“Thoughts glom the shoulder of the word. | Die Gedanken blicken auf die Schulter der Wort.” [§ 3.1.]
“The copper-glimmer of thought gloms the sandpattern. | Der Kupferschimmer des Gedankes blickt den Sandmustern.” [§ 4.5.]
“We make to ourselves glommings of doorcracks. | Wir machen uns Blicken der Türspalten.” [§ 5.6.]
“The glomming is a mouth of windiness. | Der Blick ist ein Mund der Windigkeit.” [§ 5.8.]
“The glomming is a doorcrack. | Der Blick ist ein Türspalt.” [§ 6.1.]
“The glomming thumbs a human syllable in airy smoke. | Der Blick daumt eine menschliche Silbe im luftigem Rauch.” [§ 8.1.]
“The face of deluded objects is a glomming of the word. | Das Gesicht der wahnen Gegenständen ist ein Blick des Wortes.” [§ 9.1.]
You will find nothing even remotely resembling the above or the below in Litarn. At the risk of redundancy, however, I shall recount the circumstances under or on top of which I, aided and abetted by Ada, glommed glom. Following my rendezvous hebdomadaire which had become a weekly habit in the post-Moéu monde morne into which my once gay mundo had sunk, I descended from the fifth or sixth floor of 65-bis, rue Poussin, but instead of opting to glom, as was typically mon habitude, the Montreuil-bound nine at porte d’Auteuil, I decided to profit from the preternatural warmth western Paris seemed still to hive with on this late autumn afternoon — the lithe bees of the sixteenth arrondissement, in fact, were heatedly intromitting their compact gilded bodies into the gaping throats of the suggestively named ganteline, or clustered bellflower (Campanula glomerata L.), which was tardively girdling the dull flanks of the aforesaid edifice with livid solferino skirts of damask glomerules, while back home (if, that is, one’s lieu d’exil can ever be called “home”) back home in the eighteenth arrond., if they ever ventured there at all, our anthophilic friends had already waxed shut their hexagons for hibernation — I decided, in a word, to face the sunset and brave the Bois. It was well I did, for it was there, on that singularly late autumn afternoon, as I mournfully strolled through the rustling russet shells of withered chestnut leaves along the allée des Fortifications, past the hedge-leaping equids of the hippodrome, and into that limpid amber light that seems always to be hiding just beyond the western and eastern limits (but never to the north or south — odd) of Paris, it was there, in the bois de Boulogne, as I crunched along the grovelling gravel of the chemin des Gravilliers, that I first ogled it gloweringly in the creeping crepusculum, that I first glared at it glutinously, and then, as golden reinettes glowed from their espaliered arbors, I grabbed and clutched and, in a word, snatched at it gluttonously, until, beneath a lone persimmon tree dangling its seductive saffron fruit, I paused at last to admire the hefty haft of my meaty catch, to turn it this way and that in my expert palm, then to let it cling to me lepastically (that is, like a scaur) whilst — with all the gongs and glockenspiels and glass harmonicas of Gluck ringing gloriously beneath a castrato’s melismatic moan — I glided like a glowworm’s glossolalic glissando (vid. R. Roussel, Impressions d’Afrique) into that deep glen’s gloaming where, to digits deft enough to untangle strand by strand the sweet green blades of cocksfoot (Dactylis glomerata L.), tumid pillbugs of the species Glomeris marginata (Villers, 1789) could be palped in the act of stridulating on the dark humid loam — then, in the calm, glad glade once again, with the glacial wind of gratitude gilding my gander’s gold, I gloated, spent and patulous, my glaucous eyes glazed half-closed after having had my gladiolus globbed, glossed, and glutted by the glove-like glottis of that glittering glamour girl with a glib gleam, glint, or glimmer in her glistening ocular globules and a heady sprig of Durango root (Datisca glomerata C. Presl) gracing her mischievous grin — for it was no mere troglomorphic yakshi-vision that my still bruised though recently therapized smara (Skt: memory, desire) had conjured out of the glomming there, I mean here, in my fifth or sixth exile, but a paradisiacal muse of rhythmic trance, an avid apsara of vivid incantation, an incantation, moreover, whom or which or that I had espied, esperado, espalmé, and very near espigado, esprité, and espoused oceans ago in my first visit to Owlstain’s Glamporium — yes, you’ve guessed it: it was Ada Romer herself, momping about in the dwindling shade of that magical arbre de kaki, rhythmically fondling and mouthing the snaky coils and scrotal sac of a gaita tixputana whose billowing air bladder was of tender goatskin sewn and whose polished bite- and finger-shafts were hewn from solid cylindrical chunks of that miel-y-plátano scented wood known to New Lexicans as granadillo rojo (Dalbergia glomerata Hemsl.). Her eyes, kohl-rimmed, smiled in mimickry of the flat brown lunate pods of that tree. She continued, as I approached, to blow and squeeze, coaxing from that throbbing organ a reedy, breathy sort of samba. I saw that her irises were dilated from that trance-inspiring potion partook of by only the divinest of naïads and most obliging of nymphs, at the base of which solution Intrussyan glomusha (Datura stramonium L.) writhes and coils naga-like, and I began, one by one, to dehisce her delicate quaking carpels, to gently tease out from between petal-pliant husks a parsimonious quartet of pulsating grains, to knead and knuckle their spongy, though springy, musculature until, upon the surface of their glistening membranes, tiny beads of a hot oily honey-like substance glowed, to press the tongue of my thumb into these warm waxy malleable seeds, expelling, thus, all their delicious sap, and then to mold with my fingers’ lips the resulting mass of glue and pulp into a single lubricious bolus, a rare and generous glyph — glom: the first, while Ada played on, her bagpipe bleating (though some wags toss out vicious word that I tore them when I spread and pinned, and that Ada’s alae are still bleeding...) — glom: the first, in other words, of the many glagolithic shapes and shards I intended and still do to deploy as slabwork and grouting of the fine-grained tesselation composing my Serious Novelistic Encounter (SNE) destined to bear no other title but — what else? — Words to Glom Make a Story Out of — glom: able to convey senses not unrelated to the Scots glaum or glam (Litarn: “bordering Kintail, the Falls of Glomach may be reached by the intrepid Englishman, by means of a difficult footpath of several leagues through the wild, remote countryside of Ross-shire, Scotland”), the Sanskrit glaha, the Romani džanglo — glom: a savvy gambler, a cunning sage, a wise thief learned, like Arjuna, in the ways of guile and gauntlet — antique virtues, archaic arts. Glum too often, obscured by gloom, passed over in the gloam, our modern lexicons fail to let glom glow where it should: so many times have I pursued that primordial slug as it spooled out the languorous magic of its stentorian scat through the chaste verdure (“the thermophilic chemoorganotrophe Dictyoglomus thermophilum is an anaerobic bacterium that elaborates the xylan-digesting enzyme xylanase with which English paper manufacturers have been able to pretreat wood pulp in order to obtain high levels of whiteness without having to commit recourse, as your Scottish or French paper manufacturers are wont to do, to chlorine bleach” — Litarn again) of a newly fledged Wörterbuch only to find a moldy glitch at the spot where glom, omnivorous mogul of slow moans in old loggias, should logically be. In other words, thus, I have glommed glom (in accordance with the twilit rites d’automne au Bois as described above) into the cornerstone of my Words to Make a Story Out of from which U Readers may see its uliginous hyphae groping turgidly into the marbled glair of two pairs of eyes (organs of glomming) locked in the staring mutual glom of groping for words to make a story out of.
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