Hanged Man - XII
Section of a Novella from Tarot Blanco
Swirling time irrelevant ruling lost ingracious nay gone.
New ended weak before each rhyme reason yes.
He had tried so many times to begin that the beginning was almost the ending. The day had begun in the midnight hour of despair hanging by a thread though it was four hours swinging in the breeze. he wiped across the classes with a blue shirt that strung down past his waist. Somehow, he had forgotten where he acquired the garb. thought no matter how he would remember it when he stopped thinking and began to recall the intimate details of otherwhen. April again weighs heavy as a doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra on a cinema branch of to another yes.
He thought, he wrote, he typed, he rethought, he re-erased, and then he began a new search for the entrance that was guarded as a bow tripped with green finishes that he felt almost draped by a leg. Of course, this was metaphorical in the way that Wotan stared into the void of Yddrasill searching for knowledge comprised by the runes. So many had tried but fewer had succeeded. It can happen to you, but not I.
What would Tolkien do? He would probably translate from The Red Bok of Westmarch to the cirth. Lengths came the name “West March” in the realm of the Dungeons and Dragons. How he wished he could dispense with the trial of fire and instead retreat into the caverns deep and grottoes dark. But what would be left of him? 12 - 12 – 12. The hour of the clock is encoded in the kitchen sundial of electricity and algebra. He desperately wants to tear down walls. It is poetry in emotion with a 1.
He picked up the pen and shook it. It seemed dry, so he shook it again. Out drooled the maroon red for correcting. Even the free editor came with a cost, right down a D next to his name while drinking heavy water. Oh, for a vorpal blade to go snicker snack.
To put down the pen and over to the next room where there was a Chippendale dresser with squirrels transfixed. He stripped off the clothes and through them in the hamper, with the gray canvas exterior which hid his accident low these many years. He then went back but before he placed his hands on the lowest drawer he looked at the red stains and realized he needed to wash up. Suddenly the trail of devastation was growing behind him, and he decided to clean things up a bit. He went into the restroom and washed his hands only to realize that he was procrastinating for a new particular purpose. Procrastination is an art form; there is the procrastination of discovering what one truly means to say. In this case, it is a blessing. But then there is a darker mood: we’re doing anything but something else is preferred to actually work in the sweat and sleet and steam of creation. And he knew which one he was in. The recursive nature that all bright people were cursed with. Missing tonight.
But he realized that the litter and crumpling needed to be fixed, and he decided that now would be the best time to do it. He also promised that after that, he would sit down and compose a flight of fancy that would carry the house down. He hoped. And then he turned his head because hoping and wishing were the sinews only of an illusion. Goodbye bad, or so he fancied. Was was the classic of Classic Chinese literature which used each character once?1
And so there he was sitting back at the table with his arms crossed behind. And then realized that his thoughts were blank and there was nothing that came after the nothing that he had phrased. It was, in a word, depressing. Who are you? It from in his temple, with an annoying buzz like a bee or fly taking away all parts with it departing for places unknown.
He almost started to look out the window, with the snow piled up. The rest of the world was under heat but not the United States which was under a biting frost much as in the old days. But he avoided looking at the marbled white road and the snow piled up in front of the driveway. It was like the winter of ‘79: a torrent of off-white with dirty snow.
He wanted to run in place towards the vision from a dream that reminded him of another time when he was young and still felt the power of grace. When he was sure about being sure and populated the page with imaginary characters. But somehow the page was left blank and he instead turned his gaze out the window covered with a gauze-tapered tapestry and hidden by half with a blind of a table that closed down the disempathy which was required for all to receive the happiness gained from the torment of a lone child. ‘Twas truly brillig to charge common ground. Bye, bye empire.
Happy la-la-la. But then around his head came an illumination and he realized the path less taken, fearing that made all the difference, across the Atlantic. And out on the glazed-, by way tracks appeared as if he had not seen them before, and he realized that one thing that he and the children shared was a snow day trekking onwards, upwards, sic itur ad astra. As the Aeneid chimed: loosening the chains and freeing the silver dawn towards the one, casting the Tempus fugit, even if not exactly the protocol, though in rhythm, yes.
千字文 “The Thousand Character Classic” c500 CE.