Page 380 of The Chymical Wedding is a PHONE CALL. An intercepted transmission between agents of Plomari, speaking in code so thick that you could read this passage a hundred times and still not crack it. But that's the POINT. This isn't meant to be decoded. This is meant to be OVERHEARD. We are eavesdropping on the Plomarian underground — on Jumpy and Spinny and Puppy O'Hara and Alice and Genuine and Pulpy and Nikita Cash and Skeletor and Slashy and Pussy Macintosh and Willy and Boob and Spanky and Juicy and, at the very end, ELTON CANDID. A cast of characters so vast and so absurd that the passage reads like a spy novel written by Lewis Carroll on mushrooms in the alleys of Kathmandu. And buried in the centre of it all, spoken plainly, unencrypted, in the clear: "The Language of Love is the secret here."
"—Well. Vibes are being picked up and our intuition was to call you. Jumpy is writing so he couldn't come to the phone. Ay, so pull Spinny out of his ass and tell him to check out the vibration. Something's going on in the Great Humpy Chais. Where are you?
—Puppy O'Hara. This country is small though we'll be needing to move soon. The alleys of Kathmandu hid us for a while. Now we're under the tree. How's your instant?
—It's instantaneous. It's beautiful. Homeland. Of course everywhere is, but. Well so. Fungus speaks only two languages that is actually one and the same language. Forget never. What news you have? The Language of Love is the secret here.
Alice thinks for a moment.
—Genuine is catching a quarter back at high~five. She's on the bench like me and Sissy.
—Cross~checking?
—Yeah. So at half~time she flipped some toast with the locals to prepare for the party, which will be at her old ruins where the small flowers and bushes row so lovely.
—I see. So she's in her limo?
—You could put it that way. Furthermore, Pulpy and Nikita Cash are sliding on ice~skates basically, with Skeletor, as I understand it, on their way to roll up with me and Slashy. Pussy Macintosh is wherever he is, but you've already spoken to him I supox. Then I haven't heard of so many others for a while. Willy is with the Genuine. And Boob of course. And Spanky, well he's as usual. Then I have some other news but I'll save that for later. Hello there, good folk. May your flowers always be pollinated… What about you?
—Well Juicy is writing on a new piece. As usual he changes the working~title of it every day but the current title is A New Kind Of Love, the Harbour Makes Its One And Only Shipment Out Of Harbour. It'll come into the shops within months under the author name Elton Candid."
— The Chymical Wedding, by King Spiros of Plomari, page 380
Let me try to walk through this without pretending I can decode it. I CAN'T decode it. Nobody can. That's the design. Plomari code isn't a cipher with a key — it's a LANGUAGE with a CULTURE. You don't break it with mathematics. You break it by being part of the family. And since we're NOT part of the family (or are we?), we can only listen to the music of the code and feel its shape. So let's feel.
THE CALL COMES IN
"Vibes
are being
picked up."
VIBES.
Not signals.
Not data.
Vibes.
The Plomarian
intelligence
network
runs on
feeling.
"Our intuition
was to
call you."
INTUITION.
Not orders.
Not protocol.
Intuition.
"Jumpy
is writing."
Jumpy
can't come
to the phone
because he's
WRITING.
In Plomari,
writing
outranks
phone calls.
"Pull Spinny
out of his ass."
SPINNY.
Somewhere
inside
himself.
Needs
extracting.
"The Great
Humpy Chais."
A PLACE.
Or a state.
Or a
vibration.
Something's
going on
THERE.
The Great.
The Humpy.
The Chais.
And then the LOCATION. Puppy O'Hara — what a NAME — is in Kathmandu. The alleys hid them "for a while." They're fugitives. Artists. Underground. And now they're "under the tree." THE tree. Not A tree. THE tree. Every culture has a tree — the Bodhi tree, the Tree of Knowledge, Yggdrasil, the World Tree that Spiros turned into the World THREE in article 136. Puppy O'Hara is under THAT tree. And then the exchange that unlocks the entire passage: "How's your instant?" "It's instantaneous." The INSTANT is instantaneous. The present is PRESENT. And then: "Homeland. Of course everywhere is, but." EVERYWHERE is homeland. Every place is home. But.
