Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Riding a bull is similar to eating a straw.

There were twelve types of sewers in this city. Each neighbor knew what sort the other neighbors had. There were arguments over the different sorts of sewers. For instance, over which one was the finest sort.

Julip Jules grew up in this city. When she was an old woman she reflected upon her childhood there. This is a common thing to do in old age.

There are no streets in this city. People walk everywhere, and they walk over everything. The people are not tall though, if that’s what you’re thinking, even though it most likely isn’t.

Congested. My chest is congested. This was the complaint Doctor Jules came to Madame Julip with. She cured him of it, somehow.

Amongst tall sorts of people certain subjects are discussed. Those subjects are not discussed here, obviously.

Inside of the barn (there is a barn in this city too) a row of eggs is placed atop a loft. Nobody can see it from the ground, so nobody knows about this row of eggs but us. Last spring two birds flew over the city and, like the eggs, not a single person saw either one. The birds, for their part, did not mind, but if the people were informed of their oversight, they would no doubt mind.

A forest exists just outside the city.

Inside of an ice tray that is inside of the city sit tiny red cubes of frozen cranberry juice. If anyone knew about them they would demand to try one. But nobody knows about them, so nobody longs for them.

Regrets are discussed between the city’s pastor and his wife, aged 96, looking less old than that but feeling older, criminal but not mean, dirty but not quiet, solemn but not grinning, a chord in a long string of chords, done up to be done up, gotten for the price of a lemon, two chords, each taut, relying on a self-made man in a manmade stand, looking aghast, smelling, always thinking with toes and chins, never feeling quite right, lurking, sniffing, hurting, healing, thinking again of a smell, forgetting, thinking again of a job, a place anyway, or a curtsy, a gentleman, taller than you but not tall, just taller than you, unless you’re particularly tall, in which case, &c.

A moviehouse inside of this city sells beans and turquoise. People eat both, but they shouldn’t. People ought really to know better.

In a span of I don’t know how long an earlier era is recalled, revered, forgotten, and then recalled again. A span. People call all sorts of things time. But none of them know a thing about a time. Not one thing. Or another. Or just that. Time. Or not.

And for fish they chirp. Chirp says Jules Julip. Chirp chirp. And inside of her mouth, only moments later, sits a fat walleye. A fat two-tooth-walleye. Straight off the wall. Straight from a sling to a crow. A manager of sorts. This walleye. He keeps his two teeth busy at all times. He reads with them, swallows, even jerks off with his two teeth. A two-tooth-walleye is a good friend to have, don’t I know.

Fish then are in this city. Turquoise and pearls and canned beets. Beets are best bland. Otherwise they turn green and make your teeth feel cold. Chilled rather. Or stewed. Green beets stew your teeth. And inside of this? Of your teeth? Or chilled beets? Sits a toad. A leper. A forgotten something that might, upon reflection, sit upright. I looked once. But forgot.

In a city somewhere else. But then we wouldn’t have time. So instead there are things to be said for this city. Or place. There are always things to be said for things. Like goats. A man could say a great many things about a goat. But not everything. For instance you could not say that a goat was a bull. And for that matter you couldn’t say that riding a bull is similar to eating a straw. You just couldn’t.

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