Thursday, October 09, 2008

Sunday Scribbling #132: Lost in Space


History 230: Hadrian’s Villa: Tivoli and Beyond

Mr. Pencil Supply Company sat in the blue isles of McCullough Avenue, rattling the cages of serial commodities, evaluating the NASDAQ empires of fun to be had at the Greek Funstival, opting for neo-conservative liquidity in the dying daze of communal warfare. The tributaries of his lust swarmed the figurative Guineveres of marsupial podcasts, envying the water lilies, aspiring to Forms 183-B and Dissipations 196 and 197-F.

“I’ve breathed my last,” said the stiffneck, his Eberhard Fabers at half mast. He’d muscled his shoals one time too many, for rich or for poor, in sickness and in health. He took comfort in the fact, presumed apocryphal but indeed not in the least, that Henry David had spent large parts of unsurveyed summers deep in the heart of Teutonic graphite technology. He’d withered in the end, as likely to cut a stick as fill a barge, but the sentiment was there, there might as well have been an “& Bros.” shingle, had brother survived the dismal winters that would eventually claim them all, HD in the faltering bloom of now eleven years the junior of the pea-brained executive wailing in the middle of 5 o’clock rush hour traffic. No Armadillo World Headquarters to dispense wisdom of the ages or even the sound-bite of a Pearl longneck in swamp-locket sweat.

“I came because I was axed,” Cyril breathed in stentorian monochrome: fervent cheese maker, liberal democrat, calibrated sensualist in these the fading days of the artesian west. He’d climbed into the beds of the Stephen F. Austin women twins, the abattoir of next to nothing you would that I didn’t.

Mr. Pencil Supply Company was having none of it. Sisal was not his cup of tea, violins were not his drug of choice. He felt he’d seen the last of casual percolation, and he was not about to sin for the better. That edge cut too deep, and the cost/benefits were loaded solidly in favor of the latter.

“Nod, if you must.” This from his mother, a wedding bell beeline, seminarian licensed to kill, Beethoven Hall debutante, sequestered since ’79 in the back hollows of the King William, a projection dimmed by fading headlights and occasional transmission. Mi Tierra at two in the morning, breasts in detailed inventory through rummy haze and titular scheming, these were the lemmings of all our ancient lusts, and those were the subliminal checks and balances of an account long overdue. You fought for the window seat, but you never cried foul, never gave the signal.

“I’m a Beauregard,” she said once, hoping it would stick, but never sure of the effect. You might think berets and absinthe and calendrical yearnings for boozy teen Rimbauds, but the truth was lost in Abyssinia, severed hands, severed tongues, severed hearts of the very matters most not on your mind. Those were Gemini days, when anything could happen, and absolutely nothing would. We prayed for rain; rain was beyond repair.

“Kisses, then.” The last thing you’d expect from Mr. Pencil Supply Company, in the stormy surge beyond the Conrad Gesners of Borrowdale, in the fiftieth parallels of curricular wit. Cancel the subscription, animate the fuse, embezzle the fiefdom, generate the mesmerism that entails the each and every last you ever hoped for.

“I will not desist.”

“I will loom in the mist.”

“I will expedite the very last syllable of youth’s crazy bliss. Finally, enviably, charismatically, reverentially, with hope of prism or capital. The rest is yours, and I am forever lost in your midst.”

The prismatics, the optics, the barometrics, the geriatrics of embryogony—find your persistence and fire at will. Only time takes down the willow.

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20 Comments:

Blogger jsd said...

so very well written - but i find tonight i'm too tired to understand it all

7:01 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

You and me both, jsd. Savor those leaves!

7:54 PM  
Blogger Stan Ski said...

History is not necessarily the past - because of its contribution to the future.

9:10 PM  
Blogger anthonynorth said...

Not totally sure what was going on there, but I DID enjoy it.
An excellent imagination at work, I think.

5:05 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Stan: Nor is the future necessarily the future, eh? Thanks for the visit again.

Anthony: Thanks for the visit and the temporary suspension of disbelief. All an absurdist / surrealist prose poet can ask for.

5:18 AM  
Blogger bass said...

your happy mirth
and folly,free
for dreams
upon my pillow,
such give me cause
to speculate
my pencil's lead,
not willow.

9:23 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Bass: As all pencils' leads should be, so should dreams be folly/free. Apt, too, (in a periodic chart sort of way) that me initials are pb.

9:57 AM  
Blogger Devil Mood said...

*takes out her dictionary*

....

I enjoyed a few parts, parts that made some sense to me. Oh but this is supposed to be absurd and abstract - I'm reading it now on the comments.

Oh yes, then it worked fine :)

7:06 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Devilish One: You know me by now: sense is the LAST thing to be looking for.

Good to have you back.

10:50 PM  
Blogger alister said...

Skip a beat. Beat a stick on a barge. Charge large tributaries a buck a mile or more. Bore holes in conservative beds and fill them with lead. Head west and sequester pea-brained executives in the bog of a faltering bloom. Loom like a NASDAQ podcast forecasting doom and rain, broken rain. Stain the name of lust, even, with boozy kisses in the mist of a stormy surge. Converge at nonsense. Nod if you must. The rest is yours.
missalister

12:26 AM  
Blogger B. Roan said...

I enjoyed reading this incredibly creative piece. BJ

8:23 AM  
Blogger tumblewords said...

Wildly creative and a depthful read!

8:22 PM  
Blogger Marty E. said...

Sorry dude...you lost me in the first paragraph...

8:37 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Ms A: Following your nifty rhyme scheme, I believe this will do: Regents of the mod. Nod if you must. Lust will have its way. Disarray coalesced. The rest is yours: (shifting now) veterans of more than wars.

To the readers: Ms A asks that I amend that "lead" in the "Bore holes" sentence to "pencil lead." Lovely subversive linguist she may be, but she ain't no anarchist.

Glad I was awake enuff to catch the rhyme scheme, Lady A.

7:09 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

BJ: Thank you. Funny what a drive around downtown Tres Leches will do. Have many years have I driven by the Mr. Pencil Supply Company pencil sign and not seen it?

Tumblewords: Thanks for taking the tumble.

7:13 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Marty E: It happens, dude, and the trap door's in the third paragraph. Beware.

7:14 AM  
Blogger San said...

Another surging collage of current events. Or suggestions of current events. Or events as suggested by currents in the cup of sisal.

O the prismatics!
O the optics!
O the barometrics!
O the geriatrics (of embryogony)!

Mr. Pencil Supply Company reminds me of Eraser Head. You?

3:19 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

O San! I think all of the above. And the McCullough Avenue Mr. PSC was wandering could easily have been straight Lynchian, out of E-Head or Twin Peaks.

"It's a strange world, San-(dy)." Wait: that's Blue Velvet.

The nerve of them Longhorns to leap over the Tide. It won't last long.

Roll Tide.

4:31 PM  
Blogger alister said...

The bullet may have missed the mattress, but I think I feel something in my foot. Ah well, as long as it didn’t hit Mr. Higginson :-)

7:36 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Ms A / Dear Em: The neo-elefanten are sleeping soundly; Mr. Higginson will see them through their unsavories. They should be down for a long long winter's nap.

10:16 PM  

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