I am a child of Icarus, aflame and agog, dancing through streets alive with Marker Men. They see me and point their skeletal fingers at me, bringing with their stares all the lights of heaven. Rudy jumps up from behind me, bayonet in hand, and gives me a sad little smile. His eyes change right before me, once as brown as an acorn in the hands of a dead squirrel in the mud, and now... nothing. There's no color but black, no reflection of light, only vacancy.
The Marker Men begin to swarm in on us and to my horror I see that Rudy is no longer Rudy but now one of them. He's chanting in their crazy language of only neologisms, never using the same phraseology more than once. Some call it newerspeak. I call it insane.
But there's a tree sprouting up, reaching through the concrete, up through the first floor, through the ceiling, through the floor above, ending below my chair. Thousands of tiny, winking LEDs blink in a somewhat familiar pattern. Their combined illumination pulls me away, into the music of Van Morrison as he pulls me into the mystic. "Beloved," says Toni Morrison, speaking in italics, bending my mind with her words. "You will never win a Pulitzer." And her teeth chomp down on me, breaking through my bones as sure as Stonehenge falling on me.
There's nothing, only the hum of the earth's natural harmonics, the rattle of one-hundred-thirty-thousand air conditioners, the chattering of a freezing child's baby teeth, the sploosh of blood coursing through seven-billion humans--all alive, somehow, but whether living or not is undecided--the sound of actually speaking the word onomatopoeia, wondering if it, too, grasps at straws or if it's just content at its almighty existence.
For it's onomatopoeia that reigns supreme when it comes to words. For all words, whether English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Chinese (Mandarin), Tagalog, Polish, Korean, Chinese (Cantonese), Vietnamese, Portuguese, Japanese, Greek, Arabic, Hindi (Urdu), Russian, Yiddish, Thai (Laotian), Persian, French Creole, Armenian, Navaho, Hungarian, Hebrew, Dutch, Mon-khmer (Cambodian), Gujarathi, Ukrainian, Czech, Pennsylvania Dutch, Miao (Mmong), Norwegian, Slovak, Swedish, Serbocroatian, Kru, Rumanian, Lithuanian, Finnish, Panjabi, Formosan ,Croatian, Turkish, Ilocano, Bengali, Danish, Syriac, Samoan, Malayalam, Cajun, Amharic, or any of the other hundreds and hundreds of languages, they're all really just onomatopoeia. Right?
Tonight there is a party where we turn into sheets of paper and allow ourselves to experience the exhilarating life of flimsi. Some of us will be crumpled into tiny balls and thrown across the room. Some of us will be carefully folded and bent and made into glorious works of art. Some of us will be poked and stabbed with ink pens and markers. Some of us will be torn to shreds. Party party party! I hope there's Doritos there, but probably not.
Kittens mewl. Cats meow. Puppies yelp. Dogs growl. I may have a book review next week. I think my brain fizzled out. I need some sort of focus for weeks when I have nothing. I've never really been a fan of memes and the like. Maybe I'll just copy verbatim Dave's latest post and put it up here. I'm usually of the opinion that if I don't have anything of value to say/write, then why even post it at all? But then Cornelius Anton Scruzz (he insists that I only use his first name, but I insist otherwise. It's no trouble, Corn!), bless his soul, reminds me of one of Rememorandom's goals: journaling. [Aside: Cornelius Anton Scruzz has returned! Oh happy day. But, alas, Claudio Montezuma has been amiss for many days now. If you happen upon him, please send him my way.] So on I go, sitting, waiting, wishing. Are my eyes the color of Rudy's?
Was that? I think it was. By Jove, the Great Somnambulist and that time-traveling rogue Millard Filmore just flashed through my room. I've got to go find them. Some coffee, some tea, some Dew, and I'm set for the weekend. Hope yours is as adventurous as mine's bound to be.