Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Molaño de Salamanca

‘if the sky doesn’t fall tomorrow I’ll take a stroll over to Middletown to see the new jakes… I hear tell its got a sparkling glass seat’. Long before it was unpopular he was reading books about magic and alchemy, folios and scholarly texts on miming and unconscious reasoning; he read until his eyes bled and his nose ran, he read and reread until he couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers, he read upon waking and upon retiring to bed, reading in between appointments and school trips. He was well into his thirties before he realized that all that reading had given him eyesore eyes, his eyelids twig-brittle from salty night-sweats and uncontrollable blinking. ‘nonetheless even should the sky fall tomorrow I will still make my way west to Middletown, stopping only to refresh my memory and slake my thirst’. Whenever he recalled these times he couldn’t help but laugh; all those wasted hours jacking the ball and counting to one-thousand backwards, measly matters of choice and crap reasoning. He’d much rather have spent his time eating warm jammy tarts or spotting turtles with an upturned rake.

(You might ask why, why so many characters, so many troubles, so much confusion and madness? Because I can and I must, and nothing more nor less will do).

Having no legs the legless man had no need for shoes or boots, his stump-ends well cared for with reason and cheesecloth bunting. On the other hand the alms man suffered from podiatric dystopia, both feet pointing in the same direction, to the left, and corns the size of plums. Sometimes reason can indeed be very unreasonable. Molaño de Salamanca shoed his oxen and set out for Borgomanero y Lombardia, Castilla the fool close on his heels. Castilla would rather be at the heel of a fishcart eating warm jammy tarts or spotting turtles with an upturned rake, anything but in the service and company of Molaño de Salamanca. Molaño de Salamanca and his abet Castilla were never seen or heard from again, Borgomanero y Lombardia enveloping them into her flatbone ivory bodice.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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