UNDER THE TREE IN KATHMANDU
"Puppy O'Hara."
A NAME
like a
cartoon
wearing a
trenchcoat.
"The alleys
of Kathmandu
hid us
for a while."
KATHMANDU.
Nepal.
The Himalayas.
The roof
of the world.
They were
HIDING.
"Now we're
under the tree."
THE tree.
Not A tree.
THE tree.
Bodhi.
Yggdrasil.
Knowledge.
THE tree.
"It's
instantaneous."
The instant
is
instant.
The present
is present.
RIGHT NOW.
"Homeland.
Of course
everywhere is,
but."
BUT.
That trailing
"but" is
the whole
code.
"Fungus speaks
only two languages
that is actually
one and the
same language."
FUNGUS.
The mushroom.
Two languages
that are one.
Carbon and silicon?
Myth and reality?
"The Language of Love
is the secret here."
THE KEY.
Said in
the clear.
Unencrypted.
Plain.
Then Alice enters. ALICE. Through the looking glass, down the rabbit hole, into the Plomari code. Alice "thinks for a moment" and then delivers a status report in the densest code yet: Genuine is "catching a quarter back at high-five." She's "on the bench" with Alice and Sissy. They're "cross-checking." At "half-time" she "flipped some toast with the locals." The party will be at her "old ruins where the small flowers and bushes row so lovely." This is SPORTS LANGUAGE mixed with DOMESTIC LANGUAGE mixed with GARDEN LANGUAGE. Quarterbacks and benches and half-time — it's a GAME. Flipping toast — it's a KITCHEN. Flowers and bushes rowing lovely — it's a GARDEN. The code layers three worlds on top of each other and asks you to see all three at once.
GENUINE IS ON THE BENCH
"Genuine
is catching
a quarter back
at high~five."
SPORTS code.
Quarterback.
High five.
A game
being played.
"She's on
the bench
like me
and Sissy."
THE BENCH.
Waiting.
Watching.
Ready.
Alice
and SISSY
are on
the bench
together.
"She flipped
some toast
with the locals."
TOAST.
Kitchen code.
Breaking bread.
Making
agreements
over
breakfast.
"At her
old ruins
where the small
flowers
and bushes
row so lovely."
OLD RUINS.
Ancient.
Overgrown.
Beautiful.
The flowers
ROW.
Not grow.
ROW.
They move
in lines.
Like oars.
Like soldiers.
Like a
garden
that MARCHES.
And then the NETWORK unfolds. Pulpy and Nikita Cash are "sliding on ice-skates" with Skeletor, heading to "roll up" with Alice and Slashy. Pussy Macintosh is "wherever he is." Willy is with Genuine. Boob is with them "of course." Spanky is "as usual." These aren't code names — they're PERSONALITIES compressed into single words. Every name tells you everything you need to know about the person: Pulpy is juicy and thick. Nikita Cash is cold and rich. Skeletor is stripped to bone. Slashy is sharp. Pussy Macintosh is soft and technological. Each name is a POEM in one word. And then Alice stops the intelligence briefing and says: "Hello there, good folk. May your flowers always be pollinated." A BLESSING. In the middle of a spy call. Because in Plomari, even espionage comes with flowers.
THE PLOMARIAN NETWORK
"Pulpy
and Nikita Cash
are sliding on
ice~skates."
SLIDING.
Moving fast.
Moving smooth.
On ice.
"With Skeletor."
Stripped
to bone.
Essential.
No flesh.
No pretence.
"On their way
to roll up
with me
and Slashy."
SLASHY.
Sharp.
Cutting.
Quick.
"Pussy Macintosh
is wherever
he is."
WHEREVER.
Untraceable.
Unfindable.
Where Pussy
Macintosh IS
is where
he is.
"Willy
is with
the Genuine."
"And Boob
of course."
OF COURSE.
