Once upon a time, I traveled deep into the winter Sierra, with the woman who would one day become the mother of the award-winning deviant. At a fair time before the award-winning deviant manifested herself in Consensus Reality.
Upon a turn, we encountered a wondrous natural display. In which falling water, passing over a tumbling rock face, had hardened into a freeze, forming marvelous, and marvelously extended, icicles. Feet—unto 
twelve or fourteen feet—these icicles extended.
We stopped the car, and wandered out of it, to view this wonderment up close. The wonderment beautiful. Awe-inspiring. Bold. Expressive. A reason to be.
Because even then I was preparing for Ala, preparing to be “my next boyfriend will have a box camera,” I brought then forth from the car a camera. To capture. The water in freeze.
This I did.
And after this photographic capturing was complete, my then-lover strode boldly forth, placed herself before the icicles, lifted up her shirt, exposed to the frozen water her naked breasts, and challenged: “Top this.”
Of course, at this moment, they, the icicles, utterly lost.
They were a natural wonderment, true; but so too, were this woman’s breasts. The icicles were transitory; so too, I suppose, this woman’s breasts—but not for many and many more a moon. They were hard and cold, these icicles; this woman’s breasts, soft and warm.
In every way, through her challenge, this woman had won. She was, as my brother used to say, “the wiener.”
Was it my imagination, that the icicles, upon receiving the challenge of this woman’s breasts, seemed visibly to sag, to begin to drip more profusely, even morosely?
As Arlo Guthrie used to say, “I told you that story, to tell you this one.”
For something like that is today going on here, on the grounds of the Manor. Of which ye shall learn, if ye but travel beyond the “furthur.”
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