Chapter Three: Soulstice, part one

Unlimited magic at the company dinner so astounded Huckleberry that immediate reassesments of his physical health were paramount to his psychological health; of which the primary instigator of such concern was a classic Infinite Wine trick. Every time a glass chapel was sparse on The Lamb’s Blood an angel, swinging low, would thereby deliver moral reinforcement. The only time a chapel was left empty was when the congregation had moved into the barroque belfry of bubbly to cheer and toast a solid, but creamy and hopefully digestible New Year.

A bouyant evening which set sail for the bars after much jubilating, leaves Huck some time to consider his quarter-complete-journey whilst embarking by train from Grand Nostalgia Station. Watching train cars pass, each frame films in file taking this chance to unravel themselves from the serpentine orgy of a neuron cluster that they cummulatively resembled. The great sleep of rememberance reconstructs for him a sequence he hardly believes.

Awakened by the suited man pleading, “tickets, please” Huckleberry fights the ludicrous frequency of these sterile lights, somehow fitting for the Flight from time which is Swiss incarnate. His ticket is somewhere in a pocket of something, and everyone else is clearly getting ticketed off quite frankly because, who let this yokel on the Flight, anyway? Is he registered, is he aware that we simply don’tnevergot time for these social disruptions?

there, **, there it is**

and peace, again, laid out on the train’s interior cloth benching gazing up at the extremely unstable frenetic light of this one Winterthur bound Flight. Sleep.

There came a time for penguins, at the zoo near Zurich. He found that they too were constantly gazing out and around. upwards, backwards, underwards, sidewards yet somehow still in progression – the paradox between motionless and figurefull postured postulations implicated some sort of space motion, but it was imperceivable. They were simply cunning creatures by creation.One walks with penguins and registers their brain on a frequency other than Flight, and then begins to wonder just what the hell they are doing in a place called Switerland. The slip, they slide, they shuffle, they sail, they surf, they swim. One could romanticize and say that penguins engage with the Capital T A O, that they might possess a certain T E. But that, dear readers, is simply the tendency of this narrator, yours’truly now and for as long as lasts this meambulation. There is, however, one thing the Flight has in common with penguins – a love of sledding. This unaccountably postcard christmas environment was just itching to be sledded, and so, in the mountain town of Rigi Huckleberry’s hosts took him sledding. Sledding to town. Sledding to the bar. Sledding to Saint Nicolas! Sledding to the grocerey store. Sledding from the peak-ed sunset into the darkness of night, through curves of reflection and the perils of friction. It is dangerous, to move at such speed without knowing what is on the other non-existent side of the mountain path edge..he thinks

Somewhere between the absolutely stunning winterscape of the Swiss Alps and the horrid Flight that the sensations of [ChristmasSnow+ BeautifullyWisconsinLikeCountryside] remind him of that extremely singular place, of Madison. What an exceptional rarity, oddity, peculiarity of a community is Madison, Wisconsin. Especially more so, the particular community to which he pertained there is in no way explainable or relevant when people say, “oh, you’re from the states!”

The swinging slide swoops in for more:

Nauseating amounts of mixed perfumes pressurize the cabin of Marion’s car as they head back from a trip to Badajoz. The girls left Huck to DoAsDoesBest in the central part of town. Amidst a town still destroyed by the civil war not so long ago, amidst a town where the financial crisis is spelled out for you by degraded letters on crumbling housing and deserted abodes, Huck finds a Tapas Fair burning alive. While M&M make a tour of the shopping center near the border with Portugal, Huckleberry dines on one of his favourite stereotypes of Spain: a tapa crawl. At the first bar, while talking with the very definition of a friendly southern spaniard, Huck picked up a map of bars participating in the fair with a special tapa for a Fair price…ha ..ha..ha.. oof, my knees aren’t what they used to be!

It’s 11 a.m., time for the first tapa, and the first cervecita on his trail of beers. Several bars later, and full to the tapa his capacity, Huck joins Manon and Marion for la comida around 3 p.m. Perhaps it was the abundant caña consumption, but at this time Huck embarks on a halucinogenic journey incited by the often orgasmic taste of lightly salted Iberian Jamon. ‘Please eat (acorn fed ham) responsively.’ will go the saying, one day..

A horn, and  tac-tac clinking heels which claim the night in Spain break his concentration, and Huck crosses over from the Madrila – guitar slung – onto the main drag of Cánovas. To his right is a line of apsiring Festives, young hopefuls entering the arena of the nightclub Cameron. He has been there, once, and yet that one time was a source of great friendships outside of the arena that also aren’t likely to return there. Often, friendship is the celebration of serendipity. Often it is as simple as two or more parties, all of whom recognize {we are here, IT is remarkable, and we are together to witness it} as an extremely fulfilling set of circumstances that does not necessarily exist within any defined bounds.

Including the company dinner and other similar festive pre-holiday send-off’s, the pace of the film before the frames of his train car seating go beyond the bounds of his vision, a space oddity.

It’s been four years since he heard that voice. To which, having only a month of speaking under his belt, responding with his own is quite embarrassing. Picking up a language after a break of four years without a formal review is quite the startling experience, but not quite as startling as picking up a conversation with an equal stretch of time between Goodbye and Hello. What a fascinating shape the river of life takes, Huck thinks and reassures himself that the raft assuredly continues downstream despite the manifesting Relativity of the moment. Then the Absurdity hits. You see, tonight is Halloween, and Huckleberry is painted like a Sugar Skull much like you would observe within the Mexican community for Day of the Dead. He’s wearing nice slacks, shiny shoes, a silveredBlue tie, and a fedorah; all in all, dressed to kill and a handsome devil – we might add. He’s out at the bars with friends, it’s midnight and he is sipping some terrible (cheeeeap) whisky if only to remind himself that somewhere, out there, truly tasty whiskys exist. Tomorrow afternoon (or the morning in Spain), he expects to pick up his friend from the bus station – a friend he hasn’t seen for nearly four years. He’s generally swept up in the fun of Halloween and having a …hugh? aa-roouu? What’s that Scooby? a text from Cindy? What’s it say, dude?

‘Surprise! I caught the last bus from Madrid, I will be in Cáceres in an hour!’

Like Zonks, Scoob, we better get going!

Thereby, Huckleberry, in complete Halloween-Day of the Dead regalia, walked through the midnight streets of Cáceres to the bus station with no time to change out of costume and greeted his long found friend with a big tooth-painted grin.

It is the joy of everyone to have friends who accept you, even when you look like death. And here in Spain Huck finds the film largely reconstructing itself around these pilars. I will, my lovely companions, return this magic narration device to the joyful librarians at this moment; but before this part of chapter three ‘Soulstice’ comes to the intermission pause, allow me to leave you with this last sequence of frames from the homeward bound nostalgia journey screened two evenings past in Huckleberry Theater, for me, a man away from home, it is exceptionally full of the spirit -the carol – of Christmas:

Something simple, incredibly simple. I simply can’t explain how remarkable it is to just have bread, goat cheese, pate, olive tapanade, chocolate covered figs, yogurt cups, almond turron and effervescently dry white wine in the company of such rare individuals with whom I simply enjoy being near. Smiles through silence, thankfulness through wordlessness, and in the background croons Frank Sinatra,’and so I offer you this simple phrase’ and coffee is brought out,’ for all kids 1 to 92′ and though it’s been said, ‘ma-ny timesss, manyWayyysss’…Merry Christmas, to You.

.

 

 

On to Ch.3, part two? Click here

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