An Entrance Song

“I know we’re on a ship, but then the tempest came…”

An Entrance Song

When the floor is very long, it never fails to be dark. When the black puddles bloom, it never fails to be charming. A crashing spun around that sterling air of spring’s first day. The daffodils were out. Nothing grew on such long floors and yet it was spring – by all means the spring. I love the spring and thus the essence of this nightmare: spring and no waves; there are none this far out. In fact, here all the sea is a wave and we merely cease to notice. The sea is always calm for me. Wildness is not of me as I am not of wildness.

It was calm and the sun turned pale and yellow behind the clouds, like in a Turner painting. Golden pink laced with white strands of blue, speaking of dawn and dusk, the greatest times of these falling days. O and yes, it was falling. Not literally, as one does in the sense of gravity, or falling in the sense of crestfallen, but like falling through the sky like a glass of mirrors, or like those men on that mountain pushing rocks up higher, cleansing themselves, or like those kids that roll those stones back down, wearing war paint. Falling through that sky, that’s what I was doing. It’s what I do. And you could tell things are plummeting when the world becomes beautiful. O brave new world. What beautiful creatures hath thee. No, that’s not right. It’s – something else. It’s – I despise when things start falling like this. It’s terrible and you just don’t see how much terrible is coming your way. Beauteous visions, waters, windows shining, the deck lights on and torches held high, feet dancing and the lacquered floor reflecting it all. The sky draped down and the lower curtains stirred towards tangles, forming great creases and folds across the pink, turning shades of amber into serpents, holes into pages. You could actually read the sky. There was a story about an ocean somewhere in there.

There was an ocean somewhere off, going somewhere with some Irish people. This is a dream, remember. You know things in dreams, like everyone’s ethnicity and the fact that everyone was there for the same reason that nobody really understood. We were minds wandering away from their skulls, all in this collective fantasy, on this boat, each mind taking host of these ghostly bodies, each without sense and only mind, from separate dreams. All things we see or seem is but a dream, but no, wrong. Yet if hope has flown away, in a night or in a day, and then…then? I stand amid…Oh I dreamt a dream tonight, I know. I know we’re on a ship, but then the tempest came. O wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! There we go. Nicely put. And what ensues in this fell storm shall for itself perform. If only it would. It has performed once, so I suppose I do now assist the war. This world is to me a lasting storm of quotations. Pierrot cannot be helped. So much for making sense.

Sense was falling. The deck was falling. Music invaded; a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears – about mine ears do hum. Sounds clashing, voices blending, lights, lights, lights: the lamps floating, the sails shrinking, poles twisting, floating masks on floating gondolas. Blue strands, like tentacles, reach into our ship, the sun dragged with it. Dusk then, not dawn. Benches drift by. Girls tread around a pool. On this blinded hill does Lenny stand, his rabbit with Tomas’ gun, Franz weeping, John’s floggings chased by a flaming hound: a thousand twangling instruments and far more, ten thousand too many. I need some loneliness. Amontillado, for the dusk is too beautiful for me, too foreboding and in that cellar of grey encroachment, of wine and others, is a man and his boy. They have trembling throats jangling against their breaths. The boy whimpers and then clamps down on his lip. Their rags, yellowing, cling to their misshapen, starved bodies, spotted. The wine clinks. I open my eyes though they are already open. I open my mouth though no words come out. I have so many words, so many words, yet none of my own.

Flashes of white whisper off the wine, waiting to be drunk after decades. The colour may have left by now, shattered by age to nobody’s conscience. Liquid murmurs burgundy. Anything that is burgundy, sufficiently burgundy, murmurs, especially wine, especially in a cellar, especially when you have no words to say. The boy is missing his fingers, the man his nose. Know that liquid murmurs louder than waves roar.

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