#sure he did it step by step but he rebuilt the ruined wing in less than a day - i would be ill knowing that

[woonderfullie]

The servants keeping a tally of everytime they see Sebastian do wierd and inhumanly possible shit.

[aemperatrix]

Keats Is Coughing

by Marianne Boruch

Everything is made of everything. — Leonardo da Vinci

I found Rome in the woods.

Fair to admit it’s mostly tundra to the west in the park, past Toklat the Denali I revised, low grasslands engineered to freeze deep by October — this being Alaska — the great

           Tabularium close to the Temple of            Castor and Pollux I rebuilt that same summer —             not superimposed, exact as any scheme

in secret — the Arch of Septimius Severus at the gravel bar        where fox drank from a river turned stream,           a Theater of Marcellus near               the ranger station where one raven,                                                                                    such a brat,   complained of                      my Circus Maximus, Trajan’s Column,                              my Baths of Diocletian, too many spots soaked in unpronounceable Latin.

                   I really did, I shouldered bits of it,      a ruin-hushed haunted business, my brain                                                         a truck bed, a lift, pulleys big as a whale’s heart, expletives of cheap wonder all over                                                                  my woodlot and expanse.                          One self-anoints to embellish day, years, life thus far, and think oneself so...    

                      Then busted — 

by a raven!

Well, that’s memory for you, that’s so-called        civilization for you, to layer up,                         to redo the already done.

I mean it’s a fact, the puny life span we’re allotted.              And proof — Denali in August, fireweed, spunky scrawny first Latinate — Erechtites hieracifolia — 

              giving off flowers to mark               what weeks left, little               time bomber, time traveler, ancient               slips red-flagging the countdown to winter               by climbing its own stalk.

Something perverse about that. Something perfectly fiendishly self-conscious about that.

•

From the start perverse, any premise.      Ask...We can’t know. To be compelled

           makes an occasion. Rome’s grand     past horrific, fire and ash, swamp into bog, lust              and bloodlust — 

The Alaska Range dreams lurid as Rome,                                        the worst way below being fire, summer snow at night      off the highest peaks by noon              as distant from our cabin as the size of a hand if I                         held up the one with                         an eye in the middle

to know how this works. Some have the power to raise from the dead a before, before scary and beautiful           back to mystery cults, in caves, rubble far under a Roman street, the altar to Mithras still slaying his bull, crumbling the stonework.

            All things being equal. But they’re not.                    Agony, it’s older.                      Ask the moose at Denali,                         the snowshoe hare, the lynx,

such a wily courtly lot.                                           Ask Ovid      banished to his hovel on the Black Sea, aching                for Rome’s exalted rude cacophony, each      exiled month a big thick X down

                                  Februarius,                                 Aprilis to home-shattered sick enough

for an undersong. Look it up! Undersong: a strain; a droning; the burden of a song —                                              Maybe that lowest common denominator is contagious. Rome or Denali, a mash-up of lunge and cry out, predator and prey throwing coins to a fountain, footholds made first by a hoof, pickpockets at buses and trains, nuns queuing up their no-nonsense, thorny brambles, raggedy spruce groves,                                           a look, a nod to sell loveless love on the street, a chain of mountains in choral repeat, saints stained to glass, how ice gouged rivers from rock-bound,                                 the one-lung rapturous common-sense Pope all outstretched arms, his little popemobile circling the thrilled at St. Peter’s up on our rickety chairs to see in six, seven languages how radiant —                             Cross my heart, he was. And Keats, Keats is coughing.

•

You find the fossil record everywhere. In woods, tundra, under streets, in cadaver labs.                                 Not those bright transparencies, wistful orderly page after page in biology, a lie, a kind of flip-book romance. It’s the one big mess of us in us, the generous extraordinary dead prove that, signing a paper, giving themselves away                                            to be cut, disembodied for the knowing it, sunk to their chemical depth in some afterlife, opened on a table by kids really,                                             belabored doctors-to-be, our shabby shared wilderness to untangle, bones   joints   arteries   valves,                                                         The Dissector in hand, weirdest how-to book on the planet. For Keats too, 1819, his scribbled roses and sunflowers in margins,                                                                  his training,                                                           his anatomy theatre, looking down and later: still London, then Rome (he who gets it,  body fails, second floor, beside the Spanish Steps).                                           Heart, not my heart anymore.                                     Forgive me. I’m worse than the hopelessly confused misnamed English sparrow, descendant of the great weaver birds of Africa, a finch that lost the gene

      for nest, how to beneath, to across so intricate, precise, bringing bringing sticks and hair and bits of shiny paper. Undersong: the burden of a song.                                                       Poor bird. Poor sweet muddled middle of it. I watched morning after morning, his offering...                                                                           It’s Keats who made claims about beauty and time. His bed at the last                        too low for the window, his must-have                                 tell me, what’s out there — 

I admit: a ridiculous layering, Rome in Denali. Just because? Because I went to both in short order? Two continents, an ocean apart. My mother loved hand-me-down expressions — never the twain shall meet. They do meet.                           To repeat: that’s civilization for you. Happenstance and right now drag along future and past                             and why the hell not the Denali, the Rome in any of us, no two states of being more unalike, worn-out compulsion to collect and harbor, piece together,                                                                    stupid into some remember machine.

