Last night I began writing something very strange and nonsensical in a yellow legal pad. Here it is transcribed.
***
Now, with no autumnal city to wound, I come to to see the end of the dream. Tomorrow night my mother's last breaths escape as moths fleeing day's dry flame. The night after father looses himself, a singular beast toiling through dusk's underbrush. Far away rockets light the skies.
Tiresias (so she called herself) has with the severing of her fingers lost a foothold into mathematics, and thus to logic. This new defect manifests in strange ways. This morning she looked in the mirror and was startled to see a crystaline puppet of herself. Or perhaps she was the puppet? Later the rain made her cry in resonance. Her friend (he is Mildew) inquired as to the cause of her distress, and so choked with grief was she that no answer could from the mouth be issued out. So is the life of a cripple.
My hands tremble. Some force beyond reason is at work.
Mildew issues out cruelty like its his job, and in a sense it is. Having too come to, Mildew issues a glue-like gunk in the eyes of all passersby. Streams of it, yes.
My God, Mildew's lover squealed, it's like you're eating me!
For in a sense he was.
Tiresias, now approaching the threshold of mud, knows even in her stupidity just what it is the lover's ejaculation means.
¡Callate! It's a ducking mess. Yes, yes.
The camel has made an announcement, yet here it falls on deaf ears. Last night--yes--could not sleep, so deafening was the chasm of white noise. I nurse in my dreams.
Tiresias was not always Tiresias, but to point this out is a rudeness akin to vomiting in the debutante ball's punch bowl. Tea was her preferred beverage, now as then. Now then, what brings you to? All who arrive to hear my words have on their minds if not a question than a concern. I jest, of course, for one way goes this dialogue. Trust in two-way street; thus goes the truism. Refraction. Tutelage. Alphabet? Elocution, yes. No, no, no. Did you know that one? As was said, Tiresias took tea under whale blubber lamplight, and with every sip she mourned for something she could not name. She was not Tiresias then--understand. Her passport was someone else's. You follow?
My father worked the passport gate, a clerk who held a power he would not allow himself to understand. Every night he brought home a new stranger's pain. We ate it for dinner, and so I became lean as you now see.
Did he issue our heroine's one wonders?
Tiresias was so fond of tea she adopted the name for herself, and briefly did she consider embracing the name formally by having a bureaucrat brand it on her inner left calf. But so then going forward we shall call little Tiresias, the one of the past, Tea. Tea-sipping was something like Tea's hobby, and yet she enjoyed no diversity of tea, indeed in her extreme pickiness she inbibed only sleepytime teddytea. It went down best at night, accompanied by cricket harmonies and undersea grease.
A whaler once said, upon circumnavigating the globe for the fifth time in his natural life, that his profession would echo down forever's hallway as a great infamy--a maritine genocide of that which in its intelligence does not fight back, merely struggling instead, as mother night has instructed its cells.
What some call mother night is an apparation above the people of the valleys whose vast glow and lazy nightwinks allow those subsistence-farming heathens to sleepwalk a night of sowing and reaping, leaving free daytime to play gay as sun-bathing seals upon a wet, warm rock.
Tea made love every night to visions of women who were to warm her future beds, an instance of future haunting past. The phantom future lovers reached gently into her, extracting that which all humanity is put on earth to extract, leaving with the withdrawal of dream digits a shameful little Tea, tittering as if on an earth-shaken saucer, alone save a grease lamp's subaudible issuance. In this way Tea made love to the future itself, embracing in her loins the loveliness that had not yet come to existence in the world. Fossils of her nocturnal deadseed, it is said, crisp to this day socks below bunkbeds. Oi! Hear it do you? Creaking and thumping? That means a Night Authority is in the vicinity. So believed Tea--little baby Tea.
I have not been touched in so long. His intimacy means more to me than I care to admit. There I see him in the backs of strange men. I want him to drain me of it: that which fills the empty glass of my body.
***
Across the lakes Swan and Shield travels a mongrel yelp of ambiguous quality. Far away a car is playing loud and proud. Insects make the world intolerable--so I feel, anyway.
Beauty entails the world. Life insurance is now over, and I don't know what that means.
Tea's steed was one purebred Boxer named Rex. Tea and Rex braved many an ennui-drenched afternoon together--the former doing more drenching than the latter. Rex slept his life away, while Tea sleptwalk (sleepwalks still, as the grown woman, Tiresias!) her way through life. The overcast, sky's steel sheet, never seemed to let up, and so Tea felt herself to be in a dream
Tea never did the dishes, but when she did she was met with the face of her rival: one amalgam of filth named Coffee. Coffee's form consisted of whatever meals Tea made, what snacks she had. Frequently dominating himself, Coffee knew only how to spew vitriol
One such volley of spewings:
Gru-shaped whore! Down with cake!
Throw "her" (him!) to the dogs! Mince meat!
Verily the ancestors weep on their cloud...
And stuff of that nature, yes. Tea, still a baby, understood every fifth word or so, and so was largely unperturbed.