Wednesday, January 06, 2010

Efflagitasti Convicio ut Libros

No one knew what it meant, the sign having been there hanging over the doors to the Partiznske Tenpin as long as the man in the hat could remember, perhaps longer. Some say it was put there by the kid with the engine on his leg; some that its been there since the beginning of time. And some say it’s the scribbling of a madman, a halfwit a dullard. Written on a piece of flattened cardboard hanging over the back door to the Tenpin was a sign that said: CHAPTER X: WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE. (CONT'D), those exiting through the back door seldom having cause to look up over their shoulder.

The owner of the Partiznske Tenpin Bowling Lanes had a fondness for foolish things, phrase and partial sentences being his favorites. ‘the broadloom is spectacular’ said a man trying on a pair of two-tone shoes. ‘my yes’ said a man in a beige and tan cardigan, his shoes buffed to a mirror-like sheen. ‘and to think a madman who has a fondness for foolish things owns this place’ said the man, the shoehorn jimmied into the heel of the shoe snapping in half. ‘indeed’ said the other man gazing at the shine on his shoes. (This is surely foolish; I I do admit that I I do).

He found that he repeated things, things that mattered little if they were repeated or not. The need to repeat took president over other things, things that people who didn’t repeat did once, twice if it was important. He felt the need to repeat with little or no regret for the time lost to repetition and redoing things a second and third time. Or a fourth and fifth time, which he did against his better judgment (better meaning no worse than better but no better than worse) unlike people who do things once, twice if it is important, who are in possession of superior judgment, not a better one.

The Standartenführer Karl Abel abodes in a one-room walkup bedsit above the Partiznske Tenpin. Jarmila Franciscka had an affair with the man she believed to be the man of her dreams, her eyes blinded to the truth of the matter: the matter being that the man she fell in love with was a lousy ass. Karl Abel kneaded Jarmila Franciscka into the mattress like so much Dutch pudding. The man of her dreams was a lousy ass with soot black eyes and teeth like ivory toothpicks. (I do admit I do that this is surely foolish). Hanging over the sign hanging above the door was a sign that read ‘Efflagitasti Convicio ut Libros’, and above that a sign that read ‘San Bartolommeo is a thieving crook’, and above that a wag of cowhide that read ‘De Hiragana fucks Canaries whilst Ergolding watches’.

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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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