The Caterpillar: A Forgotten Path

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

A Forgotten Path

In the vignette the lady sipped from a crystal goblet, eighteenth century, whilst gazing through a lorgnette out of the gleaming bubble glass firelit candlelight glow to blazing logfyres among warm damask rococo imbroglios. Swarming the beads of consciousness scientifically balance on the nose of the law. Hey, tickling the nose of reality, once again. This is the immutable ‘way of the particle’ which can but follow the tracks of the grand special cellular game. Given aeons of rattling progression we reach to the age of the courtly dance, the periwigged real of quadrille quatroons on cantaloupe plattering coaches, at midnight, at the striking of the clock, at the charming of the cat, at the bat’s brittle screeching flight, under the moon, under the moon, in the trees, automatically, as wings aflap in the dark, as hooves of carriage-wheels clack, upon the highway of moon-scudding clouds rides the silk-emblazoned lorgnette-lady of the crystally-space real, a forgotten path, a street in the town where you used to live. “Must’a dreampt it!” he mutters, yet strangely a curious tangent feeling creeps up over him as the beams take effect and he’s transported back up to the other side - experience of actual consciousness now, for you. So saith the tall-collared figure at the grande ball, the great tete-a-tete, the lace-figured, dapper & dandy dithering gathering of glimmering and beglittered aristos in archaic garb quaint. The goblet in her hand threw back the scintilla of swirling honeyed honeydew honeycombed light of a golden - - Raising now upon the sunny banks of wakefulness bemused his glance falls upon the crabbed and gushing manuscript. {{{{{ Clarity of Perception |- entranced before daybreak’s feathery fingers of rose-golden white dawn will waft and droft and drift him up to the surface clear of the pond of slewth. * oh but nonsense said the Ambassador; you cannot possibly think such a thing. But he could. ]]]]] & the dripping of drips loudly outside in the quiet night of the street dripping and the house clicking the clock ticking house floor-beams creaking and clicking at night – torn up paper and semi-conscious ink transformations found accidentally on the radio of the future – these things you tell of, you vouchsafe to dream of, can never be- quoth the ambassador once again - energy of the universe in his merry old eye! * So, under the alfluence of inkohol, old boys be’d a staggering and a swaying home along old old country roads of Ireland (stout) and France (ye wines) and the old life goes on – no electricity in them days of course – bla blab la - and ink so many -crystal-jewels-of--perfect-miniature--spinning-orbitals-back-to-the-scatter-mosaic-bee-beads -