Umbrellas Unopent in Tempests, Part LVIII

Guest was pantomiming. Itwethey was sure of that. Itwethey searched memory banks: search words included “guest” “threshold” “welcome” and “pantomime.” Itwethey was dashing through the results—something had to turn up. Guest surely wouldn’t wait there forever. Pantomime is something to do with theater. Theater is something to do with Broadway. Broadway has nothing to do with Hollywood. Keats had tears melted into ground, though poetry and foundations are different. Itwethey stammered slowly in grunts and grouns, then said:

“I do take this transitiveness to mean I-I-I must accept as logical the objects “implied” quote-unquote. I-I-I do understand I-i-I must note as accepted objects shimmering or glimmering or offering light off of their starboard or esther or platonic solid or maybe, scratching contemplatively, stern, as a star is hidden or is eshstarred, melted into all experience, as if these horrible words, among which ‘experience’ is most horrible, have to be CONFRONTED.”

Itwethey lets out a sigh.

Guest’s pantomime was designed to let Itwethey know the experience of Guest was transitory. Guest had to know Itwethey had the hopes that any encounter with Guest was intended as eternal. Keats had, despite fears and tuberculosis, and some suggestions to the gaudi or the frightful “art noveau” (the objectivist or the critic of art known as the castigator of anything ‘noveau’ is horrified) down an emptiness no one will pantomime (ultimately we know pantomime creates, eschews emptiness, posits a relaxation of our fibers) Itwethey dares let out sigh, Guest, pantomiming, receives, mid-pantomime, that sigh, and delights.