Association String #4

Black barrier-holds gates blazing with horses of yore blazing with tidings of woe blazing with tributes and slaves and gold a-plenty. Once went a boy black in sight black in skin through these gates betwixt bars of cold cold brass that sang as he did pass; and the wizard monk who counselled who counselled the consuls far, far, far and wide quite wide did naught but beckon him inside yes, you, beckon you inside, come on, yes, inside. And how they laughed and sang in that fort o’ fairies, that castle-keep that brooked no trespass that broke no stranger passing t’rough, but settled solemn settling solemn set solemn for the king, upon his gale-force horse, with the cold cold brass starting to sing.

Room

An old house. Broken clay cup, shattered, resting on a bible resting on a wooden end-table resting next to a visibly musty couch. Ashtray on end-table. Cigarette smushed in ashtray.

Old bookshelves behind couch. Books look smelly. Not many left, maybe thirteen, fourteen. Odyssey, with pages highlighted. Divine Comedy, unread. An atlas of France, well used. The Great Gatsby, dog-eared. A photo album with a picture of a naked hugging couple on the cover, filled with photos of family members, laughing children, smiling parents, sunsets, temporary memories. An atlas of Europe, also well used. An atlas of England, as other atlases. Gilgamesh, with several pages missing. A notebook with the name “Jean Kirkmann” written on the cover, first twenty pages filled with differential equations, next three pages with diary entries, a love letter pushed between two glued pages, the rest empty except for a name “Flavia” and a crossed-out phone number on the last page. Along with books, a photo of an overweight bearded man on an ATV with a rifle and a dead elk slung onto the back of the ATV. Another photo of a naked seventeen year-old from the back with long hair and small bum on a dock (sex cannot be identified), arms outstretched.

A red and green rug, one edge burnt, on the floor. Stained in several places, never cleaned.

Old horn-rimmed reading glasses on the floor, just under couch. Ink on corner of one lens.

Tissue box on arm of couch. Only two tissues left.

Association String #3

Whet touch feast eat the sun the sun light comes comes here come here don’t leave stay. Stay for what goes on goes on. Light happen joy fare fair fare fair. Men tumble in the air. Gun shot the despair oh the care. Umlauts blankets crumple how does he does he. Norman thrones in English drake typeface of lace stare stare and have another share. Feast on tale spell spell tale the epic of the epic white and bare. No love no share no home but hunger there there there there little child, little child yard watcher tree is not dead he’s watching up there heaven heaven still there heaven not gone feast in Valgarde feast at last up there.

He Bore His Life

He bore his life, taking its hours and days and making, shaping them to a body which stood for him. He had not found reason to live, never sought an explanation for why he should bear this toil or hold, delicately and fearfully, this sharp, cold life. In his dreams, it struck him, drew blood from his unblemished skin and shouted at him to stand. It demanded he accept it. But when he awoke, he was simply left to act himself, to take the pitted fruit that sat before him. Life meant death, and death meant life. He had no knowledge of what the link would be, what would cause the crossing or shatter the life to give death. He could not feel fear, as he could not know why it was good he lived at all. He had no explanation, no hierarchy, no divine guidance. It was all the universe, and he was to contemplate it and draw away an insignificant sliver to whittle, so he had been instructed by the wisdom he collected. It seemed so long and endless, though the end forever loomed and the passage's decoration did not affect its terminus. He could cry and scream and reject it, try to end the procession or step outside the hall, but he would damage more than himself. He did not know the world, did not know its people, did not know himself. He did not believe – or wonder if – that would ever change. There was no prescribed direction, no suggestion box, no fucking flowchart. It was a big universe of space into which he stared out, wondering whether it made a difference how long he deceived himself and forgot the terminus, wondering whether deception was a cop-out or an acceptable resignation, wishing there was some handbook he could consult or manual of instructions. But he had to press on and leave the mysteries veiled. So he had been told, though he doubted the truth of such statements.