Blubble in the ruins

Elevate form over function to get at less easily articulable truths.

Blubble in the ruins

Postby Meno_ » Thu Dec 14, 2017 6:01 pm

Blubbie went tsk tsk tsk, while forging ahead in the secret garden, promises withstanding to arcturus (to whom this was a promise made in earnest)that gone are the days of simply staring at objects d'art, while sipping creme de minth or absinthe.

The ruins among those perplexing timeless escapes through internal struggles of inescapable dimensions, that Blubble merely scathing traced over, years of befuddled fanta sticks the boughs gently traced as if meaning to imply some veritable mystery, and him being a wizard, may expressly indulge, newly rebutting an escalating sense of breathlessness.

Course these noumina by known feelings become real manifests aspirations of long standing, breathed out mantra like into the vast expanse of the bolt of blue spread out sky ,as if nature prostratinf herself into a flattening gallery of fillagres of needlepointed bazzars of a bizarrely elongated mandala,
inviting , but a charismatic tapestry.

She asked him about the man who invented the instamatic Kodak camera and loosing 400 million through the great panic of 1929 he killed himself, but he still had 40 million left. Silly.

And Blubble lisping guttorally, from somewhere deep inside, as if to appraise the analogy as unfair or somewhat unbecoming.

Then he thinking of the short time left perhaps that he should not have gotten married, had this brew whom he cares and worries about constantly and the obsessional limmerick to be or not to be, constantly a haranging , to deal with it , and as IT approaches, the anticipation correspondingly increasing as well the pitch of double beats in the heart, wherein the unendurable weight mixes so smoothly with the lightness so seemingly matter of fact, with choirs of angles chorusing a sweet refrain.

In my room, even if its not mine and technically not even in it , Blubble mystified her, and ponderes the violation of a hard earned observance of a rule that has always been an unwritten law, don't drink before noon, and never without consuming some kind of snack.

Last night with the tyke Aiden, who now appears to be the current progenitor and keeper of what's left of his soul, of referring to him, she made a semi non forgivable slip of hers, that when he is gone nothing will be left to him, Aiden, the dear reincarnation of his young son who went out and quit the race at 33 years old.

What did she do all the many years together? Waste, with all projects, assets, inspired moment is down the drain, forever toying with ruin, as if accumulation ,merely a game like go or monopoly, of an underlying. deliberate deconstruction of the self.

The last imbroglio was with mama's house. For collection time immemorial, day of reckoning brought frantic efforts of recovery, the failure of that leading to certain foreclosure of two generations of hard acquisitive work, in the literal sense, oft finding legal notices tagged on to front door for all the neighberhood' s benefit: Notice to Quit. And it was supposed to be for her and Aiden, his future to have some kind of a. edge to overcome the vapid stench of demoralised barroom escapes intruding into his sense of yet untouched aspiration.

No. It was supposed to go to his mother her fittingly reminding him, of how anything to her or us would happen, he, the child wonder, his grandson as luminous as a little angel, will be defeated almost as certainly as the havoc sustaining such predictable effects causing by this general malaise.

So she went by the property the other day and having had experience in property said that the short sale-d property was torn down and two apartments with 30th units each was built there.

Imagine, she went on breathlessly, how how much buttress its subsequent effect on demoralizatipn of its retention may have caused to
save him?

Capital is future oriented for vanishing child-adolescent generational sustenance, but for some its merely a convenient rationalization to do away the depresdingly hanging clout of playing up to an overbearing inheritance, which is usually and typically blown away with a few hands of risky hold'em card game.

No trepidation there , merely a new game by the woman with 2 husbands. whose latest paramour , an immunologist with supposedly great business sense, using her impressionality to wit, as if she meant more to him then merely a present usable part in a subtle mechanism of opportunity opportunal deception.

For that, she is playing this game, a game which cannot be won , and Blubblie's excursions into the dark heart of the secret garden, by now become an excursion into the vast undertow of the ruins, laden with eternal song in the background of the maddening poetry of love, real love, emanating of Orpheus and deceived by the long spineless slumber by Morpheus, traveling through myriads of past and future times where at once, then or somewhere. he may through a long tunnel arrive only as looking down on an inert body, that at first, as Narcissus once did now, recognise at once : his own body.

The Ruins silently wait for your visit, in the secret garden of desire where the mingling of every one with deserving or undeserving ones, so that a new communal bath will clean and repatriate into that time and place, where the ruins were just built out of the clay and soul.
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