We are the pumpkin eaters and flashlight swallowers. We are the mandolin players and the knife throwers. We are the bakers of cherry pies and the writers of madrigals dedicated to Denny’s waitresses. We are the Imperial poets of the overlooked and uninvited. If there were any real justice in the world, we would surely be riding in palanquins on the backs of Indian elephants, instead of driving around town in rusty blue Datsuns looking for parking meters with free time. We are the players of midnight French horns, the collectors of vintage Chia Pets, the fans of Green Lantern. We are the quirky and the dispossessed.
We have our hands stuck inside beehives and our heads stuck inside diving bells. We light Roman candles and drink cheap red wine. Sometimes we are so small you cannot even see us. We smoke Turkish cigarettes and play Tiddly Winks. We insulate our attics with the fur of peaches. We beam radio signals into outer space, and gather on hillsides awaiting the first contact. We hum Burt Bacharach tunes and imitate whale songs. Sunlight makes us sneeze. We are as pink as a baby’s toes and slick as oysters. When we get drunk at parties, we pretend we’ve read The Remembrance of Things Past. We are afraid of Puffer fish and Puritans. We wish that someone would teach us a secret handshake. We throb when light is at certain frequencies. We quote Aldous Huxley and discuss the pineal gland. We are occasionally weightless. We paint our nipples blue and have cravings for chocolate. We are the ne’er-do-wells and lollygaggers. We are the hammock-swingers and the players of accordions. We do the bum dance and join fingertips. We make careful plans based on gooseflesh and divination.
All across this great land, we are gathering in grottoes and abandoned potato barns. We are gathering by the light of paper lanterns. We are writing manifestos on rice paper with hummingbird quills. My missus is making us baloney sandwiches. All across this once-free land, we are stocking up on blancmange and string cheese. We are bumming cigarettes and planning revolution. We are listening to inspirational music played by Sister Dottie on the pump organ. We are infiltrating fortune cookie factories and government laboratories. We are practicing holding our breath, in case it should be handy. We are stockpiling the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Our spies are learning backwards writing. Look out, Mr. Bush, we’re coming to get you!
Proust, M. (1982). Remembrance of things past. Vintage/Ebury, Division of Random House Group.