The City Impandemonate

Incarnadine. There ought to be more good reasons to use incarnadine in a sentence. I can't think of a single one. Shakespeare took the one legitimate usage, and hogged it all for himself:

No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.

Incarnadine, adjective: having the colour of flesh; OR bright red, blood-coloured.

Incarnadine, transitive verb: to make red (or, perhaps, simply pinkish).

I have a good word of my own. It hasn't quite the sonorous romance of an incarnadine, but it's got more letters, and the added advantage of being completely original. (Either that, or the disadvantage of being completely imaginary, and, as such, requiring several paragraphs' worth of preamble before it can even be uttered.)

The word, in any case, is impandemonate. Like incarnadine, it can be used as a verb or as an adjective. Verb first: when you impandemonate something, you fill it with a terrible hubbub. You make it resound, resonate--nay, reverberate from end to end with the clamour of a thousand demons. You kick up a racket fit to wake the dead.

As for the adjective, I'll give Shakespeare a run for his money:

No; these my ears will rather
Swift abscond the city impandemonate,
Leaving my head deformed.

That is to say, I am sore beset by noise. Some cruel conductor has churned up an awful urban symphony, worse than the usual five o'clock seagull cacophony. It did begin with gulls, now that I think of it. I started noticing them around five-thirty. I'd just come out of the shower, after a long night with my hands in a plastic bag--

--(My hands were in a plastic bag because there was a book in them, and it wasn't my book, so I couldn't get any water on it. It was a clear bag, see? So I could see. The words. Through the bag. All right? Can I carry on now?)--

--anyhow, I'd just come out of the shower. It was still quite dark, just the first inklings of blue in the sky. A few early packbawkies were testing their lungs. Tuning up for the concert, sort of thing. I ignored them, settling into the couch for a long day's sleep. I like to sleep during the days, so I can work in peace through the nights (or read in peace, of course, depending on the state of my health. It really doesn't matter what I do all night, as long as I get to do it without interruption.)

I had, at any rate, just settled down for a few hours' blessed oblivion. I'm used to the seagulls by now. I find the morning symphony almost comforting, in an irritating sort of way. Soon enough, I started to drift off. I could feel a dream creeping in, a nice one, full of calm lakes and fragrant breezes. I welcomed it, letting myself slip away.

I hope death feels this good, I thought. That was supposed to be my last thought before little dream-waves started lapping over my dream-toes, somewhere on the shores of Snow Lake.

Boom.

A boom intruded. I made an indecorous snorting noise, half-oath, half-snore. "Hhhfmt."

Boom.

"Since when did you seagulls have percussion?" I asked no-one in particular.

Boom, boom, BOOM, kraka-skssssssssh SKEEEEEEEEEEEE CRAKA KRAKA KRAKA!

"Oh. It's you." I sat up, disgusted. It was the dustmen, bruiting about in the alleyways. I'm not sure how they get the dust out of all those big skips, those Dumpsters they've got back there, but from the sounds of it, they pick 'em up with great hydraulic arms, turn 'em upside-down, let all the rubbish rattle out, then drop them on the tarmac with an infernal clatter. As I listened for the dustmen to move along, an irritating staccato started up: a jackhammer, some streets over. Soon, an electric saw joined in, then something that sounded like the world's biggest vacuum cleaner. The brass section struck up, as well, commuters' horns and police horns and foghorns over the harbour.

"Sod off!" I groaned. A devil choir rose up in response, an excursion, perhaps, from a local preschool. This is what I could hear, from my abject position beneath my pillow:

Bawk-a bawk-a bawk-a BOOM
Bawk-a bawk-a bawk-a KRAK
Bawk-a bawk-a bawk-a BOOM KRAK BOOM KRAK
BOOM KRAK BOOM KRAK BAWK BAWK BAWK!

BAWK-BAWK-TAKA-VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
BAWK-BAWK-YELP-SHIZZZZOOOOOO-SHIZZZZZZOOOOO!
BAWK-BAWK-TAKA-TAKA-YELP-YELP-KRAK!
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

It had an annoying kind of rhythm to it, as though each part of the hullabaloo was in cahoots with the rest, all joined in some vile conspiracy to ruin my nap.

Who, I thought, sniffling sadly, has impandemonated this fine morning?

Then, I got up. Shortly thereafter, I realized that "impandemonated" was not, in fact, a word. Undeterred, I decided to use it anyway, and here I am. Ah, here I am, alas, sleepless, beset! When I cover my ears, I can feel the noise, vibrating in my bones. Two words, two words I've got for Vancouver, this morning--two words, and I'll bury my head ostrich-fashion, and be heard from no more:

SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!