warming, many went up-top and became Ojdispekib who forgot their culture and assimilated the worst arrogant traits of the Mekibota, the Homo sapiens, who after many tribulations and primitive wars, invented anchovy pizzas and built nuclear weapons to feel safe.

If I were going to go up-top, I would want to jump ahead and reveal everything, I told him — maybe perfect my skills at Utd’mbts, teach myself and teach the surface world. But Utcoozhoo always used to say, “You can’t teach and not mingle.” He always says:

“First, one must practice English, a subset of thought, until that is as familiar as walking in the dark to pet the lion. To turn on the light too soon can arouse the appetites in the wrong order. Utd’mbts, a thunderous whisper, is the poetry of the Gods no one shall utter lightly.”

Huh? Yeah, yeah, whatever. My father was ashamed to teach me Utd’mbts, so I don’t know it that well. He was one of those aimless ones, the Ovfibogs, who wandered up and down, being neither Mekibota nor Ut’ishsih, uncomfortable everywhere and angry. I don’t think that any translations I could ever learn to do would ever bring any lightning bolts, even if I could ever understand the ancient knowledge, but Utcoozhoo seems to think that if I ever truly learned it that I could bring on the destruction of the up-top world. I’m caught between a rock and a hard poem.

This modern era is very uncomfortable for me. Zawmb’yee says she sees interesting turmoil in the future — that sounds like that ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” Please, forgive a shy caveman his tentative introduction to the modern world. So maybe I should just be poetic with her, and talk about Cirrus clouds. I could say to her, “Deep is the puff of your word, the tuft of wispy breathless love, a dear cloud for my sky I use as pillow to sleep in; it’s your fluff without rain enveloping it.” “Cirrus-ly,” I’d say, “could we be cumulus?”

Nah, who cares about fluff pieces (Hey, is this colloquial enough — haven’t I mastered idiomatic English enough to pass as not caveman? I think it’s approaching conversational without affectation. I’ve gotten to use those careless redundancies and a few Y’know’s — right?)

OK, so I’m sort’a making a diary here. What do I do now? I guess I can just begin with a Dear Diary:

There is some disturbing news on American television: some Ojdispekib are beginning to appear on talk-shows and bragging about their special powers. They may have accumulated money but they have neither boyish charm nor savage enchantment.

I would have preferred to remain in the cave and woods, but with modern media, there’s no more hiding, and I probably should establish myself outside the cave where the Grand Council has no jurisdiction — Utcoozhoo seems to think their benevolent dictatorship is about to transform itself into a malignant evil that might even threaten the up-top world, but politics doesn’t interest me. I’ve been to the city, and I can see why they call the city a “concrete jungle”. But the women are beautiful and graceful like deer… and I am like a caveman lost in the forest. There would be uncertainty on the forest’s edge, my spear would seem not steady, a stone’s throw away from the missing red deer who’ve gone with the cattle, fenced by plank woods, and tamed. I, lost caveman, still feel frozen out. On edge, I’ve lost my säng-froid beyond the Ice Age.

She is a red deer who will not stray, stays deep in the jungle; it’s hard to ambush her heart when I am edgy, my spear heavy. Supercilious, she will not touch the edge of my brow, the forest of my desire, unless I meet her for coffee at the Antelope Hotel minding my manners – small spoon on cantaloupe.

I’ve made a date with her. I guess I should keep her anonymous — otherwise, she’ll be a laughingstock. I’m not quite comfortable yet doing a full diary. I’ll work into it. I’m not sure about the protocols for a Blog, but I suppose I could number the entries. Let this be:

— Good News Going To Dinner

Her roundness astounded me, and a glorious ballet danced her to our table, ecstasy tableau. The mâitre d’ hôtel knew about her kindness, and smiling at us, served mixed pleasures without a raised eyebrow – he was a fine shaman, uncorking champagne and venison. She took me home.

Gorgeous was the evening when she spoke to me as if I were a hunter of love, and she knew my appetite profoundly. She stroked the hair of my back, my buttocks, raised me right with sheep skin on my rod to save my genes for a future cherished child when glory would be our name, we, dancers of wealth sharing with every child who’d cry, a kiss. Never have I seen such a feast like we had this night of lore, and I wish for more.

She is a smile, and I am a sigh, my hug was accepted. Yes, I am we, we sing, and I would say to ring the tones of me forever.
END of “1. Some people encouraged Doug to begin the destruction of the world”

2. Doug Is Looking for Love In The Concrete Jungle