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Weirdtongue (21)
aka The Nemophile (21)
Continued from HERE.
======================
“Wagger Market! Wagger Market! Come to Wagger Market!”
The salescries – distant cousins of the strident costermongery in the streets of earlier England – echoed from stall to stall in the light of the shortening shadows. An ice-cream van also interspersed such cries with its own tacky ring-a-ding-ding tunes as it wended from one side of the site to the other hoping that the heat of the morning would fill mouths with more than just mutual desire.
The Weirdmonger had set up his own stall selling the traditional rudery in proud-veined shanks hung upon the vertical canvas counter shivering in the hot wind and allowing individual items of fleshy dislocations of such rudery to shake and rattle like a Cuban backing-track: a sound seemingly at ease with the random rehearsals of emergent music from various stages being set up around the outskirts of the market.
The Weirdmonger’s stall rarely sold rudery 'on the hoof' – but, today, he was pleased with some of his ‘living’ stock - as opposed to the usual oven-ready or ‘new body’-ready amputations and castrations. This being a major selling opportunity during the Glistenberry Festival, many of his wares, this morning, were, therefore, still attached to the people whence they would soon be freshly ripped given a successful sale. Many figures stood with their tongues hanging out in the hope of paying customers for these fleshy pink flannels they had been known to fatten up with bits of real human lung or animal lights or simply words.
Captain Bintiff was the main mannequin – just for show like those huge flagons of coloured liquid that used to appear in ancient Chemist-shop windows – standing tallishly beside the Weirdmonger with his mouth appendage teasingly tipping out and withdrawn then flashing out like a snake in full length fleetingly glimpsed then withdrawn again – thus tempting buyers to the stall with this intermittent rudery. Blowing kisses and then snarling. Raising his Captain’s hat, bowing then spitting viciously. All showmanship. Crude tongue-sticking at its artistic best.
Gregory and Suzie eschewed approaching the stall with the rudery. Perhaps they suspected echoes of something they wanted to forget. Or perhaps it was because the Weirdmonger had no special buy one get one free offers.
********
Still within his night’s billet of self-ballooned air near Wagger Market, Padgett Weggs tossed and turned, dossed and dreamed, tossed and turned again, over-dosing, indeed, on dreaming of Feemy Fitzworth dreaming of Padgett dreaming of Feemy both of whom were dreamed in turn by other snatch-within-snatches of dreamers till one reached, by inference, the head-lease dreamer.
“A human body, like my own body,” Padgett dreamed a voice saying in his own voice, “is something you can’t get off. A bodytrap. I'm inside it and there is nothing I can do to escape it. Then the bodytrap further swells with the words used to describe it yet inexplicably tighter and tighter around my shrinking self. To escape its trammels would be certain death. I wonder how I ended up like this in such a nightmare. Knowing it’s all going to end with a ‘blank’ - while incapable of waking up from the dream that this is so. I remember many dreams I thought were real at the time I was dreaming them like this one I’m describing for you, nightmares with terrifying situations I thought I could never escape – until, with great relief, I would indeed wake up and leave it all behind as a quickly forgotten dream. Life’s real problems are as nothing compared to those real-seeming problems one sometimes meets in dreams. But this waking nightmare of the bodytrap, all our bodytraps, is not a dream you can wake up from. It’s relentlessly and terrifyingly inescapable. Who the devil landed me in this body with their words? They have a lot to answer for. And I can’t really imagine the devastating effect of complete and utter non-existence when this consciousness that is me within my body finally vanishes as it surely will. A paradox – that we hate being trapped in our bodies and find it a devastating imposition to be thus trapped - but we’d give anything to stay trapped there forever, because we can’t face the outright 'blankness' if we cease being trapped there!”
An answering voice: “Our faces are pressed up against the mortal shell like a child wanting to go out to play but kept indoors like the 'invalid' in The Secret Garden.”
A third voice: “Life is indeed an imposition but you need life itself to realise the imposition has been tricked on you when you weren't looking!”
A fourth voice (a real one waking the dreamers): “Wagger Market! Wagger Market! Come To Wagger Market!”
Followed by the shivering of ringtones.
