(press play above to watch my short film, cloud generator)
Feckle of Fug Fugue Fickle
In a land where nothing of note took place—except waiting for something of note to take place—here, there lived a figure, a fixture, of feckless anagram composition. His name was Feckle.
Feckle made a black glossy box — a cloud generator. He turned it on. Then the land of Fug Fugue Fickle became the most renown on this side of the hemisphere just above that tropic and below the equator. The sea water was a bit warm, (but hell!) where wasn’t the water warm, and overlapping its previous high water marks, these days?
Anyway, everyone in the world came to love Feckle and the land of Fug Fugue Fickle. No state actors nuked it (they didn’t deign to consider it, given the abundant cumuli about after Feckle) and no republic or kingdom sought to undermine the elections in Fug Fugue Fickle.
The whole world was thankful for the clouds—for the first time in memory (history perhaps) there was some contentment in the world: old animosities sloughed away, people smiled at each other and said “hola,” fleas were sated, anagrams created themselves, and linguists decided to drop the “r” in “masonry” and from that moment on it became “masnoy.”
(Are we talking stonework or freemasonry?)
(Oh wouldn’t you like to know?)
Anyway, Feckle was so happy with this cloudy state of affairs that he fed himself into the cloud machine and became an altostratus that covered the sky over Fug Fugue Fickle. Everything in its right place.
“No ideas but in things.”
—William Carlos Williams