Saturday, May 21, 2011

The Blockade

I have had serious brain block lately. Perhaps some of you other writers out there have had similar experiences. So as it has been remarkably sunny of late, I decided to collect all of the mirrors from the house (as well as from the houses of a few of my neighbors – I’m sure they won’t mind) and piled them in my back garden in a concave assembly [con-cave, think of a cave, damp and dark and internal; con-vex, think of Lex Luther, whose head was shiny and protuberant and bulging and round and evil]. I wrapped myself in muslin from toe to neck to prevent sun blisters. I caked my face in putty and put packing tape over my glasses to avoid going blind. Then I crawled into the mirrored structure and curled up into a ball. Sun is very good for the thinking.

And here I am still, just within reach of the wi-fi. (At least I think it is our wi-fi – I don’t recall naming the network ‘Kemal’s Kebabs’.) Please forgive me any typos I may commit in this piece, for I cannot see the screen.

‘Did it work?’ you’re asking me. Ah ha ha well. Have a look:

Decomposition is one of the things that the sun does best, and I in my place have taken on this mantle, to dismantle the following compostures:

Furriers : Furriers are fur, they are people, they make things for people to put around themselves, the people, they take things off other things and put them on other other things. Furriers use fur – they make fur, fur you. Furriers = furry.

Barriers : Barriers get in the way, constantly. They are always there, or at least somewhere, trying to stop you from getting elsewhere, where you really, really want to be. Barriers have nothing to do with being buried (or interred), and quite a bit less to do with berries, be they blue, rasp or boysen. Here find a joke about a famous Barry, most likely Bond or White.

Sorcerers : Sorcerers don’t mess. They go straight to the ­_________, from whence come all of their film-ready powers.

Warriors : You know what these guys do. They are amongst the best known of mongerers. The question put forth by the sun, which is beaming, bursting blood vessels, melting everything, is: do they worry? I would worry. But this isn’t about me.

Terriers : A symbol of opposition and internal conflict, for they do not tarry one iota, the little yippy beasts.

Couriers : Delicious. These are people who deliver curries to your front door, like heaven’s guardians descending with an armload of manna. Or not. There are two types of couriers, those who cycle and those who motor, and they are very different creatures. One is lank of limb, sinewy, bare-headed, mad, wreckless; the other is bulking, padded, shielded, guarded. They sit at the front of traffic like black knights, strangling their machines into protest. They don’t like you and wouldn’t mind if you passed into the other world through their assistance. They don’t shave very often, and it is a rarity to witness a female amongst their kind, if ever it should be witnessed at all. They cloak themselves, they are heavily clad. Their actual size is indeterminate. They could be beanstalk cyclist thin. When off their steeds they hold silence, divorced from their thunder. They seek not the light. They know not the glory of the sun. They draw not from its power, nor neither know its sustenance, its beating, relentless sustenance. Its omni-powerful, all-knowing, fierce sustenance. They bring not the curry to man.

I think I am unblocked now. Can someone please help me out? I think it is very bright in here, and I could use a drink of water. The address is – uh, the address … is somewhere near Kemal’s Kebabs. Please do not tarry.

[This and more at Knits a stinK.]

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