Friday, July 23, 2004

Tongue Twister: Summer 2003

               He felt bad tempered but followed his torn instincts to replace his dampened spirits with a different kind of sadness:  More of a full-bodied melancholy than the silent weariness of the previous sleepless nighttime subjorn.  The shadows of the day receded as he walked by ceremoniously to the quay, on the river, that ran unambiguously to an anonymous ocean.  Many tides would caress the shore, before and after, in time with the solitary toll of the marine church, seemingly mocking him with its regular singularity.  A rocking bell, that fell in its sleep and awoke again on the turn.  Statues like skulls turned their faces towards the single star skulking behind journeying water carriers of distant flight. 
              There was nothing from that morning panorama that might humour him with any pleasure or awake his joys from sorrow.  His manifestations of the previous evening with a man courting impulsive malice conjoined with this scenic plain, to load his mind with a sustained despondency, which it was his earthly wish to shake off later still.
              He turned into the yard of the church in order to accost the midnight clown, who had refused him money, quietly within his own headquarters right behind the church – additionally to convey certain umbrage about his predicament that day.
              The precincts of the church overlooked the fragile graves that told of the merciless sea, persuading sailors to forgo their rotten ships for a safer dry land existence, and instead the rising waters recommended the earth’s potent hospitality for them to stay put and rest.  Squashed into a corner of all this stood the magnificent Celtic cross; it was set to dazzle the sun-dried sailors who sought greater glories in lieu of the offices surrounding the chaotic ocean corners.  By this historical emblem, which marked a landing place for crossing seagulls, grew this small outcrop, a homegrown community who lived always by and from the sea.
              To the north of the cemetery resided Piquadedor, an anchorman for the village festivities, during the winter months, when he would yell and scream for a living.  Most would be bad language and bad tempered nuances towards fellow citizens but for the rest, it sounded like sheer magic.  Piquadedor’s charm grew from the lucid turn of his tongue:  It imitated the boisterous judge right down the scale to the petty charnel girls, though impressively on exact platitudes with the very people he was suppose to ape.  Many would hoot with laughter exclusively from the mirth this man accomplished to create just from his recreations of local celebrities.  When the time came to perform, Piquadedor would imbibe refreshing local liquid in vast quantities and then plagiarise the voices of immediate companions, likewise to copy what they had said like a child would do if it felt a propensity to vastly irritate any one speaker at a time.  Most folk present at these functions would tag on in a bizarre ‘follow my leader’ of adulation, in which even the meekest felt it ill to show no favour whatsoever to the performer responsible for these hilarious follies.
              The door of Piquadedor’s cottage remained wide open to the day’s salty sea breezes, wafting across the overgrown threshold, possibly to advertise his presence to this angry caller, who was now strolling down the drive in an effort to settle this debt honourably.
              Openly there had been an embarrassment during the night:  Piquadedor had departed in peace with some of his purloined merchandise and in actuality, hadn’t paid him, then laughed it off jocularly amongst his most trusted colleagues later on down wind.
              From the rooms in the back issued a piping laugh that sounded as if it was emitting from a mouth feminine in nature but nobody would be totally sure on that account.  Jokingly Piquadedor had always maintained that his house reminded him of the insides of a pub vestibule but apart from varicoloured imitation prints there was nothing else to note that would recommend this stark comparison in any shape or form.
              “Piquadedor, Piquadedor, are you not so dispensed now to converse with me, come out here you thief”, the man declaimed as quickly as his floating mind would allow; “I’ll not wait too long, so get dressed you tight moron”!
              A short twist of fate had enabled the revengeful man to catch a glimpse of Piquadedor standing in his shirtsleeves next to a talentless painting showing a performing seal:  It was more an abstraction, a feud of colours, than an understandable representation.  Someone else was talking to him from the outside of a pair of French windows in a full rounded timbre but Piquadedor had obviously stopped listening.  The wind began to obscure what this anonymous woman was saying despite the fact she preferred to continue to herself regardless.
              “So as I don’t appear nameless, I am Doctor Shorve,” voiced the arriving young gentleman in a harsh manner, “now give me my money due idiot”!
              Piquadedor resisted any propriety to react to this abrupt request for cash; He whistled casually to work out the stress Doctor Shrove inharmoniously carried into his studio – an extraction of the inharmonious contempt from within the aspect of this forceful man.  Doctor Shorve’s corrugated face now looked woefully bewitched with odious concept, soliciting anger bereft of urgent reasonableness, willing a paradoxical abhorrence from deep inside him towards this mulish performer of secondhand voices.  After his piqued temper rose still uncorroborated by actual words, he appeared to disembark from this lofty measure to repent his sinful quality on the rebound.  The public dismemberment from the mad heights was sooner or later lulled in repose by Piquadedor’s mysterious tongue again.
              Piquadedor at last spoke, “She sells shells on the sea shore”, saying this again and again exactly the same, in a voice one would merit as almost the echo of Doctor Shrove’s own address but more reverberant from his own experienced mouth.
              “I’d forgotten I owed you so much cash in advance from my purchase after twilight”, he at last admitted carefully, “but I do not take too kindly to such rudeness from you in future” he continued, “you can take it back if you want, I believe it is faulty anyway”.
              Piquadedor’s eyes swam like the wandering heavenly water carriers over the sea ridge but tightening unhurriedly to take in the Doctor’s assumed regal aspect.  Pleased with his work, he decided to blow back what he had admittedly taken away on the air, such was his occupational art, attempting to calm down the rattled town Doctor, so that he would finally tune him in onto his own spiritual wavelength.  So through his nostrils returned the doctor’s personal sounds filtered away; emotional tides; shadows of himself on many occasions; templates following his living consciousness and more importantly the self-pity he had felt so heavily that day by the sea.
              Piquadedor blew on a lozenge shaped whistle that ventured to make no sound in any current human oral apparel.  Outside the jabbering from the lady abruptly stopped and this same company, sitting by the window throughout, answered the foreign signal and walked obediently right underneath the ancient joists of the house, joining the doctor once more - her keeper.  He had apparently been moved to give up his haranguing to retrieve his little bit of property straight back from the clutches from this man, who would never accord without delving further and further into the sweep of this victim’s mind on site in order to retrieve his real voice.


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