Ecce VII: Nimbus Propter

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...