I was walking Gee-Whee's little dog Guppy this morning (since Gee-Whee's ankle is still tangled up in fishline) around old Pond Pond. The leaves was turning on the poplars there, the sky were a shade of Fenwickian opal, and all's right with Grand Fenwick - when suddenly I noticed a stranger perched on a rock by the shore, with long black hair, and black-rimmed glasses, and trenchcoat, studying what appeared to be some sort of portable computer-gadget.

I introduced myself, and Guppy, and she said, "Oh, you must be Henry of HG Poetics. I've just been reading your blog. I'm Marion - Marion the Librarian. From River City, Iowa."

"Iowa..."

"USA. Across the ocean from here."

"USA...hmm..."

"Let's just say, from a different Broadway show. But I'm glad to meet you. I'm doing some graduate work on the poetics of schtick, and was just amazed to read Jonathan Mayhew's comment, on his blog - where he says, 'A schtick is not a poetics.' This is precisely my field. I'd like to unpack his remark, if you don't mind, & see what you think."

"Unpack..."

"Analyze."

I sat down gingerly beside Marion upon the huge puddingstone outcrop (puddingstone eruptions are rather common throughout GF, by the way - geologically speaking, of course).

"Marion, I'm all ears."

TO BE CONTINUED