CONTINUED HERE.
============================
Continued from HERE.
======================
“Wagger Market! Wagger Market! Come to Wagger Market!”
The salescries – distant cousins of the strident costermongery in the streets of earlier England – echoed from stall to stall in the light of the shortening shadows. An ice-cream van also interspersed such cries with its own tacky ring-a-ding-ding tunes as it wended from one side of the site to the other hoping that the heat of the morning would fill mouths with more than just mutual desire.
The Weirdmonger had set up his own stall selling the traditional rudery in proud-veined shanks hung upon the vertical canvas counter shivering in the hot wind and allowing individual items of fleshy dislocations of such rudery to shake and rattle like a Cuban backing-track: a sound seemingly at ease with the random rehearsals of emergent music from various stages being set up around the outskirts of the market.
The Weirdmonger’s stall rarely sold rudery 'on the hoof' – but, today, he was pleased with some of his ‘living’ stock - as opposed to the usual oven-ready or ‘new body’-ready amputations and castrations. This being a major selling opportunity during the Glistenberry Festival, many of his wares, this morning, were, therefore, still attached to the people whence they would soon be freshly ripped given a successful sale. Many figures stood with their tongues hanging out in the hope of paying customers for these fleshy pink flannels they had been known to fatten up with bits of real human lung or animal lights or simply words.
Captain Bintiff was the main mannequin – just for show like those huge flagons of coloured liquid that used to appear in ancient Chemist-shop windows – standing tallishly beside the Weirdmonger with his mouth appendage teasingly tipping out and withdrawn then flashing out like a snake in full length fleetingly glimpsed then withdrawn again – thus tempting buyers to the stall with this intermittent rudery. Blowing kisses and then snarling. Raising his Captain’s hat, bowing then spitting viciously. All showmanship. Crude tongue-sticking at its artistic best.
Gregory and Suzie eschewed approaching the stall with the rudery. Perhaps they suspected echoes of something they wanted to forget. Or perhaps it was because the Weirdmonger had no special buy one get one free offers.
********
Still within his night’s billet of self-ballooned air near Wagger Market, Padgett Weggs tossed and turned, dossed and dreamed, tossed and turned again, over-dosing, indeed, on dreaming of Feemy Fitzworth dreaming of Padgett dreaming of Feemy both of whom were dreamed in turn by other snatch-within-snatches of dreamers till one reached, by inference, the head-lease dreamer.
“A human body, like my own body,” Padgett dreamed a voice saying in his own voice, “is something you can’t get off. A bodytrap. I'm inside it and there is nothing I can do to escape it. Then the bodytrap further swells with the words used to describe it yet inexplicably tighter and tighter around my shrinking self. To escape its trammels would be certain death. I wonder how I ended up like this in such a nightmare. Knowing it’s all going to end with a ‘blank’ - while incapable of waking up from the dream that this is so. I remember many dreams I thought were real at the time I was dreaming them like this one I’m describing for you, nightmares with terrifying situations I thought I could never escape – until, with great relief, I would indeed wake up and leave it all behind as a quickly forgotten dream. Life’s real problems are as nothing compared to those real-seeming problems one sometimes meets in dreams. But this waking nightmare of the bodytrap, all our bodytraps, is not a dream you can wake up from. It’s relentlessly and terrifyingly inescapable. Who the devil landed me in this body with their words? They have a lot to answer for. And I can’t really imagine the devastating effect of complete and utter non-existence when this consciousness that is me within my body finally vanishes as it surely will. A paradox – that we hate being trapped in our bodies and find it a devastating imposition to be thus trapped - but we’d give anything to stay trapped there forever, because we can’t face the outright 'blankness' if we cease being trapped there!”
An answering voice: “Our faces are pressed up against the mortal shell like a child wanting to go out to play but kept indoors like the 'invalid' in The Secret Garden.”
A third voice: “Life is indeed an imposition but you need life itself to realise the imposition has been tricked on you when you weren't looking!”
A fourth voice (a real one waking the dreamers): “Wagger Market! Wagger Market! Come To Wagger Market!”
Followed by the shivering of ringtones.
CONTINUED HERE.
============================