The Great Lover by Cisco Michael; Hughes Rhys

Author:Cisco, Michael; Hughes, Rhys [Cisco, Michael; Hughes, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Chomu Press
Published: 2011-04-13T20:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

A clock tower with its illuminated dial all white with concentric rings drifts past the window like a dream.

Clouds break up, the sun shines through, and the sky is like a giant carousel. The entrance into a wholly new and unfamiliar landscape is like being born; what is called a moment of clarity — the experience is the opposite of a headache — a sense of pleasure in a clear panel of the head, of lightness and transparency. Racing along through the tunnels with a fantastic, steadily-building dream tension suddenly explode from the tunnel into a vast panorama of ocean sky and trees going off in his pants and slumping forward against the glass... blood spurting and spattering to the sound of radio squelches in the slow elongations of the clouds. Images and dissociated phrases blur past in subway windows—...

*

Working together, we managed to seal the cavern. A commotion of pounding and thudding comes through to us on the other side. At first, we had simply boarded up the entrance as a provisional measure; now Schwips’ team is bricking it up.

I report to Ptarmagant—

“The Phaedrus thing was a warning,” I tell him.

“Not much of one — oh well, find out what they want, if you’re able to.”

So they are creatures of desire, or reverence? Did our prayers and desires by-produce them?

Deuteronôme proclaims, “With new things, signs are needed.”

“The divinity,” Ptarmagant dictates, “is like a formless being consisting of overlapping images in minds, but possessing an element or dimension independent of any mind, being to it what the composite sound of the chord in music is to the individual notes that constitute it. The harmony is greater than the sum of its tones, it is another and wholly distinct sound — and so the divinity is a wholly distinct mind that is simply the new quiddity of the resonation of many other minds, and this is the case with every mind. These models are not binding but are only appearances.”

A little country shop standing alone in a crescent depression in the hills... a doll hangs where the signboard should be, from an iron rod, pirouetting against a sky the color of wet sugar... clouds before me and sun behind, like gazing into a cavern... a Christmas tree smell, like a fresh-cut apple... Wings of nerves sprout from his shoulders, seize the wall enmesh themselves into its stuff and tear it to pieces like lightning roots, he emerges into an open canyon under ultraviolet dusk where court convenes and charges are being read somewhere in a barely-audible, low mutter, inside one of the dark houses. The prosecutor is in another house, his attorney if any in another, each juror in another still, and the judges are a pair of little girls on the swings — just two dim, colorful shadows with streaming hair in the gloom, calling to him as they swing toward and away from him: “...hell-LO, bye-BYE... hell-LO, bye-BYE...”

Escaping the park, I sail down the steps from the street

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