The Elections of 2014, … Somewhat Personified.
Rashid Hassan Koudrapali Prime sat somewhat confused in what appeared to be an eerie nest. It was definitely on an aerie of some sort but perhaps not one kindly disposed towards him. And a nest that size seemed unlikely to portend anything positive, at least for him. Rashid did the only positive thing he could think of, pinching himself in the hopes of finding himself lost in an uncomfortable dream but, although the uncomfortable part seemed right, the pain was not really soothing, although, optimist that he usually tended to be, he realized that one could also dream one felt pain. He thought of eagles and of words that almost rhymed and then, for some reason, of the word eyrie, then recalled Ireland’s ancestral name Erie. But that was very far to the north and west. If accuracy was his quest then perhaps thinking of Nepal would have been best, but what he really longed for was a tether to someplace secure and that was more than a bit unlikely, of that, at least, he could be sure.
An errant vision fleeted into his thoughts, an image of a dark woodcut bass relief in the shape of a series of erotically voluptuous women engaging in even more erotic performances, albeit apparently on a temple wall, which inexplicably brought to mind the god sometimes called the Dancer, and at others the Creator, but also, somewhat more ominously the Destroyer, and then he recalled the legend that that god had replaced the beautiful head of one of his more prominent sons with that of an inexplicably jovial elephant. Not all that comforting an interlude but one which for apparently obvious reasons did bring to mind peaks which in the darkness kissed the stars, … perhaps somewhere in Nepal.
The nest smelled strangely and was lined internally (the sides being too tall for him to even guess at what lined it externally) with what appeared to be mud-drenched-down, once perhaps slick but now dry and hard, although still slippery, and set in its apparently formerly viscous blend, what appeared to be nuggets of amber imprisoning ancient insects. It had been warm when he’d become conscious of being, but it seemed to be quickly cooling, as though a large inhabitant had recently abandoned it. The thought disturbed him quite a bit, but glad he was that he was unaccompanied by a giant brood of hungry chicks.
He recalled a book thrice condemned involving the strange transformation of passengers who’d fallen safely from an aircraft disaster, apparently over the ocean that blanketed an Isle some called the home of people at least once blessed, but perhaps that blessing had been long lost, and he wondered if he hadn’t perhaps experienced an experience in some manner somewhat similar. Not likely he quickly realized, but then again, how likely was his current situation?
He considered stepping all the way back to one of the infinite nether ledges bound to be found in any circle, taking a running leap at the opposite edge, and climbing out but the height and his current physical state, even had he not been tired and sore and uncomfortable, made success there somewhat less than likely, and what if he did succeed, what might he find, and even more relevant, what more precarious a pickle might he find himself in. Hmmm, pickles, the thought made him realize that although he was not yet hungry, he soon would be, and thirsty as well. Better to explore his current abode a bit, perhaps find hand or footholds, preferably both, or better yet a trap door back to sanity, if not, perhaps, reality. Yes, reality was not all that great, come to think of it, and sanity, what was sane anyway?
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2014; all rights reserved