#12 The Confessor of Littlefield

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This installment is perhaps not the best one to read first if you are new to the Confessor of Littlefield. Although, whenever someone has told me something like that my inclination has been to read it first. It combines many of the narrative voices I have presented so far in these numbered sequences I have chained together into a continuum of story.


This sequence also marks a transition in the story as Adam’s nemesis alter ego, Edwin Umbrian is disposed of for Calvin Dyme. Adam’s creation is no longer an embryo but an infant, alive and squeaking. At the same time, he continues to examine and arrange the seemingly discordant voices that comprise his inner dialog. The self examination, and the awareness of the transference of the personal association to a plastic one, one that is created, becomes more apparent. As this separation of author from his characters, the awareness of where a character has his or her beginnings becomes more apparent the quicker the story comes. But that is for the later sequences.





[Meaning from resources of time and place blissfully becomes the babes of brutes.]

Squeak oink oink

Squeak squeak

Squeak oink oink

Squeak squeak

(Spoken in a loutish and brutish New Jersey accent with thick tongue and big jowls.)

The holy blissful martyr when we get sick, gives us vowels to chant and consonants that hammer, pluck, lay, knock, tap. Your tongue is a knuckled finger using the world around it to do what the brain tells it do, in conjunction with bursts, blasts, pops, puffs, and streams of breath.

And don’t forget the jug of mead. One jug per day, no more, no less.


“I don’t know,” said Connie, taking another drink. “Pierre de bogainville deBigastronie? Fuck. You want to know his name, look on his mail box. That’s what I told Edwin when he asked me what your name was.”

“The fuck don’t he ask me himself?”

“Ownt know.”

“Don’t like it when a person doesn’t ask me things he can’t ask himself when he sees me often enough to speak with ease. Is he a psychwad religious shepherd or something?”

“Probly. You can leave me off up here. I gotta ride home tonight so you don’t have to pick me up.”

(I don’t say “I didn’t know I had to” because then she would think I don’t need to. It’s the human contact. Her youthful humanity is awe inspiring. I understand her bickering. I don’t mind it. I welcome it. I plead with God to let me just hear how she has philosophized away this, or that. She says everything without equanimity. There is a veneer of cold cordiality; a bitter and vicious demeanor with a mean tongue for anything stupid or intolerable. She is a flower pot with a bouquet of fragrances from perfumes, sprays, conditioners, gels, juices, and oils. Bitch slap! You are human.

I think Connie and her parents are quite aware of what she is doing, but either are in denial, or are most sane, sober, comprehending and calculating parents. There is no in between.


Before the fall every word bore with it the thing

the fall is the split between word and the thing

and that is how the word and the thing became it


Leave Edwin alone, a voice within me drones. Calvin Dyme has already taken his place. It is a voice for which I should now be aware, I tell myself. I look at the worlds I create, and the people I make. I am a host of throngs withered from the mind because they have not been used on the tongue or scribbled on a pad to remember. I can’t remember seeing you for quite a few days, Edwin, and the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Cliffnut coming into the yard bodes darkly. The dim, deposed day, has left me weak and wanting; wanting the seconds to stop fucking ticking! Ticking time bomb blows holes to Valhalla at time warp speed through the days we call the years at the end.


Edwin is dead; limpid and leftover from a lifelong demonic dread. He left a note on the table next to the chair, above which he hung from a lamp cord. It must’ve taken hours to die. At least that’s what Jimmy said. I believe him. I imagine he really would’ve wanted to punish himself (in his mind righteously) when he died.

The note didn’t say much, except that he just wanted to go to heaven. No family stepped forward . He is buried in an unmarked grave at the township cemetery. The small noncongregational church he belonged to gave him a service. Those necessary to perform the ceremony were present, no others but Edwin.


Adam’s chancery produced the official documents of umbrianage. Ill iss gostust de tung (Mouse Say Dung was a 76 year old Chinese man, no gentleman, who shat in the yard like a dog. Every morning, his handler followed him into the yard with a long handled (not long enough) pooper scooper. Nonetheless, dung was spread among the roses and carnations, lotus blossoms, and blocks of stones that atheists called the Sacred Palace where, as though a sign from heaven, thereafter, mushrooms sprouted in the shapes of turds.


He (for now) is the leader of North Korea, the voice of my tongue doth squeak, with the shape of a Buddha; not the skinny, emaciated body of a Hindu Yogi, one punished by lack of nutrients. No. The FAT Buddha, not jolly Buddha, but constipated Buddha, with an active snake in the rib cage, fattened on rice pudding, and with jowls wide enough to hold a school of fish in each cheek. He stands next to the narcissist American fat guy celebrity president, 72 years old, 40 lbs overweight – despite his assertions of health – media likes words, not facts – with never and nary a callus on either of his soft, dish towel hands. Common people pay to hear ol’jowls jostle with sauce, vowels, and consonants with a New Jersey thickness. Give ’em a fat guy born of privilege, buy him a college degree (he doesn’t have to act like he learned anything about virtue, humility, compassion.) Fat guy buying followers and slurping gravy from a $500 bowl of beans, and when someone says so, smiles authoritatively. The gods make a star of him; a Roman easy sell. Low hanging fruit for low hanging fruit. Give em a God.


Give em a God.



They don’t need a fucking God. Just want to build a straw man they can hate when things don’t go so well. Some fat guy with a lowbrow accent in a million dollar suit, born with a silver spoon, sitting down to sup with me. Your guns will have no effect, remember, when I punch him in the mouth and knock out those front teeth he uses to make so many shrill sounds.

Why would you want to do that anyway, Jesus?

Because it would feel good.

But there’s no moral reason to do that.

I have no idea what you are talking about. Morality is a concept for humans and their finite lives. Fine. I will leave and let you have a ruler. Along with the ruler of your choice are his systems and judgment. You will still use the language I have given you to describe your existence and your laws, but laws order into good and bad, and good and bad is something of your existence. Deism in the constitution of the United States is completely obliterated by the Puritan Calvinist, old testament ideology of an eye for an eye (In my case it is more of a tooth for a tooth; I say bad things about We so I have bad teeth and a self loathing for failing to speak in some circumstances.) You wear the same stories year after year, with an accompanied foreshadowed warning followed by a period of mourning. The more seasons that pass the more your eyes adjust and you come to know that you will be never be any different than you are right now, thinking up your own stories and lore about the generations that came before.

God and service to country perpetually rolled into some sort of higher form of sacrifice for a greater good. I will come again in the future to remind the generations that each is his own uber man fidgeting in a stupor as he stares into the future, because centuries bear so little change in the common person whom otherwise intelligent people call a noble savage.


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