ARABESQUE

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Patagonia, collage, 1972

            Artemus put down the book he was reading distractedly and breathed a sigh. The air about him was heavy with the perfume of frankincense which burnt in an old jeweled container near the window. The curtains were closed as always; the view outside only looked like a mirror to him anyway.

            The smoke curled up in dizzying columns and spirals which only served to remind the weary Artemus of his previous years, the ecstasies and flights of the spirit which had transformed his life.  He bent his head slowly and absently stroked one of his long, grey wings.

            The perfume was now chokingly strong, it seeped into every corner of the room where it mixed with the fog which seeped under the doors and windows from outside.  Shafts of light streamed through a portico near the ceiling and cut through the icy stillness of the chamber.

            Morbidly, Artemus began thumbing through some musty old texts on alchemy, botany and astronomy.  His eyes glowed like coals as he perused first one and then another of the old engravings describing various and shadowy processes from some obscure cultures long since forgotten.  As he read, a chip of gold fell from his long fingernails and landed on the page.

            Suddenly he yawned and fell into what at first seemed like a deep reverie, but colder, more like a slumber.  The shaft of light hit one of the pages of the book at Artemus’ hand. The page, which seemed almost to turn to meet the light was thus illuminated and revealed an esoteric process for conjuring up tableaux, grim and fabulous. Hours, days, generations, it seemed to him, passed by as the shaft of light expanded and brightened.  It continued to do so until there was no longer just a shaft of light, but a veritable room full of golden radiance.  The appearance of the chamber dimmed and individual objects melted into the glimmer.

            Somehow Artemus awakened, as if from an opium dream, to see the golden shimmer begin to dim and turn into the rich blue of a Mediterranean, nay, a North African sky. Its cerulean brightness was enhanced by the absence of any clouds, even the pristine and mounting cumulous giants which Artemus had loved as a child and had imagined himself frolicking in. No, it was pure blue, and as the horizon came into focus he perceived that there were small triangular indentations in the ether which on closer inspection turned out to be nothing less than the vast pyramids.

            Artemus decided to investigate further and, arising from his desk, walked over the burning sand to a sphinx-like gentleman with a floor length beard and coat of buttons. This fellow was truly remarkable in appearance. His visage resembled nothing Artemus that had ever seen before. The nose was a veritable aqueduct of molten finery leading from the chalky forehead and hair of coarse wire down to three lips that opened and closed in some grievous syncopation, doubtless guided by the movements of the galaxies. His skin and hands were of clear jade, and when he laughed, jewels fell all around him as in a vacuum.

            The astounded Artemus enquired whether any of this was appropriate, knowing the reputation of the area for thieves and bandits on magic carpets. The man laughed and the echo seemed to come from beyond time, deeper even than the forest. Artemus crumbled to the ground, alternately laughing and crying while scrawling meaningless symbols on the granite legs of this pederast which towered above him.

            Before any explanation could be proffered, Artemus found himself inside the tent of a sheik or some other desert ruler.  At his feet shrieked jewels of every description while all about him frolicked naked negresses in turquoise baths as in a scene by Delacroix. Fragrant odors of myrrh and hashish mingled with the scarlet voices of the roses which seemed suspended in the air above the throne.  Above soared eagles and falcons while more exotic birds of many hues clung to gilded pillars and beams.

 For a tent, or a temple, Artemus did not know exactly what it was, it was amazingly high, in fact its top was concealed in cloud and mists. Artemus continued for a while to indulge in the somewhat bacchantic atmosphere of this tent which was almost spoiled by the creeping vegetation which grew menacingly under the unattended walls. Unwatched, it was spreading, with its sickening stenches and beautiful orchids alive with glowing, jeweled vermin and opalescent insects.

Before he could come to grips with the phenomenon, however, the tent flap opened and in was paraded a marvelous assortment of kinky and glutinous freaks. These were the performers and Artemus watched them as they writhed in unfulfilled passions to the tune played by a solitary lyre.  He giggled slightly at the sight of one of the company who appeared to be of the consistency of sand and gold flakes. This personage trembled but did not move as Artemus shot first one and then another arrow into his forehead, the resulting assemblage somewhat resembling a chimera of ancient origins which he had seen in some old manuscript. No apparent reason or moral was discernable as to why these people were here, but Artemus accepted them as readily as he had this whole strange odyssey.

            Moments or ages after the entry of this company, a royal personage, obviously the ruler, strode in.  He was adorned with the feathers of the peacock and the bird of paradise.  His features were both noble and antediluvean. He shot Artemus a quixotic glance which seemed to say, “isn’t this all ridiculous?” and at once ascended the throne which instead of sitting upon, he proceeded to climb until he disappeared into the mists above. No explanation was given, but Artemus didn’t expect one at this point. Things were going to well as the radiant negresses and other luxuriant bathers massaged marvelous oils and beautiful compounds on his face and wings.

At his feet languished a small armadillo, also encrusted with jewels, which wound himself up and played various unearthly airs resembling Patagonian funeral dirges.

            This hostel quitted, Artemus streaked for the nearest exit and jumped upon the back of a fiery stallion to ride out of the area accompanied by hoots and jeers from the massive sphinxes who, once he had passed from sight, again contented themselves with trivial questions and games of chance.

            Time was wearing thin and Artemus knew as he fumbled through first one and then another of his old texts that there was no end to the mysterious vapours of his dwelling.

            Now we see him there in his study and appearing from afar like some Prometheus chained to a rock while all about him gorgons and harpies throw flowers and dust on his shattered limbs.

Gregg Simpson, 1970