1.10.2006
Renwick's Dream
You stand before the rebus, behind the pane of glass. It’s made of postage stamps, an eight by eight grid of paper squares. You squint at it, trying to puzzle it out, when the blow to your head comes and fills your eyes with blood.
A REBUSS FOR ALL AEGIS!
reads the sign. You pull the tent flap open, seeking some peace from the carnival outside. The smells and sounds seem specifically designed to offend every sense you own.
An enormous statue of your father stands in the corner of the tent. It stretches the fabric taut against its head, and you wonder if you stare at it long enough, will the canvas rip? A noise attracts your attention, and you silently curse as you reflexively turn your head. “Am I such a slave to distraction as the rabble outside?” you wonder. Leering at you with a toothy grin, you’re sure that the minotaur, coughing again, knows your thoughts.
The head is disproportionate with the body. The giant bull’s head also seems to fill the entire tent space. The saucer-sized brown eyes look right at you, and a long, skinny arm points towards the flap in the back with a striped barker’s cane. “Rebussh,” it lisps. “Rebusssh passht the flappsh.” You nod and step through a heavier canvas tent flap than the first one you entered.
The stale smell of mothballs. At least the smell of burnt meat and offal from the streets outside is gone. It’s dark here, oppressively so, and you strain your eyes to see a small square of yellowed glass, lit from below, far ahead of you. You walk towards it, extending your hand so as to better judge distances.
reads the sign. You pull the tent flap open, seeking some peace from the carnival outside. The smells and sounds seem specifically designed to offend every sense you own.
An enormous statue of your father stands in the corner of the tent. It stretches the fabric taut against its head, and you wonder if you stare at it long enough, will the canvas rip? A noise attracts your attention, and you silently curse as you reflexively turn your head. “Am I such a slave to distraction as the rabble outside?” you wonder. Leering at you with a toothy grin, you’re sure that the minotaur, coughing again, knows your thoughts.
The head is disproportionate with the body. The giant bull’s head also seems to fill the entire tent space. The saucer-sized brown eyes look right at you, and a long, skinny arm points towards the flap in the back with a striped barker’s cane. “Rebussh,” it lisps. “Rebusssh passht the flappsh.” You nod and step through a heavier canvas tent flap than the first one you entered.
The stale smell of mothballs. At least the smell of burnt meat and offal from the streets outside is gone. It’s dark here, oppressively so, and you strain your eyes to see a small square of yellowed glass, lit from below, far ahead of you. You walk towards it, extending your hand so as to better judge distances.
You stand before the rebus, behind the pane of glass. It’s made of postage stamps, an eight by eight grid of paper squares. You squint at it, trying to puzzle it out, when the blow to your head comes and fills your eyes with blood.
