28 sept. 2010

It would be a bit like this...

This is painful in itself, it is. This walkin’ about, lookin' fer shade among the trees. It tires ya to rest. It tires ya to scratch yer head and feel a little bit older, life taken through the scope of a tele(phone) or micro(wave) on most occasions. I’ve gotten pretty used to it, fathom. But the pain is none the less. The pain it like seeps in, and stays in yer leg muscles and such, squeezing. Ya suddenly lose the blood in yer fingers; ya find yerself pressin 'em to feel they’re there. There there, this is the place where ya come to deteriorate, choosin un-life or un-choosin life as any person of spleen ought.

Salamander looks at the cherries, looks at the bird feathers, dreamlike. Salamander remembers a home but much further, further up the hill. Hills called mountains, mountains called ocean waves and ocean waves called sky, called stars called fire called creation. He flies off like a rabbit.

Three girls: Violet, Scarlet, and Amber. Combing their hair above the reflecting pool yonder. Amber combs her own, while looking at Scarlet, who looks at Violet looking at Amber. Amber’s hair is coral, swaying happily amidst salty breezes, glad of spongy qualities, vibrant. Violet has tufts and stalks of hair, solid seeming, glossy. She twists and bends the strands. Scarlet’s hair is wheat like the sun, it shines on morning to confound her zeal. She combs with her fingers, and they float lightly, like sails.

Three girls in a village tower: Consuelo, Amparo, and Soledad. Knitting in black darkness. Knitting in stale and absent light. Eyes of men peeking through the crooked windows, glistening amethyst. When you take plans from underneath their skirts, they feel the loss of lover’s seasons, they almost stumble from the dizziness of not understanding what their lives are about now. Plans, just seeds of time, they grow prematurely inside them. Only content when knitting plans, smile stiffly when they come, grow impatient and poke their fingers with the needles, silently. They bleed, a little. Bit and bits and bites along their nail lines. Again they knit, again they skit. A bit, a bit.

A couple of couple of couple of couples walk up and down rolling hills, screaming at each other “Who the hell did I marry!?” every time they reach the top. If they ever reach the curling end, they will reach the field of bubbles, the funniest place in the land, where each person rolls inside their gelatinous chamber, a distorted reality now a necessity.

Arguing atop the trees, innocence and disillusion sometimes stop to split a wishbone.

Blind bees around abandoned hives flowing with honey buzz “Fiction! Fiction!”, and some stray rebellious ones can be heard to buzz “Fickle!” or “First!”

Sparks of Notions are enough to illuminate the offices of twenty-five accountants who calculate Dimensions, rapt withal.

The doctor and the filmmaker. Going to the beach for oysters? The doctor starts believing in God, and starts drinking. The filmmaker is never successful: lives off aspirations, can only see attitudes; no prominence, no one telling him he looks beautiful tonight, with a kiss. The doctor is hungry for truth, the filmmaker is thirsty for eloquence.

Ya thought the dream was easy, but it is painful in itself, ya see. Nowhere to turn, no buttons even on yer shirt. Ye’re in the filmmaker’s dream now, ya see? That creepin ache is wine, replacin blood. Ya can call me Doc, I know what's good for ya, old chap. Hic!* Just don't wake up, ya hear? First things first. Things first.

So, can ya show me where it hurts?

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