Tonight, Yesterday & Some Night to Come
He lives with ephemeral creatures under his feet and creatures over his head. A case in point: his thoughts diverting his elbow’s skin and the rubbing of tender footing. Sycamores make wide arm imprecations and water themselves with wines of every variety and delectation. His ambition is drained in a scruff of the neck twist, a meager remembrance of his days spent in a robe. His teeth are chattering and he’s taking an apprenticeship as a goldsmith and forge master.
“Fou!” says the Past, inserting its finger in god knows what? The lapis of Transducea?
He slogs, knee deep, in hummingbird angles, all tenuous and blur-fast. Before him shine the bones of the pitiable Condor of Shiva. Is he comforted by this knowledge that the afflatus was hard won — speaking in tongues while wearing the cloaks of invisibility? His body is taught with a dab of holy pedantry.
She heard clacking coming from the road and felt the wheel shudder to the sound of the clacking. Was there a compromised tire up front? What was making that sound? She felt the wheel shake a bit and she pulled over. The car thermometer read 98 degrees and the empty road shimmered in the distance. This is not something she could afford to do, to leave the safety of the car and expose herself to the environment or to potential marauders in wait.
You can intuit Inuit involvement in emoluments and interpretations of the imprecations indivisible by invisible increments…
And you say, “Wha?!”
To which I respond, “wa, wa, wa, wa… dirty water, dirty water… toilet bowl drinker in an age of intercepted illusions of individual freedoms. None of that for you. You drink from the toilet if you want succor.”
“I prefer succotash,” you say.
“I eat stucco at 3:30 every afternoon without fail,” she says.
I say, imperiously, (for afterall I am emperor) that “the only thing to be is the emperor of ice cream.” I trance. “Stevens,” I add.
I walk out the room, with millions of people watching her on their television screens, without the slightest knowledge of antipodal politics or wombat love.
“Wombat love!” he cries.
I was later told, that at that very instant, you arose and turned off your television wondering where had all the good times gone.
“Use your head, can’t you, use your head. You’re on earth, there’s no cure for that!”
— Samuel Beckett / Endgame