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The Nemophile (16)
The next part of Weirdtongue the novel.
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Continued from: HERE.
Feemy formed newer and newer fats the more he was described, as if the words themselves – employed by many writers to characterise his body and mind – were ingested by the noumenal construction of ‘Feeminess’, swelling it beyond its otherwise normal configuration as a real person. In other words, Blasphemy ‘Feemy’ Fitzworth – the legendary cat’s meat man who was once so lean and fit – became the very vein-proud mound of pulsing meat itself that he once used to sell (when diced into chosen cuts) as a supply of the cheap piecemeals for any Victorian pets parented within the precincts of Dickensian London.
Rachel ‘Chelly’ Mildeyes – one of the many tiny child-followers of Feemy’s ancient costermongering – was, of course, the keenest hero-worshipping example of those ‘pied-pipered’ urchins who not only enjoyed being darkened by Feemy’s shadow but also slipshod by his meatcart’s greasy trail. However, now, today, in her older and wordier time of life, Chelly has eventually become one of the many writers who threw (and still throws) merging masses of meaning in his direction, not only serving to bloat out his shape, but changing that shape’s very personality from an erstwhile energetic time-traveller - one who heroically hunted down monsters that other writers had gratuitously thrown to the ‘reality’ wind to subsist as new plagues - into one of those very monsters he once thus hunted!
*
Gregory spent many days trying to spin untruths about the past (or unspin truths). This helped him reconcile some of his own behaviour – behaviour which was ostensibly so out-of-character – with his own views of his mother’s attempts to make castles from the shifting sands of her fading love-life. For Gregory, on the other hand, Suzie (his own love-life) was a time-line to a trapeze-act which he could actually hope to grasp in the future. They together followed the Weirdmonger’s circus and one of its clowns - a clown who, when in non-clown civvies, sported a black rosette and a cross-ply three-piece suit (whatever the weather) - to other towns and other sites in even stranger parks.
Gregory told Suzie he wanted to be a ringmaster, after all. Suzie – in some bemused response more fitting for a ‘Big Brother’ contestant – said Gregory would do well in the Circus of the Tourettes (as it was called) and she would tease out support for him when approaching the caravan or medicine-wagon where such employment decisions were made. Diary-rooms were not always purpose-built, you see. Dairy-rooms, likewise, as the bovine racers slowed to a near-halt towards the border between reality and fiction.
*
Padgett Weggs shed yet another carapace of self as he wandered London’s haunts. The whole of history became a circus – a flighty kaleidoscope on the one hand, a droning bomb-alley on the other. Middle-Fast fighters churning across the sky in the hope of finding the saint who carried his own skin.
CONTINUED: HERE.
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=================
Continued from: HERE.
Feemy formed newer and newer fats the more he was described, as if the words themselves – employed by many writers to characterise his body and mind – were ingested by the noumenal construction of ‘Feeminess’, swelling it beyond its otherwise normal configuration as a real person. In other words, Blasphemy ‘Feemy’ Fitzworth – the legendary cat’s meat man who was once so lean and fit – became the very vein-proud mound of pulsing meat itself that he once used to sell (when diced into chosen cuts) as a supply of the cheap piecemeals for any Victorian pets parented within the precincts of Dickensian London.
Rachel ‘Chelly’ Mildeyes – one of the many tiny child-followers of Feemy’s ancient costermongering – was, of course, the keenest hero-worshipping example of those ‘pied-pipered’ urchins who not only enjoyed being darkened by Feemy’s shadow but also slipshod by his meatcart’s greasy trail. However, now, today, in her older and wordier time of life, Chelly has eventually become one of the many writers who threw (and still throws) merging masses of meaning in his direction, not only serving to bloat out his shape, but changing that shape’s very personality from an erstwhile energetic time-traveller - one who heroically hunted down monsters that other writers had gratuitously thrown to the ‘reality’ wind to subsist as new plagues - into one of those very monsters he once thus hunted!
*
Gregory spent many days trying to spin untruths about the past (or unspin truths). This helped him reconcile some of his own behaviour – behaviour which was ostensibly so out-of-character – with his own views of his mother’s attempts to make castles from the shifting sands of her fading love-life. For Gregory, on the other hand, Suzie (his own love-life) was a time-line to a trapeze-act which he could actually hope to grasp in the future. They together followed the Weirdmonger’s circus and one of its clowns - a clown who, when in non-clown civvies, sported a black rosette and a cross-ply three-piece suit (whatever the weather) - to other towns and other sites in even stranger parks.
Gregory told Suzie he wanted to be a ringmaster, after all. Suzie – in some bemused response more fitting for a ‘Big Brother’ contestant – said Gregory would do well in the Circus of the Tourettes (as it was called) and she would tease out support for him when approaching the caravan or medicine-wagon where such employment decisions were made. Diary-rooms were not always purpose-built, you see. Dairy-rooms, likewise, as the bovine racers slowed to a near-halt towards the border between reality and fiction.
*
Padgett Weggs shed yet another carapace of self as he wandered London’s haunts. The whole of history became a circus – a flighty kaleidoscope on the one hand, a droning bomb-alley on the other. Middle-Fast fighters churning across the sky in the hope of finding the saint who carried his own skin.
CONTINUED: HERE.
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