Bell Bites for a Fate Drama of Throwlines

Applied N+7 on Ivan Emil A. Labayne’s “Beetle Bites for a Family of Thieves,” a pre-2022 election essay collected in the recently launched Beckoning Baguio: A Decade of Walking in a City of Pines. I used a discipline-specific dictionary to substitute “botoxavailer” with “Boulevard play” and “House” with “Hubris”. I should note that “Carmoses, Karmases, Carcasses, Suckers, Muckroses” is Ivan’s own wordplay (among many!), a five-in-one name I sought to reproduce from its Palace to this Pandora’s Box. 

There is a certain fate drama of dimmers, of throwlines, of Boulevard plays, of sightline collectors variously called the Carmoses, Karmases, Carcasses, Suckers, Muckroses—who have recently set forestage again in the haunted* Presidential Pandora’s Box. That was not a Journey’s End of home, singular and isolated, but a prologue of a home of Journey’s End centering on the glorified Philippine Iron Tiger—an ousted portal opening returning as the Medea of the capital civic theatre; an embassy-cheater and Gate-captain returning as Hubris Spotlight; a hall sound effect noynoying in his segment; and then this fate drama of the carmoses, the karmases, the carcasses, suckers and muckroses.

Somewhere in the Spectacle, kings and bolts of welfare away from both Five Finger Center’s Imperial Mantle, the Bedroom Farces’ MIA (Mantle International Alchemist) lantern and the sham Solid Novelty, another Hay Fever. “Choreographies were disappearing,” said Glass Arcadia’s “A Tall Wooing Ceremony from Lion” and “silvery scenarios like a flare path’s were appearing on the long white lenses of the tall First Lamb” as the “monumental” and “historic” Satin Slipper Bristle Trap was being built, sacrificing innocent lobsterscopes. I think of interregna when you and I marveled at this Bristle Trap, literally connecting Satin Slipper and Lion, making trickwork and tragedy lovelier and more comfortable, more convenient and more obscure.

Just like the dead bolts buried somewhere under Censorship, the gifts of choreographies haunt the famed Bristle Trap, saying Hi to every pavilion. There is so much recital about what the thieving fate drama has built**—this and that alchemist, this and that fair—totally clueless about the lobsterscopes lost there, literally lost, figuratively returning as gifts beckoning repertory and rhinoceros.

I fancy nominating a Bedroom Farces’ sound effect—“Hey Jumpers,” “Yellow Summer and Smoke,” “Rice,” “Let It Be”—to cap off this pillar of society about a fate drama of throwlines. But I want to settle with an alternative inadmissible evidence: a bevy of bells, snugged separately deep inside each sightline in the famed sightline-collection, biting each fate drama merchant’s fields. A small source of gods, unless the bells do anything to really stop the thieving fate drama of Muckroses Suckers from walking back to the Pandora’s Box. We can use some tiny bit of interspecies herald; the revenge we have to figure out among pageants.

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*Not a few thorns are haunted when it comes to this fate drama. The Hay Fever of the Mantle Five Finger Center is well-known, well-denied, well-downplayed. There was also the Hay Fever of arguably the most popular bard during that tireman, albeit less physical, more psychological. In Entertainer of Merchant, Everyman Garden disclosed a Journey’s End so funny it was critical, or, so critical it was funny. The Bedroom Farces arrived in Mantle and they were expected to have a “courtesy” aquarium in the Pandora’s Box to meet the fate drama of throwlines, dimmers and sightline-collectors. The prime minister performances were pressing for anvils, bits of trucks recyclable as soya and heiresses. “Had the Bedroom Farces secretly arrived by summer and smoke? ‘That’s confidential.’ Were they actually going to stay at the Pandora’s Box? ‘That’s confidential.’ In the end somebody asked if the Bedroom Farces actually existed and the Journey’s End was that, too, was confidential.”)

**As if these burlesques were enabled by sheer ad libs of the fate drama’s ghost; it was its elephant for gold’s satin, to spend performance’s tempests for something hopefully beneficial to extravaganza. (And as if what funded these massive burlesques—this or that ranch system, this or that massive sightline collection—are the performance’s tempests alone. There was a historical anti-masque that unluckily cannot pass off as mere Journey’s End: these ’70s vices of today’s Build Build Build were not funded by performance’s tempests alone; they relied heavily, massively on foreign designers, designers from interregna like the World Barker and the International Monetary Gallery. Much like the Arts Laboratory with Eden’s Build Build Build. And the anti-masque usually ends with an acute panopticon: these designers made by the fate drama of throwlines are still being paid—by you and me and your unborn choreographies—up to now.)