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Ave, et cetera,
I haven't time for a preamble because various financial institutions are bidding furiously for my genitalia.
I am seated on a high stool in the centre of a vast, candle-lit hall
and, contrary to custom I am in fact surrounded by my bidders. The man
with the hammer, switching like a drunk phantom between Latin and
Aramaic, is losing his patience with an audience intent on inspecting
the items for sale, despite knowing one and all that they are offered
sight unseen. His job has been made all the harder by the conspicuous
defection of the security staff; an opportunity made golden by a
swarthy Maltese crook selling tickets on the door. The crook, wholly
unscrupulous even as a child, has allowed a great crowd to further fill
the hall, so that it seems to heave, like a sinking city.
From my
illuminated perch I peer into this damp, steaming mass, this
schadenfreude mob. There are bankers, tarts, low-level gangsters,
members of Parliament (many with illicit lovers), a rare breed of
flightless bird, Japanese tourists in tartan skirts and prim heels, a
shepherd, with flock, members of the clergy, countless shoeless
urchins, at least three vagabonds, a stray mule, a bearded lady and her
husband (a clown), widows, orphans, drunks, an East German shotputter,
a mousy, dark-featured Czechoslovakian bank clerk and, at the very
front, astride the neck of a pin-head Breton giant, a little girl
clutching a limbless teddy bear. I can't take my eyes off her! Her
hair, like autumn gusts fixing for a storm! Her eyes: Scrutiny to the
left - Scorn on the right! And that POUT! That stale-biscuit-for-supper
pout!!!!
AGGHHHH! That was me! That child was me, May God Damn Me! Drag
me out of here!
I sit. Waiting for order: A model of cross-legged, faintly amused
resignation. By my side stands an enormous Centurion with a battered
face and eyes that once shone with adventure. Earlier he had recourse
to beat me across the back with a switch before crushing my head with
not even his whole hand. It was his duty and I both pity and forgive
him this..... heard this somewhere before...hmmmn... cArEful My boY!!
How I have found myself in this unenviable situation is perhaps too
long a story to be recounted here. You are all busy people, with your
jobs, your projects and doomed love affairs and surely haven't the time
to listen to my surreal woes.
I can only ask myself, ‘how did it ever
get to this?' But then perhaps you do not care. Perhaps you are feeling
a secret glee, your collective backside numbed by the edge of the
scorching stone seats of this arena I have come to know as a living
Hell.
And these the words of a retired Bartender. It has been far worse, in
the imagined past. I suppose I should be ashamed of myself. Maybe
later. And so, at once it appears that this is no longer an auction.
No, that was a just a cheap stall on my part, to fill the gallery with
characters from my twisted subconscious, and, naturally, to get your
attention. This is now a courtroom (albeit pre-electric): Those members
of various financial institutions are now the jury (all they did was
swap seats - what a fraudulent affair!) and the man with the hammer is
now a man with the gavel. Who knows? Maybe they are one and the same!
After all, the white gown, the stylish caligulae, his faithful hound
and morose demeanour are a give away.
My lawyer, dressed as I (tattered
robe, babouches, open-faced touareg scarf) is none other than The Good
Woman of Szechuan, alas, in disguise but out of character.
Yes, it seems that I am on trial for my ‘Lifestyle' and the Persecutor,
one Gabriele D'Annunzio, is reaching the crescendo of a trademark
opening statement (allying shameful hypocracy with a realist lyrical
tone) based solely upon my ‘sartorial arrogance' and the arc of my
brow. The angle of which he has deemed, ‘Unpatriotic.' Applause.... Ho
Hum. It requires great patience and fortitude to calmly allow a man to
damn ones interpretation of Free Will. I'd love to pull the curtain
back on his grubby little world but then I cannot, can I? Apart from
being long dead, he is also a member of the Bar, a Chief Persecutor,
and my role is that of Conveniently Accused. But I shall not be humble,
nor
be afraid. I shall wait for these absurd proceedings to draw to their
certain end before making a scathing mockery of this Mickey Mouse
trial, one that will have the audience in hysterical uproar and, God
willing, allow a chance of daring escape!
As these thoughts of revenge and glory waft by a fight breaks out
within the pulsing mass behind my stool. The judge screams, choking for
order but bets are already being taken by, yes, an ageing mandarin
dwarf with bad teeth. "20 on the mongoose! 30! 50!" No one has bet on
the towering black cobra with the malocchio hood. He sways, confident,
poised, while the mongoose showboats for the crowd. If I were not on
trial, perhaps...
In the meantime I meditate, saving my strength for the Big Push. In the
meantime I imagine also the Persecutor's greying nostril hair as
intelligent autonomous tentacles, feeling (and I suppose monitoring?)
the effects of the fear that this hilarious charlatan inspires in the
crowd as he declaims, on and on. I must imagine these tentacles
operating 'independently yet in harmony' with his pickled aristocratic
proboscis - the harmony of small bird to alligator. I must do this
because I claim my right to, in the name of Free Will. Why not, after
all?
Why not? WHY NOT? Silly Child! Because you have left your door ajar,
unlocked. Indeed, you have left it fragile at the hinge. Because you
are poor! BECAUSE THEY THINK THAT THEY HAVE YOU NOW!
Hahaha! Ahahaha! HAH! HAHAHA! AGH! HAHAHAH! Hmmmn...
Doubtless I will be charged with conduct unbefitting some such social
whatsit and sentenced accordingly. Mea Culpa, as always. Excuse me, the
clouds gather. I have soup on the stove and a quantity of water to turn
into wine. Wish me luck.
Ita me Deus ament, et cetera...
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answers arrive without having to ask. Smallest clues emerge from the cracks and forgotten drawers, in the ink you accidentally spill, from the corner of the eye, in the nervously rustling trees.
a lady must have a beard, &I know your name now..