the_incomprehensibles epitome of incomprehensibility "It's not like my parents expect me to make sense" I write in not_in_the_same_paragraph. "Ah," my hypothetical reader queries, "not if they named you Epitome of Incomprehensibility." In fact, dear hypothetical reader, Incomprehensibility is a family name, one with a long and storied history. It starts with my great-great grandfather, the fourth Earl of Incomprehensibility. He was notorious for keeping wild boars in his rambling wooded estate. Several of them he tamed, and townspeople could often see him riding about the grounds perched atop a large pig and waving his hat. Needless to say, his eccentric airs were attributed to his Scottish heritage. His son, Frederick of Incomprehensibility, took the post of colonial officer when he came of age. During his stay in India, he championed the curative properties of curry mixture. One pinch of the stuff, he claimed, would banish melancholy. When a younger colleague of his misunderstood and tried snorting it, the young man sneezed so violently that he fell forward, knocking over a set of vases that had been shipped intact from China and were set to be delivered to England and America. Frederick was promptly fired. As he trudged slowly to the train that would take him to his ship, he ran into a young Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi said, "You look you understand things," and began to tell him that the English colonial experiment was oppressive and misguided. But Frederick's mind was only on his recent misadventure, and he sputtered, "You mean the thing with the vases? It was just a mistake, I didn't do it on purpose, I certainly didn't mean to." In the years to come, when Gandhi had friends to entertain, he'd tell them about the short, pudgy Englishman who'd waved his arms around and raved about vases. This momentarily cheered them in their struggle for independence. When Frederick returned to England, he found that the royal family had stripped him of his noble title, apparently due to a bureaucratic mix-up. He swore a blue streak and vowed never to work for the government again. For a while he lived with his now-widowed mother, Gertrude of Incomprehensibility (nee Maybe). The founder of the Purple Stocking Society, her goal was to ensure that every woman in her neighbourhood - and eventually a few men - received a pair of purple stockings. She wasn't wholly successful - how many activists are? - but she remained influential in her community. During the last years of her life, she knit hundreds of socks for the British troops in the Great War. Some of the young men, urged by other Purple Stocking Society members, sent her letters, such as this one: "My dear Mrs. Incomprehensible, thank you for your contribution to the war effort. Together we will sock it to the Huns, ha ha ha. When I undressed for bed last night, my first thought upon pulling off my socks was horror: the skin of my feet seemed to have gone pink with infection. However, it was only the blasted purple dye coming off. Horrors of war, I guess. Say hi to old Fred for me; I still remember him from India." Mrs. Incomprehensible wrote back: "You look nice from your picture. Do you mind telling me more about yourself undressing? Are there any other parts of you that are pink? I think we would get on awfully well together if you don't go and get yourself killed. You know, I consider pink a pale shadow to purple, but lately I've taken up eating beets twice a day. It is my fond hope, when my body is donated to the Medical Society, that my entire digestive tract will have been dyed a lovely shade of blushing rose." The young man never returned her letter. But that was later. We're still in 1899, the year of Frederick's voyage to Canada. In 1900 he is destined to meet the Girl of His Dreams... but for now, the present-day offspring of the House of Incomprehensibility needs to sleep. 170225 ... e_o_i Resuming our story. In 1899, Frederick of Incomprehensibility sailed to Canada. The first day he was excited, full of the thrill of adventure. The second day he was not full, since he'd thrown up exactly eight times during the night. Now he lay down, sore and unable to sleep. He consoled himself with the thought that he'd never before been on a drinking binge, and here he was experiencing at least half the fun. He didn't see the Girl of His Dreams in his dreams until the third day. She stood in a blue-grey void, dressed head to toe in black, twirling a parasol. He knew immediately that she was twenty-two years old and her name was Marie de la Confusion. He was entranced by the movement of her parasol, which dripped with irregularly formed lace, like black cobwebs. Her hair was the colour of ash, her eyes soot. Somewhere beneath her skin a metaphorical fire smoldered. "You look attractively hollow-eyed and pale," she told him. The French accent smoldered behind her words. "I don't think tuberculosis is strictly trendy anymore, so I hope it's cancer. Cancer sounds so much more modern, don't you think? And it's the turn of the century." He was mesmerized by the turning of her parasol. It seemed to smolder, too. "Just seasickness," he answered. "I'm feeling better now." "Oh," she said. She sounded disappointed. "See, I'm the Angel of Death, and I was hoping for a little company. All the dead are gone. They don't stay dead, you see. They turn into birds. You look like you could stay dead for a while before your bird-turning phase." "Oh," said Frederick. He shook his head. She twirled her parasol in the void. "I don't think you're really the Angel of Death. I remember very clearly that your name was Marie de la Confusion and you were twenty-two years old." Marie looked at her feet. "It was. Now... well, my name is still Marie de la Confusion, but I'm twenty-six. I haven't updated my dream interface in four years. But did you like the bird bit? I stole that from a man in the future, another dream-hopper. Something something Marquez. But I didn't get your name at all. The dream just told me that you were sick and lonely... oh yes, and that I was going to marry you in three to four years, so it seemed like I should get to know you a bit beforehand. What's your name?" Frederick tried to talk, but he couldn't. The blue void was getting redder and redder, and soon it became evident that it was no void at all, just his closed eyes. So he opened them. And what he saw surprised him very much. 170429 what's it to you? who go blather from