Lola, el papagayo contento

The Curious Fledgling

Thryothorus ludovicianus

Le dire est autre chose que le faire

“Where the hell was it?
On Ponce, near the Kro-Zhay maybe. Walking from one place to another. The Clermont? The Concourse? Don’t remember, but it was after a gig or show.

But it was on Ponce. Late. Dangerous, in other words. You do not stop and open your purse to the first lowlife who stumbles within ten feet of you. That man is not a kindly hobo looking for charity. He may swipe your bag. Or he might just stab you for no reason. Crazy, I know. But this is Ponce. Where Crazy lives. Your dripping mawkishness in the face of potential peril would have been your undoing, save for the fact that your man was walking with you. And the daggers he was staring at you and your damn fool stunt. Hope he gave you an earful...”

An uncomfortable pattern emerges:
• The Slipped Masque of LeVira.
• Veronique and the stranger’s candy.
• Jean Wecastor’s tolerance for codependency as well as consumption to the point of public incapacitation.
• And Elise, with her charitable chumming of the waters of Ponce.

In each, an individual given to proclamation on the importance of “empowerment.”
In each, an individual irresponsibly willing to put themselves in unnecessary danger.

Is there a psychological disconnect between therapeutic wishcasting and the inability to weigh risk? Willful blindness? Or a darker, self-destructive tendency in the subconscious?
Dunno. Freud would probably go to town though.
Ultimately, Montaigne had it right, regardless. As well as James and John.
Old words. But good words.

Strontium Evening

The ascendant Fifth Stratum iteration of a sunrise from beyond an ancient Spanish fort — known as Platinum Morning — has a little-known counterpart: Strontium Evening.
The sounds of Nightkill remain the Cue for this particular Vision as well, sung here instead by Hesperis rather than Eos Erigeneia in the original.

Maturation of the volition was reached by the 12th Stratum when transmission of the song to the Bonus Chamber provided a fitting audio to the pre-existing visual.
The setting here though is more domestic than exotic: Rolling tracts of the East Bank, notes in the air of freshly mowed lawns mixing with hints of charcoal from righteous grill-outs and the intermittent crackle of UV bug zappers. All under a blazing scarlet canopy.

And once again, above a tree-silhouetted sky, the arpeggiated major sevenths chime through the crimson ether, cycling their march in semidiapente, fading into night.

Bottom Shelf [post-requiem]

 The cause of death, they say, was falling asleep at the wheel. Tragic as it was, it was not entirely a surprise as behind the vagabond mien was an easily distracted mind, yet one no less than brilliant. And so three compatriots of the deceased donned their finery and hopped in a junker to make the 5-hour trek to the memorial service.
 That particular November day in the 32nd Stratum was unseasonably hot, as was evidenced when the engine overheated on the Interstate close to the Point of No Return.
 On the shoulder the trio sat, loosening their neckties as the midday sun beat down relentlessly. Lester attempted mobile assistance while Stoddard and 8TG silently eyed the hissing steam climb from the car’s hood, the background a loud blur of whizzing traffic.

Thirty minutes later the three, soaked in perspiration, climbed into the cramped cab of a wrecker with car in tow. They found themselves on the outskirts of the closest burg, a tired stretch of road named for some obscure Confederate general. It was a desolate landscape of body shops, pawn shops and signless concrete bunkers with iron bars over the windows unnecessarily emphasizing the obvious seediness.

With the car in a service bay in a garage, the three fellows stood in the parking lot slowly sweating at the prospects.

“When’s the funeral begin?”
“About an hour or so.”
“We’re still at least two hours away. What did the mechanic say?”
“He doesn’t know yet.”

They stood silently in the sun assessing the reality of their predicament and in unspoken agreement came to the same conclusion:
‘WE JOURNEYED TO HONOR A FALLEN COMRADE. BUT WE ARE FETTERED BY OUR STRANDING IN THE ARMPIT OF CENTRAL GEORGIA. AND IT SUCKS GREATLY.’

In the heat, they sat miserably on a curb outside the garage smoking and muttering. The hours dragged on. Soaked clothing began to stick to skin.
 “I tried calling a couple of different numbers but nobody’s picking up. The service must’ve already started. Oh, and the mechanic says the repair will take three days,” Lester said.

Collective groan.

They each passed the time mulling about the lot kicking pebbles or sitting pensively in the strip of dead grass beside the garage, staring at ants marching through the dust.
 Stoddard broke the stifling silence. “Time for sustenance. There’s a DQ we passed a couple of blocks back…”

Soleil + Cerveau = Séquence Surréaliste:

[INT. FAST FOOD RESTAURANT – LATE AFTERNOON]

FRAME A: Static shot of restaurant booth, centered on table.

FRAME B: Frankfurter basket enters left of frame, sliding in on tabletop.

FRAME C: Frankfurter basket slides to a stop at center of table, center of frame.

[CUE MUSIC: ‘THE IMMIGRANT SONG’]

[CUT TO BLACK.]

Suffice to say, the three guys never made the funeral. The day waned, and eventually contact was made with associates returning from the service to pick them up on the way back home.
 The day may have seemed like a wash, but it really wasn’t, and no one complained. Because even though being stuck in The Armpit of Central Georgia could be on the Bottom Shelf of experiences, the memory itself is seared in honor of one on the Top Shelf of gentlemen: ECW.

“Look upon the rainbow…

…and praise him that made it; very beautiful it is in the brightness thereof.” — Sirach 43:11

Noch immer vergisst sie über Anton

Anton wird von Elise vergessen, und der einsame Morgen flog er weg.
An Bord Graudonner II, war naiv sein Herz, aber er sah durch die Lügen.
Und wenn der Wind bläst vom Himmel, wir alle wissen, wer aus ihrem Kopf geflohen.
Elise wird da sein, sie vergisst über Anton. Wie läuft sie herum und sagt, sie ist einsam und weint: “Ich bin einsam ... sehr einsam, Baby ... jemand von mir denken.”
Doch als er zurück auf dem Bauernhof kommt, Elise will dass Schulter zum Anlehnen,
Und Anton sagt zu ihr: “Baby, mein Herz bewegt vor sich.”

(Entschuldigung an C. Westover und Brute Force.)