The Carnival is Always Going On

The Carnival is Always Going On

They told us not to give away the strawberry jam if we could at all help it, so I wrapped it up and kept it out of sight (I hope I did the right thing)! So what if the coroner is popping wheelies in the parking lot and maybe circling around the occasional donut when there’s snow? We’ve still got a pretty happy and happening time ahead of us. An affinity for colonial wallpaper and powdered wigs makes me smile a big, big grin and how could I ever be sad again?

A positive happening is a good and clean, wholesome feeling. Variety is the spice of life, and have we had our fill, yet? I hope not! I’m not done with living yet! It’s a cooper for snakes with the barrel keeping a lid on our desires within wooden housing and no splinters could ever permeate our consciousness, right? I’m sure there’s a name for Walter that isn’t Walter. Listening to the Kinks can be inspiring, but for right now it’s distracting. Which is okay, because I’ll work through it! I’m that amazing, I am, I am!

Could the tower be taller for someone to climby-climb up its tendril-covered terrace? An ivy-clad clandestine chamber without a Rapunzel to clutter up the upstairs (she beat feet for Germany back a few centuries ago, so we won’t hold it against her). A tapestry could be revealed beneath what we’ve uncovered over the years when there’s dust and dirt and choked off apronmongers. Which, I know, could be covered again if we so desired. Or if it were desired by the curmudgeon that lives in the basement and is always telling us that we might be better off rehearsing for the apocalypse if we ever want a chance at getting over the mumps in a measly monocle marriage. A holiday of others with beds an breakfasts and baby buggy bumper buggerall. No mama wishes such upon her ilk, but we give ’em milk and they’re suddenly fine. Inspired! Inspiring!

It’s a healthy junkyard that keeps our souls safe and pining for yesteryear, but the carnival is always going on. Is a carnival better than a circus? An arcade? Any more permanent sort of amusement park? Theme park? Woodland park? National park? Where did they carve the faces of the dissidents when they ran out of mountains to deface? I think there are some presidents we could fit on the tin of an old soup can or a whole aisle of ’em if we tried. But who’s trying? I’ll try! Never mind what Yoda or Bukowski told us — valuable lessons are better learned by oneself, and that often involves mistakes. But also good stories to tell around the campfire later on, right? I like to think so! I’m not positive about the consequences, but I’m positive, overall, that it’s all going to work out fine.

I was hoping to be a few thousand miles away tonight, but it didn’t work out this time. Next time, though, I’ll be ready! What’s a world unwanderable worth, anyway? Wanderlust is a passion that can’t be stifled if health is to ensue, right? I hope there’s more worlds to walk when we’re done with this one, but since I don’t know what’s on the other side of the wall, I’m not going to worry about it much. Should I? Should I worry better? Make it more efficient, like? Well, what were they telling us about the way the cogs and the sprites and the goblins and the spirits wander with wiggly words and wobbly wigwams? A tent in the middle of a forest is the beginning of a big, big city for future generations to behold. We’re just camping on the old sites when we shutter ourselves up in big buildings and skyscraper tombstones. We didn’t bury the forest forever, though — it’s still there, waiting for us to go away on vacation so it can throw a party when we’re not looking. I like the way it hides behind us and under us. Trees and their forests are as patient as the ages.

Stripped bare of flesh and skeleton bare to the sky, we see the bleached whiteness of what’s been underneath this whole time. It started there and went somewhere else. We weren’t looking, but what did we see when we had another place to keep our eyes in check? I was just looking at the backs of my eyelids at the time, but I’m sure there could have been more if we’d given it a proper chance. A funeral of fanciful, we wish for a toupee made of craniums so we can have an extra brain or two even when we’re not looking anywhere beyond the behind or the underneath. We give it up for Lent, though we’ll borrow it back at the end of the year for pennies on the penance.

Where was it those pirates lived, again? I think it was somewhere down by Cornwall last I checked. We could have taken a train, but it just didn’t seem right. A visit to a Fawlty Tower or two was just what the Basil ordered. Forsooth, adieu, and farewell, friends! We’ll chat more about all of the zany zoos offering cheap flights to Spain in time for Easter or one of the other ones soon enough. Cheers!

[Image by A. Bergeret & Cie, shared by The Casas-Rodríguez Postcard Collection]

About Robert Glen Fogarty

Sometimes I'll take the wrong bus just to get out of the cold for a little while.

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