Sunday, March 21, 2010

Amor e Iturbe

Juan Cortés de Campo, stately and plump, met the Marqués de Valdegamas under the butcher’s awning next to the Dogman Deli. Don Torcuato, standing beneath King Olaf’s shadow exclaimed ‘O, begor, I want no expert nursis symaphy from yours broons quadroons and I can psoakoonaloose myself any time I want (the fog follow you all) without your interferences or any other pigeonstealer’. ‘thing’s are getting crazy round here’ shouted Don Torcuato, de Campo and de Valdegamas giving him the once over. ‘wait’ said the legless man, Juan Cortés and Marqués turning, Don Torcuato crouching in the shadows ‘this is only the beginning… it gets worse’. At that moment a dog pawning up the street stopped, raised its flea-bitten leg and pissed all over the flowerbox in front of the Dogman Deli. ‘see?’ said the legless man. Having relieved itself the dog moved on, its legs wet with piss. ‘not that I care’ said the legless man, all three men staring at him blankly, ‘but sure makes a man think don’t it?’ Arteaga Enrique Valparaiso met Amor e Iturbe behind the coxswain’s cabin. Writhing, legs mended together, they made love well into the night, her skirts cinched round the thicket of her hips.

Everything can be reduced to equal parts. “"If I had money," said the page, "I would ask senor ape what will happen to me in the peregrination I am making."” (Cervantes). The puppet-showman met Don Quixote after the strangling of the Moor; Santo and Master Pedro standing a-flank the gluey mare. Now stop that now! I can’t take it any more! He thought and thought until the thought of thinking made him sick to his stomach. Sometimes when he thought he thought that he would think until he was all out of thoughts; other times he thought until thinking itself became the thought of thinking, everything he thought he thought turning out to be a thought about thinking about a thought he would never have or think. He thought like a machine with wheels and levers, cogs and dials, but no on or off button. ‘who in they’re right mind would think such thoughts?’ he thought to himself. ‘I mean really, who!’ I mean really who thinks such thoughts, really I mean who? Lela fell into bed, the moonlight flickering in through the open window. Lela slept curled in a ball, her head cradled in the fleshy sloop of her chest.

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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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