Amortization of the Amatory

Farinata clung to the darkling plain with all his might. He showed great determination not to be the highest wet point for a sliver of lightning. Supine and stricken with fright, he was amazed not to see a whit of life flash before his eyes. More of a blankety blank. Whatever had happened before his move to the “land of living skies” was incredibly obscure, as was his translation next door to the friendliest province in recent memory. That Latinate name was surely a giveaway that our friend laid claim to a literary bent. Poetic, if you must know. In fact, his fear of a fatal bolt from on high was matched only by a fear that his creative powers would fail him, should he try to recount his life.

To this end, Farinata pictured two pupae that were (securely or precariously) suspended from the top of a fence with a stony finish. Inside, the women were, wriggling with anticipation. Probably a common male fantasy, to bind them in leafy shells like that, hanging from a silken hook.
No, nature abhors nothing. The satin bowerbird spares no other bird when collecting feathers and other blue objects with which to design the entrance to its bower, cleverly designed to dazzle the azure eye of his prospective mate, she who promptly dispatches him for more blue buttons or bottlecaps. The shame arose from the fact there were two of them, dangling from the highest caste of beauties. To the best of his knowledge, Muses were single-spined, or went around in nines. Thus, his personal fortitude, his virtu, was called into question. Might as well cover them from head to heel, and protect himself from himself.

Yet the two ladies gave him pause for thought, wrapped in delicious colours that mimicked the dominant shades of the substrate with an air of Pre-Raphaelite grace. Naturally, there had been other scrapes with capable women (if the odd fumbling and even the odd fumbling of wedlock can be called a scrape), which he had categorized under the rubric of fleshy pursuits. As for the two delicious misses, neither would be caught dead wriggling in a chrysalis. One morning, they had broken free of those chitinous husks and had dried their sopping wings until they were ready to take flight for parts unknown. Poetic usage aside, one Muse was getting on with her decorous life in Queen City. The other, still waving in the foreground, was well on her way to a solid vocation, and had abandoned her former friends (and ours) to the social milieu in which they floundered. There is no need to exaggerate. Just a second ago, she had not actually waved, or for that matter, walked arm in arm with her usual chaperone with their steps keeping in perfect time with one of Schubert’s dances (D.783 No. 7). No, she had mouthed a hello meaty enough to feed almost half a Paradiso, were there not the gristle of earthly concerns to clip his wings on the spot. Nor was she lording it over him on a minimalist-chic Scrooser, although that is how he always envisioned her. As for the
friendliness, that was already guaranteed on every provincial license plate.

We need not worry that no one else will turn up. Someone often does. Incidentally, this is known as foreshadowing. While we are here, we might as well appraise his stupefaction. His eyes were screwed up because he had nearly idealized the poor dear out of existence. He clenched his teeth because her bourgeois constraints were quick to cordon off the open manhole he teetered over, namely the Void. Taking into account as many artistic purviews as our budget will allow, we must concede that the Canadian prairie has seldom been expressed as anything more than a
whopping Néant, and that is how Farinata happened upon her. Stuck with the same old representative models, he decided to stand on one leg, lacking the tools to mansplain away the copious amount of desire that had repeatedly tripped him up since reaching the middle of the road of his life. In passing, he lacked enough pluck to suggest that countless exoplanets ultimately had more influence than the perpetual recession that held sway over his most heartfelt inclinations.