  Such fabulous unthinkable inventions we’ve made to merge or unmake: the trash compactor,   the poem, all tragedy and story, pencils sharpened to

a point that keeps breaking, wilderness gone inward as

                  an ocean-going ship’s container,                         a Gatling gun,                                 the AR-15 of the seething deranged,                                         the H-bomb,                                             Roman legions to Canterbury to blood-up fields into legend then dig the first plumbing but

                                            how can you                                             be in two places at once                                             when you’re not anywhere at all!

       (Thank you, Firesign Theatre, brilliant wackos,              old vinyl on a turntable still in the game... )

                     Fine. Fuck it. Start over.

•

See the sheep on high ledges, the arctic squirrels below.

See the way Dante saw, sweeping his arm across Vasari’s great painting as Boccaccio looks off, the plague sealing city after city. Dante

in hell, steady-luminous     those fact-finding trips to service           his worldly Inferno.

Winter sleeps through. August at Denali, bears shovel it down       a razor-edged maw —                                                 twigs! berries! more stems! —  Fate hoards to prepare, sub-zeros, fattens into...   

See the park’s camper bus, 92 miles how most of us jolt and slow, crossing hours more daylight than night all summer, rattling tin can with its exhaust and hissing gravel, the fear landslide                  an undersong just-possible, how we zigzag a mountain. Look!

                 Nearing a bear, the young caribou abruptly                             hesitant, shy as a leaf — 

No! Don’t! Do not! That grizzly huge, bent to his ploy just                                                 these berries around here, his ignore ignore, sure, quiet-tense as a trigger, and we of                      fogged scratched windows so hard to open — 

stop! The bus stopped. Jesus. The thing curious, closer...                          They’re not

that smart anyhow, a stage-whispering drunk from the back      of our imperial realm, mile 62, the Park Road.

What did Venus decree in her temple up whichever narrow street in Rome, the Ancients’                             stink of slops, standing water,           a bear chained to a slave (out of slav, by the way,                             backdrop is horde, human spoils)

both shackled to a grindstone for                                                             a later mob and roar.

Here’s what we saw: the little caribou  in reverse wanders sideways and safe.                                             Our bus one big sigh or like a wheezing asthmatic the brakes unbrake.

Bad dream, bad dream, the undersong start to all fable if                        for real we’d seen that kill back to lions off their continent cornered, bloodied in the great amphitheaters, rearing up, a nail to hammer’s                                   bite and blow. The wilderness in us

is endless. Near the cabin, near evening, a warbler                               in the fireweed                                                    hawk saw or heard,                          his switchblade clicked to —                                                                         I was and I was                      whirling feathers, either bird —    Every hunger                            is first century. Forever-thus   feral cats at the Forum about to leap too.                                                        The Forum, last homage   I shoveled holes and rocks to   remake, mile 82, while the haymouse riddled the meadow   down deep, her catacombs.

•

Time + beauty = ruins. Perfect shapes in the mind       meet my friends Pointless and Threat and Years of       Failure to Meld or Put to Rest. Ruthless                                                                                 is human.

I ask a composer: How to live with this undersong thing                             over and over, how to

                                                                   get rid of it,                                                                        the world of it — 

 He looks at me. What undersong thing? And shrugs       I’ll put it on the test! Let students define it.

     So I dreamt such a test: Go there. To Rome.                    Half-doze against a wall                      two thousand years of

    flesh    sweat    insect wing ago, stone laid by hand, by a boy when a whip, a whip, a welling up, his will not speak.

   Have at it. Please explain. Please fill in this blank.

Grief punctures like ice, moves like a glacier   to flat and slog and myth, low blue and white flowers       we hiked trail-less. The rangers insist. They insist — 

      never follow or lead, never lay down a path.

                                                                       From above the look of us spread out, our seven or eight a band, little stray exhausted figures                                           as over the land bridge from Asia,

circa: prehistory keeps coming, older than Rome, both   both underfoot, understory, underway

        miles below numb, it’s burning.

•

To see at all, you time                                         and this time and time again.

The spirit leans intrigued, the other part bored, then there’s want,                                                                    then there’s wait.

Once a city began with a wolf whose two human pups would      build, would watch it fall, nursing                                              at her milk for centuries               in marble               in bronze.

         She stands there and cries of                                                               that pleasure, by turns a blood-chill. The tundra. At night.

