Putrefactive heptameron Nº 1

"Moraleja of the English Icarus"

<<The raison d'etre and, in short: the mere existence of Icarus, has been carved by the mythomane in order to inculcate a moral or advice in the soft and malleable mind of the reader. And the advice reads: 

"Diminish your ambitions, and fly close to this Earth, so that, if you fall, your disaster will be still salvageable at the end of the day."

Then, and notwithstanding, as the empirical years go by, you arrive to the embittered conclusion that some universal postulates are not always applicable, that some events escape the exact structure of the divine design, that the nature is not necessarily wise, that the destiny is created -or destroyed- at every step:

This is when the gods get surprised, this is when you become that superior being
the cosmic joker, the one who dies with nerves of steel.

For many years you feared being supplanted by that other yourself, that limpid new you who peels your inferior skin and substitutes you but: how could you fear this metamorphose en vida, when you'll face the nothing en muerte?>>




































I think it was the morning of the 9 of April of 1.972 when Royall Euclid "Roy" Plumbey looked through the window of his room:

it was a bluell morning in Felixstowe, with a ray of sun that came from the east, from the coasts of the mother Scandinavia, shining tube-like and bifurcated over the azul dorsal of the North Sea, like two Faber-Castell pencils... those old pencils whose boxes showed instantaneous images of the world that meant 1.000 things nothing.


A ray of Scandinavian sun bifurcated in two over Clacton-on-Sea and Thorpe-le-Soken, that light that never warms:
 
Roy Plumbey observed the tubular display of light and the dust floating in it like mierdita, something roared in his chest... what?

Something, something that pushed him -somehow- to fly.

How?

Yes: to fly

to spread his wings of English Icarus over the marine expansion

on the radio, Radio Luxembourg sounded on amplitude modulation, Tom Jones and his "hit": "She's an Icarus"

-because this is what Roy Plumbey understood, because his mind was already totally out of it self-

the tambourine echoed in his eyeboobs like something magnetique and bestial, something that sucks the soul and sends to Hell:

after this vision of nadmess, Roy Plumbey lost consciousness and fell on the floor exanimous, while his head experienced a soft rebound on the fat-yellow carpet, like a bola de futebol brasileira no Maracaná brasileiro do Brasil.



After his deep sopor, Roy Plumbey woke up brusquely 90 hours later:

his first words immediately after his awakening were "Aahh" "Upa?" "Aahh"

it was 4:45 AM, and Plumbey ran brainlessly and desperate to the garage


plastic, panels of flexible wood and glue: his mind changed.

His mind changed forever.












The story, with its pink lips of silk, it tells us how Roy Plumbey became that English Icarus, crossing through English skies for the next decades:

"There he goes" -they said- "The English Icarus"

"He is insane" -they insisted-  "Who does he think he is?"

And the paradox, or idiocy, is that -unlike his Greek counterpart- Plumbey never fell, because the English skies hadn't any sun to melt the glue of his wings


yes: enraged and hallucinated Roy Plumbey still flies through the oceanic azulejo of the national skies, those white, británicos and merciful skies that don't dissolve that glue of his wooden ala -which in fact is not glue, but Nocilla española-.






In the end, the moral of this narración marrana is simply one: