When fantasy disappeared from Fênix and everyone left, Sorry, who fell out of the sky with her Subaru, and a possibly undead storyteller, were left behind. She warned him of an imminent electrified dystopia, and they sought sanctuary in Guarapuava. On the way, they saw herds of armadillos ridden by sephine spiders. Part One is here.
Luck was with us when we arrived in Guarapuava:
the world had not yet ended, and by the teary shores of
the Lagoa das Lágrimas, we came across
the Pensive Teahouse, open after midnight.
All was as it should be in the Guarapuavan starlight.
Late night ghosts were howling at the poltergeists,
the armadillos nestled snugly in their treetop nests,
and as I sipped my fashionable tea,
I felt a momentary twinge, a passing brush
with existential suburbia.
But before my chai was cold, my electric fears were realized:
stormy lightning flashing out of nowhere threaded
silver necklaces through street lamps on Independence Avenue,
and a sizzling halo of corona enveloped the Subaru.
Its headlights flickered on,
and it drove off by itself
in the direction of last week.
You told me Guarapava was a refuge, I whined,
where we’d be safe from the electrical dystopia.
Sorry shrugged.
The sephine spiders rode the armadillos here from Fênix.
Look around, you’ll see the glimmer of their webs.
They’re the source of every dream, of all the mysteries
we long for.
Now how obvious they were, floating
with their silken parachutes,
swimming in my tea like leaves to tell my fortune.
An ionized being formed of pure energy
came into the teahouse and ordered a spaghetti sandwich.
He toasted it between his palms.
Him? He’s someone you made up,
an imaginary inventation.
The facts of Guarapuava were melting, pattering
like rainy feet on the Lagoa.
I need help, I said, with fluidic possibilities,
with green icing on a cake, a recipe
for living.
It’s time for you to create yourself,
to make a plan.
Sorry pointed at me
with a fish on a fork.
The fish winked.
~/~
I will wonder mathematically,
reduce existence to a single point,
the correlated essence, the core
of who I am …
… and I will write edgy words
(a spider sniggered)
that speak of figments
of a spaghetti sandwich,
of heliotropical violets,
and you, in mawkish verses:
The moon was a galoot.
It dangled on a wire over Fênix …
about
- the locations in Guarapuava are moderately real
- MacArthur Park, Richard Harris, Donna Summer, etc.
artwork
Suburbs (detail above, click for full image). Made by VEE, the visual evolution engine.
I like the lines, “heliotropical violets,” and “you, in mawkish verses.”
Thanks, Randy. I think it’s just the way it always is, so better to admit it …
I will wonder mathematically,
reduce existence to a single point,
the correlated essence, the core
of who I am …
Love it!
Thank you, Sobhana. I have to admit that I had written quite a lot about vectors and matrices, inner and outer products, and what the interpretation would be in terms of living (the single point is actually an inner product). I may come back to it but, for now, I think not. 🤓
You have a good imagination, and the ability to weave those imaginings together in a coherent tale.
Thank you, I found long ago that if I don’t use whatever imagination I have for the purposes of art, writing, research, computing, it escapes into real life, and that is rarely good. 😸
‘It drove off by itself in the direction of last week ‘ is so good. To say you have an amazing imagination is an understatement Steve!
Thank you, Margaret. About the Subaru, I did wonder where it would go. I was thinking back to Fênix. But I realised it was more about time than geography.
The Pensive Teahouse was beckoning to me… until I read about the sephine spiders swimming in the protagonist’s tea. 😉
Oh no, the Subaru is gone! They’re stranded, perhaps melting along with the facts of Guarapava…
I don’t know what the spiders taste like. I’ve certainly found plenty of unexpected insects in my own tea. You always wonder: Is that a tea leaf? Or does it have legs?
That’s true, Magarisa, they’re stuck in the icing. I suppose it will have to be journeys of the imagination. 😸
Yes I agree with previous comment…The Pensive Teahouse open after midnight….every town should have one! I loved “stormy lightning flashing out of nowhere threaded silver necklaces through street lamps on Independence Avenue,” and the winking fish is great!
Thank you, Nikita. According to Google Maps, there is a teahouse in that location, it’s actually called Pensz House, but I’ve never come across one that was open late. I agree, I’d certainly be into it. The fish just came out of nowhere. Fish sometimes do that.
Oh my goodness…when I read MacArthur Park, mawkish seems perfect. I laughed out loud, when I reminded myself of the lyrics and the *cough melodramatic way I might possibly react when something happens to actual cake.
I love every paragraph.
Thank you, Vanessa. It was the age of mawkism. 😸 For some reason, I always think of MacArthur Park and Nights in White Satin together. I don’t mind them, maybe it’s that they kind of pretended to be erudite. Anyway, just what you want to be, you’ll be in the end. Thank goodness. 😸
I understand, Steve. I think I prefer Nights in White Satin myself, but I see what you mean.
It’s interesting about the mawkish thing, I mean, when you compare it to today’s culture, where everything is so disposable, including people, love and important relationship milestones, it’s refreshing to re-listen to some of this.
You have me pondering on that line… 😀
I guess we have idealisations in our heads for everything, like Plato, and that can be good and bad. But just what the truth is, I can’t say any more. 😸
someone left the cake out in the rain…Steve…this is a poetic feast…I keep reading it for the sheer pleasure of how it sounds….”the moon was a galoot” is brilliant…I had almost forgotten that word. My mother used it on me more than once!
Thank you, Jim. Yes, I remember “galoot” from my childhood as well. It’s a pity we don’t still use it, I do like the sound of it. I should probably continue on from those final lines. Haha, nope.