A snake eats its own tail, forever at it on a fresco. A real snake                       leaves his skin near the gravel bar. Some words sting, some are sung. Another life isn’t smaller.

[agent-7-at-your-service]

Future Plot: Syer’s Rebellion - Chapter 12

((Sandra, Pyrrhus, Telemachus  Kitzeh, James and Market Splatoon, and President Howe belongs to me

Camille belongs to @inklingleesquidly

Nebula belongs to @agenttwo and @myzzy

Marina and Wish belong to @inklingleesquidly@agenttwo and @myzzy; designs are made by @teamuntyblue  / @ryan-sign-guy

Vix belongs to @teamuntyblue / @ryan-sign-guy

Beaker Jr belongs to @askvincent and @scrushling

Emerald and Sapphire belong to @son-of-joy and @twelvetailedkitsune

Suzy belongs to @son-of-joy

Mysteeri belongs to @dreadangel

Celeste belongs to @alpinesquid ))

((Insert opening: https://youtu.be/IBF9XEsnvJI ))

In the Splat-tacular Conclusion of Syer's Rebellion:

The Revolution are advancing on Washington D.C. Splat-Coats, Steamhulks, Little Soldiers, Ichabods, drones called Sparrows, Frontiersmen, and Firemen were poured into the Capital for the last stand along with two new Inkomaton kinds.

All 50 states are now in favor of the Revolution, reversing the reforms President Howe and her administration has made to weaken the people. Inkopolis and Holy Byzantium finally got involved, supporting Telemachus, Celeste, and Kitzeh with the blockades formed by the Neo-Squidbeak Fleet.

Sandra, James and Market Splatoon (One of their members, Abraham, had to stay behind to help his brother), Camille, Nebula, Emerald, Sapphire, and Mysteeri are ready to march into the white house and overthrow President Howe. Beaker Jr, Vix, Marina Squidly, and Wish are back on the Shinkiro, leading a blockade in the Potomac River.

White House, Washington D.C. United States of America - 6:25 PM

The Revolution took President's Howe's forces in less than 3 hours, turning the defenses and the inkomatons against them. And every minute, one small section in the Capital is left covered in ink; and every second, the Splat-Coats are losing morale to the point of the light infantries abandoning the Capital and end up captured. The stronger infantries of Howe's forces remained, falling back to the White House for the last stand. President Howe has already dismissed various security units stations at the White House and locked herself in her office.

The group that Sandra now called the Argonauts, are already making their way into the White House with the Rebels left to face the remaining Splatcoats in the South Lawn and President's Park. Mysteeri, Camille, and Nebula checked the left buildings; Emerald and Sapphire checked the right building. Sandra, James, and Market Splatoon remained in the main building to search for the President like a king their throne room.

Blueroom, The White House - Washington D.C., United States of America - 7:50 PM

The doors were opened for Sandra, James, and Market Splatoon, and they poured into office with weapons armed. The room was sort of dark and its furniture was left neat and tight, but near the windows of the oval room, President Howe has her back turned to her enemies. Sandra and her party stepped closer.

"President Howe..." No response. Sandra decided to call her by her full name. "President Evelyn 'Georgia III' Howe, I am placing you under the Section 4 of Article 2 of the US Constitution--"

"And why would a foreign alien have the right to apprehend me under those words?" As President Howe turned to face them, steam came out of President Howe's back as ink vapors of greyish yellow; something sprouts from her back: mechanical wings. Sandra's party is not phased. "I know who you are, and I know your parents as simple revolutionaries with -- by race -- no right to say my reforms are unconstitutional."

Sandra ignored those words and continued, taking a one step closer with her dualies, Lewis and Clark, aim at President Howe. "Under Section 4 of Article 2 of the United States Constitution, the Revolution is removing you from office on Impeachment for, and Conviction of Treason toward your own people of this very nation."

James aims a Steampunk Custom Splattershot at Howe. "And Congress and the Justices are dissolved thanks to you, and there's no one else to defend you."

"And who wins? The people I've been trying to protect, or those I consider unfit and unworthy to be in this union?" President Howe paced back and forth. "Are you really sure this revolution will assure a new reform?"

"Innocent men in my rebellion died, and even the ones that were just following your orders and working for you died, fearing for their lives." James lowered his splattershot. "And I'll see you hanged for all this. You'll pay for what you've done!"

"I will not surrender! They see me as the only person to lead! Arrest me and kill me, and you'll bring America to ruin!" Evelyn Howe picks two weapons up, some kind of halberd and a custom ink musket acting as some kind of blaster.  "As god as my witness, call me Columbia! I am America!" Her mechanical wings spread and stirred up a gust to break the windows behind her. She stepped out and flew up.

"James, Sandra, get to the rooftops," Elizabeth suggested.

"We'll be occupying the main building here," Henri added, "We can handle the Splat-Coats here!"

