Becoming famous, readers Invective and having a hostile Editor have severely interrupted my idea stream. DrDov says its writers block which Sounds to me like another drug industry invention sort of yuppie flu of the Mind, kind’ve.
You know Medici, that’s one helluva voice you have There, said Aviva the Guinean Singing Dog. It seems to have a range of three point three octaves below the falsetto and a full five with. I gave it nary a thought as I continued stridently Berating a diverse of bulging muscles and little brain who had strayed into my personal kinosphere, the greater Table Mountain Reserve. I employed my Unique torrent of abuse; voluble hound howl. At one stage the enormous trespasser changed direction and started walking toward me: I turned heel and Ran straight back into Avivas voluminous chests and protective forequarters. Cloven into her Cleavage, defensively encaptured, It was then that she was able to continue her Overtures toward me. (Ed: that’s not a pun, a double entendre* or even clever: just stoppit). You know she said, in her Lilting discourse, we just can’t keep the Italian out of you and Singing is so much part of your DNA. You vocalise your thoughts, likes, dislikes and even Your very presence. This talent, like you, just Demands harnessing, she said: unaware of the pun and the editors threat pertaining thereto. (Ed: watch out, you still culpable, by the laws of tort) Please come down to the Arbor in the western part of the park tomorrow and have a bash at singing in our all inclusive Acapella group: I think you would be a fine Fit and an asset to all of us. But, I’ve never seen any ships there, nor water for that matter, I replied with a raised querulous eyebrow**. Without an aitch, she Responded angrily. Like any method actress she still had Traces of Eliza Doolittle in her pastoral life, having starred in full houses a decade or two ago in what Previously had been known as a thoroughbreds-only Theatre.
I followed a tunnel of sound in the air and Emerged through the arch of two oaks into the tree Beringed clearing. There was a huge sombrero with Hesus the diminutive chihuahua under and in Front of it. He was singing Yeeeeeee and striking a chord on his imaginary picannini guitar, looking anxiously to Aviva who was beating out the time: the lavish swing of her baton counterbalanced by a good majority of her eight breasts, Contrapuntally (Ed: ofcourse). To their right was Dirk the big black Bouvier who, all eyes fixed on Aviva, was going emmbm de bmm debmmmm repetitavely down there, somewhere in the baritone Basement. But surprise, surprise of surprises was seeing Ivan previously known as Bogdonovitch the Borzoi soviet era spy, doing his Oktovist bit. Growllllahhmmmmyemmmmm, he went, in a Continuo fully an octave below Dirk’s mellifluous baritone. Sitting cross Pawed, so very artily on the grass and effortlessly singing contralto, was Rosie the Standard Pomeranian: I’ve been washed in the blood of the lamb, blood of the lamb, blood of the lamb to which a phalanx of Wannabes from the South Park (Ed: in academic garb?) yelled and gyrated and did jazz paws in the air. My goodness what a Sound. There was a tapping of the Baton and a dew claw drawn symbolically across the throat as Aviva instructed them all to Stop on the 3rd beat of the fourth bar. Very tense it was Too: the suspended sound hovering uncomfortably in the air like a misplaced cup of Coffee with just a final sip remaining.
I’d like to introduce you all to our new Male soprano, the literary, erudite and oh so musical Medici, the famous Miniature Italian Greyhound. We are going to try him Alternating third part harmonies with Rosie and trust that you will all give him One of our traditional warm musical welcomes. Oneah twoah threeah, hellonewfriend, they harmonised at me in one long Complicated chord: like a hybridised iMac/Dell/IBM Booting up. I blushed. A score with my part Highlighted was thrust at me and I was directed to stand alongside Rosie. Again: oneah twoah threeah, lets go wash in the Blood of the lamb, blood of the lamb, blood of the Lamb and before I new it I was cued in for my fourth part interval, Thankyou jeezuz, and then it was all repeated endlessly on Every fourth beat. ChuckSquared the squirrel with his kids Chick Squared did the percussion and at the End of every chorus. Chuck Chuck Chiki Chiketty chi chi chuck they went while Rosetta the Hadeda and the Family Stone the Crows did brass blatts and other rhythmic hits. The Stones swept Imaginary trombone slides in the air just in case one wasn’t sure of their Mimicry. The diverse backing Choir of Emeritus professors wiggled and shook and yelled and hollered we love you Baybeh jeezuzzzz in shoddy Faux canine Deep Southern accents. And so it went : on and on and on
I was inspired by the Monotonous repetition, realising that all I needed to do was just write write write and all the words would ultimately make sense even if they came out as the highly improbable washing and cleaning in muttonblud.
There were songs about the great flood
Sauntering through the Red Sea Mud
The mixing of testaments
From Adam to pestilence
But all invariably reducing to blood.
*french
**or a lowering of the other. In any event its a discoursal non verbal question mark.