foreword first
gargle |ˈgärgəl|
verb [ intrans. ]
wash one’s mouth and throat with a liquid kept in motion by exhaling through it : instruct patients to gargle with warm water.
noun
an act or instance or the sound of gargling : a swig and gargle of mouthwash.
• [usu. in sing. ] a liquid used for gargling.
ORIGIN early 16th cent.: from French gargouiller ‘gurgle, bubble,’ from gargouille ‘throat’ (see gargoyle ).
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preface next
this is an experimental attempt in bringing to light certain stories, lost through the quicksands of, the wretch, time, in the life of the above un-mentioned one mr. mongoose. it deals with certain country-side happenings of an era long gone by or so it may seem to the more recent livers. all the stories are real only as much as they might seem to be and are subject to exaggeration of the story teller mr. mongoose, his memories, the memories of the characters who rendered these in the first place to mr. mongoose (who also, graciously make sporadic or sporadically make gracious, appearances in many of these stories themselves), and so on and so forth, and of course, me.
gargling has always been a shady process, much like most things really, including life. neither in nor out, neither the satisfaction of ingestion, nor the inappropriateness/relief of a true spit. hidden. the middle ground so to say in a sense. a non-judgmental process during its life cycle for about half a minute in its lukewarm salt-watery form among a few others.
possible relations – gaggles and garbles.
mr. mongoose. a weird trail. gargle, gaggle, geese, goose, monday, mongoose.
the light shedding sequence is now complete and what follows are some exaggerated ordinary (aka extraordinary) tales.
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and the prologue third
animated dreams filled his early mornings. the lack of uninhibited actions irked him. delayed silences and decaying ideologies were making a misfit out of him. helped by a few scars, indelible now, he was beginning to re think his strategy of the well thought out sketch. not just the supreme purveyor but he himself was at the brink of an epic laff-out-loud session at how things had panned out. perhaps it was to do with the balcony of the apartment he was in when ten. or was it the influence of an epiphanic night of donald duckk and numerical mathematics? of course he could never be right. he could just about be there, but never be there yet. clenched buttocks and all that. he liked making random associations of such kind.
he had needed an unmistakable riff through the span. for that, he either required a locus or needed to be one. either were farcrys and that was his current predicament. a quintessential pyrotactician, he often sought to lean towards uncalled for dramatics in his daily dealings, more out of the frustration that none occurred on its own, rather than the satisfaction in the belief that everything was indeed peaceful. a man of few words and women, he liked to dream of a world otherwise.
just how the rohirrim had arrived at last, everything would change now.
mister J’s flight path took a shit-twitch (the nolan kicker in more understandable terms), and he crash landed with wide open eyes. the espresso machine set about, and a ten seconds later, his shot of black beauty was up and steaming all set to kick him into another droneday. ladies and gentlemen welcome aboard to the gargled dealings of mr. mongoose.
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