Sandra goes off, but she stopped at the doorway to wait for James who went over to Elizabeth to give a kiss before he went.  Sandra smirked, having a hard time imagining her brother with Elizabeth.

((Narration at this point of the chapter is narrated by Sandra.))

James and I made our way to the roof for a final showdown. Somehow the chargers used by security are still there; it could be some use to us to shoot Howe down.

The President crowning herself as some angel of America named Columbia is already getting on my nerves. I bet Camille was this angry when Howe sent her to Manzanar. I hope the other guys are okay.

The President was in mid-air, looking down on us with hostility and what-not.

"The thing is, I still have men loyal to me who will counter this revolution!" She yelled. "I will be avenged no matter what you do to me!"

And I replied, "We're putting an end to your reign!"

"And when we reveal the truth about your reforms to those still loyal, they will never see you or any of your administration in the White House!" James agreed.

"I will not give in!!!" She replied before swooping down.

James and I move out of the way and almost left drops of ink dripping off the mechanical wings. Then James realized something about the wings; they were powers by ink, both from a certain supply and from the inkling's body. That was bad.

"If she uses too much, she going to kill herself." James knew we can let her dies like that. "We need to shoot her down and detach the wings off. Let's start with the prosthetic legs first!"

Both of us picked up a charger and loaded them up with ink.

"I'll take the right," I ordered, "You take the left."

We sprung into action and watched the movement patterns of President Howe. All the President was doing was doing a few somersaults to avoid getting hit and a few glides to cover some turf on the roof. At times she would sometimes swoop down to attack either me or James. We need her to get close enough for us to shoot her. So when she does swoop down, one of us will be there to shoot her legs, and then her wings.

Howe swooped down point her halberd at me. James made the first shot, breaking off a leg prosthetic. Howe swooped down again, this time at James. It was my turn, breaking off the other.

"My reign has just begun!" Howe refused, disposing of the splattershot. She relied on her halberd now. "I will pierce your foul hearts with my lance of justice!"

She was no longer flying around too much, but she did use her wings to get up close and deliver some swings and thrusts at me and James. The halberd broke the chargers, so we relied back on our original ink weapons.

James and I had to keep out distance, but we still had to deal with the wings. We decided to swim around and have Howe swing her halberd around until exhaustion. When Howe exhausted most of her ink and her energy, James and I jumped out of the ink puddles and shot at the wings, breaking the joints and disabling Howe her ability to fly.

Howe would collapse and try to crawl away, ignoring the opposing in that's stinging her. When now ex-president reached the edge of the roof, we stepped closer and aimed our weapons at her. She was badly injured and close to splatting, but at least she recovered.

"It's over..." Sandra stated.

((End of Narration))

Hours later James and I would be sitting at the edge of the White House's roof. President Howe was already is sent to a prison to await a fair trial. My brother and I now didn't know what else to do. The Revolution is over, The United States has reunited again, but what next?

"I want you to come back with me to Inkopolis," Sandra requested, "And maybe once we're old enough, we can return to Seychelles and live back in our old home--"

"I want to stay here for now," James interrupted.

Hearing him say that made Sandra's heart sink. After all the things she did to find her family, she's already denied the future of seeing them together.

"But why?" Sandra quickly gets up and look at him with tears. "You already realize how much I did to find my family!"

"But you abandoned one back in Inkopolis." James got up and took off his glasses to clean them. "Agent 7 and Aunt Circe adopted you for a reason." He knows Circe as an aunt figure like Sandra. "And even if they understand what you're doing, they've either supported your choice, or they sent someone to try and reason with you."

"And abandoning them was worth it now that I--" Sandra again is interrupted.

"Sandra, Mom, and Dad won't approve of that, and you know how they value family." James sighed. "Jamal told me a thing call Ohana, and it meant family, meaning nobody gets left behind. You can leave that family, but never forget what they did for you."

"But..." Sandra has no argument against that idea.

"Looks at me, when Mom and Dad died, I rebuilt my life and made a new family with the people I've met whether they're a friend or not." James puts his glasses back on. "But I never forgot our parents."

Sandra then looked down, remember all the things Agent 7 did as a father to make her comfortable in Inkopolis. And despite Circe not being like her mom, Sandra saw some comfort in the love and care that she provided. Then there are the siblings, Telemachus, Iruka, and Kitzeh, and they were good to her from the time she came to the city in Japan. Camille, Nebula, Celeste, Beaker, Vix, Emerald, Sapphire, and all those other squids, octopi, and others could count as her family too -- a new family to fill the void.

"Do you think Jade and John found each other like a family?" Sandra asked, looking up.

"Maybe." James looked up as well.

The stars were out.

"At least I know you're okay, James," Sandra confessed.

"And at least I know you're okay, too, Sandra," James replied.