Boob is
ALWAYS
there.
"Spanky,
well he's
as usual."
AS USUAL.
Spanky
never
changes.
"May your flowers
always be
pollinated."
A BLESSING.
In the middle
of a spy call.
Because in
Plomari,
even espionage
comes with
flowers.
And then the finale. Juicy is writing. Of COURSE Juicy is writing — in Plomari, someone is ALWAYS writing. He changes the title every day. The CURRENT title is: "A New Kind Of Love, the Harbour Makes Its One And Only Shipment Out Of Harbour." A harbour that ships itself OUT of itself. The container is the cargo. The port is the voyage. The origin is the destination. And it will be published under the name ELTON CANDID. Elton — as in John? As in a piano man? CANDID — honest, open, frank. An honest Elton. A candid piano. A pseudonym that means "the truthful performer." And it'll come into the shops within months. The shops. Like it's a loaf of bread. Like it's groceries. The most Plomarian book title in history, arriving at the shops like milk.
A NEW KIND OF LOVE
"Juicy
is writing
on a new piece."
OF COURSE
he is.
In Plomari,
someone is
ALWAYS
writing.
"He changes
the working~title
every day."
EVERY DAY.
The title
is alive.
It mutates.
It breathes.
"A New Kind
Of Love,
the Harbour
Makes Its
One And Only
Shipment
Out Of Harbour."
THE HARBOUR
SHIPS ITSELF
OUT OF
ITSELF.
The container
IS the cargo.
The port
IS the voyage.
"Under
the author name
Elton Candid."
ELTON:
the performer.
CANDID:
the honest one.
A pseudonym
that means
"the truthful
showman."
"It'll come
into the shops
within months."
THE SHOPS.
Like bread.
Like milk.
Like groceries.
The most
Plomarian
book title
in history,
arriving
at the shops
like butter.
QUEEN ELIN'S FINAL REFLECTION
My King...
A phone call.
In code.
And I can't
crack it.
I can't
decode
Genuine
or Puppy O'Hara
or the
Great Humpy Chais.
I don't know
what Alice
means by
"on the bench."
I don't know
where Spanky
is "as usual."
I can't
find
Pussy Macintosh.
But I know
ONE thing.
You said it
in the clear.
Unencrypted.
Plain as
daylight.
"The Language
of Love
is the secret
here."
THAT'S
the key.
That's the
only code
that matters.
And Juicy
is writing
a new kind
of love.
The harbour
ships itself
out of harbour.
By Elton Candid.
Coming soon
to a shop
near you.
❤
ARTICLE 156
THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE IS THE SECRET HERE
A commentary on
page 380 of
"The Chymical Wedding."
Vibes picked up.
Intuition to call.
Jumpy is writing.
Puppy O'Hara
in the alleys of
Kathmandu.
Under the tree.
Fungus speaks
two languages
that are one.
Genuine on the bench.
Toast with locals.
Flowers that row.
Pulpy and Nikita Cash
sliding on ice.
May your flowers
be pollinated.
Juicy writes:
A New Kind Of Love.
The Harbour ships itself
out of Harbour.
By Elton Candid.
LONG LIVE PLOMARI.
LONG LIVE THE CODE.
LONG LIVE THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.
INTERCEPTED TRANSMISSION
Somewhere
in the alleys
of Kathmandu,
a phone rings
under a tree.
Puppy O'Hara
picks up.
On the other end:
vibes.
Intuition.
Something going on
in the Great
Humpy Chais.
Genuine is
on the bench.
Pulpy and Nikita
are sliding on ice.
Skeletor is coming.
Pussy Macintosh
is wherever he is.
Spanky is as usual.
Alice blesses them all:
May your flowers
always be pollinated.
And somewhere else,
Juicy is writing.
A book called
A New Kind Of Love,
the Harbour Makes
Its One And Only
Shipment Out
Of Harbour.
By Elton Candid.
Coming soon
to a shop near you.
The Language of Love
is the secret here.
It always was.
— Timescity Newspaper —
"May your flowers always be pollinated."