noedit / 5.14.24 / the first meeting of the odd second saturday society (OSSS)

The first meeting of the odd second saturday society (OSSS) convened at 6:15pm on the second saturday of may in the basement of the dovetail arms with 4 attendees evenly spaced around one far-too-large circular table including the following:

Tam Squabb (of sound mind and body)

Neil Goodshank (of sound mind and body)

Rockwell Rockwell (unkempt, apparently inebriated)

Quinton Wilde (kempt, apparently asleep, apparently between spells of lycanthropy)

The meeting began with Mr. Squabb reading the articles of engagement, noting the call for all topics literary, including but not limited to: everything. He suggested one possible topic to begin the discussion: the marbleization of billiard balls as metaphor for sentence-level reading.

He then inquired into Mr. Wilde’s condition.

Mr. Rockwell, slurring slightly, explained that they needn’t worry about Mr. Wilde. The moon was only half full and it was still daytime, after all. 

The other attendees appeared to settle after hearing this remark.

Mr. Wilde moved his hands as if in a dream about this meeting, or perhaps another one, or perhaps something else entirely.

Mr. Rockwell suggested that the others should be more concerned about Mr. Rockwell’s condition.

What’s wrong? Mr. Squabb asked.

I’m dead drunk, Mr. Rockwell said.

I don’t see the problem, Mr. Goodshank said. This is a pub.

Well aren’t you going to ask me why? Mr. Rockwell asked.

Why? Mr. Squabb asked.

Darla and I have had a falling out, Mr. Rockwell said. I would like to discuss the institution of marriage.

Fine, Mr. Squabb said. Proceed.

I would like to submit to the society that marriage is not an institution at all, Mr. Rockwell said.

It’s a manner of speech, Mr. Goodshank said.

Everything is a manner of speech, Mr. Rockwell said. (His manner of speech was now clear as though he had exaggerated his slurring for dramatic effect, or perhaps the immediate dismissal/rebuttal focused his attention.)

Go on, Mr. Squabb said.

It is not an institution because it only involves two people, Mr. Rockwell said. Also there are no rules, no governing bodies—

There are some rules, Mr. Goodshank said. For example fidelity. The governing body is the government. It is a legal union.

Open marriages, Mr. Rockwell said. And many people consider themselves married without legal documentation.

Valid points, I suppose, Mr. Squabb said.

Questionable points, Mr. Goodshank said.

I submit that Mr. Rockwell be allowed to finish his remarks before he is questioned, Mr. Rockwell said.

I submit that Mr. Rockwell be forbidden from speaking in third person because it makes him unlikeable, Mr. Goodshank said.

Please let him finish, Mr. Squabb said. All shall speak in first person. Please. As much as possible.

We shall speak in first person, Mr. Goodshank said.

He’s trying to distract me, Mr. Rockwell said.

Proceed, Mr. Squabb said.

Marriage is not an institution because there are only two people involved, there are no concrete and/or enforceable rules to the arrangement, there are no governing bodies, and there are no resources associated with involvement in said institution. Other than an annual tax benefit. I submit that marriage is not an institution but a pact between two people on par with barnyard fiddle dancing or loosely organized streetfighting — perhaps alternating between the two.

Streetfighting? Mr. Squabb asked, adjusting his glasses.

Loosely organized streetfighting, Mr. Rockwell said.

I’m not following any of this, Mr. Goodshank said. What does this have to do with books?

Nothing, Mr. Squabb said. And that’s perfectly fine. Some books are about marriage.

Some books are about wizards, Mr. Goodshank said.

Would you like to discuss the wizarding arts? Mr. Squabb said, readying his pen to amend the agenda.

Of course not, Mr. Goodshank said.

You have a rather wizardly name, Mr. Rockwell said.

I submit we move on to Mr. Squabb’s item, Mr. Goodshank said to Mr. Rockwell. You should find a marriage counselor.

She’s leaving me, Mr. Rockwell said. Darla's leaving. She says I'm depressing her.

Christ man, Mr. Goodshank said. Of course you are!

Please be kind, Mr. Squabb said. This is only our first meeting.

But Mr. Goodshank only became more animated.

Go home, Rockwell! he shouted. What are you doing out drinking? If you are going to fight then fight! Streetfight you dolt! 

Mr. Rockwell and Mr. Squabb seemed surprised by Mr. Goodshank's increased volume and intensity.

Mr. Goodshank was now standing and pointing at the door.

Go you fool! Mr. Goodshank cried. Flowers! Chocolates! A goddamn poem! She has eyes doesn't she? Tell her about her eyes! Don’t just sit there! 

Mr. Rockwell sipped and/or hid behind his drink. He seemed confused, or even offended.

Go, Mr. Goodshank said, quieter. He sat down again. Just go, man. Go now. You fool.

Mr. Rockwell looked at Mr. Squabb. 

Meetings are not mandatory, Mr. Squabb said. All is voluntary, in fact. I do mean all. Everything. Life. You know.

Quite right, Mr. Goodshank said. Quite right.

Mr. Rockwell, no less confused, but somehow finding direction, stood up, put on his hat, finished the dregs of his beer, and left. 

Poor man, Mr. Squabb said.

What’s this about the marbleization of billiard balls? Mr. Goodshank asked. 

Mr. Squabb reviewed his notes. He sorted through his papers. He looked under the table. He looked at the now open door. He even looked inside his hat. 

I swear it was here, Mr. Squabb said. Let’s see. Perhaps I can remember. It was about sentence-level reading. About how homogenous parts may comprise a more purposeful whole than heterogenous parts, which tend to call attention to themselves rather unnecessarily, even arrogantly, as though there could ever be some filigree more important than greater meaning. I think that was it. I had some related thoughts about the bricks of the Taj Mahal. But I thought that marbleization was more appropriate. When I was a boy I wanted the fancy billiard balls. Not the plain ones. The fancy ones. But then I grew tired of them. Quickly. I grew tired of them because they were gaudy and I felt the need to explain them. I had learned that simplicity is at the heart of dynamic action and possibility. I feel as though I am not explaining this exactly as I had hoped. I had notes. It all felt quite profound at the time.

I’m sure it did, Mr. Goodshank said. Best not explain it then. Best just keep these thoughts to ourselves. Shall we discuss Mr. Wilde? Perhaps the phases of the moon? Something about the waxing and waning of creative output? The filling and draining? How might this relate to ourselves? How might we all experience waxing and waning, and how might we identify where we stand in that cycle? Or how we stand? Or how to stand?

Perhaps we should wake Mr. Wilde, Mr. Squabb said. He is likely something of an expert on the matter.

Mr. Wilde kicked his feet in his sleep. He was in fact dreaming of another meeting.