affection at the close of the story. âHe said, âAt the gates of heaven lie the hounds of hell.ââ
Â
37 It was an appropriate anniversary of their auspicious beginning, and it was the beginning, their first moment of pure and innocent delight in each other, that they forever strove to keep in their hearts. This was apparent to any visitor to their home. A tattered placard from which their union commenced was elegantly framed and hung in their front room, and they relished any opportunity to tell and retell the story of their meeting.
Of what am I speaking? Pardon my verse, but I speak now with honor of tale well-worn, a love story born, a mythic event
that came to pass at a festival of forgotten origin. It was outside, that is certain, for Blip tells of an irritating glare blinding him as he ambled, flashes of refracted sunshine glancing at him from ahead. The source was a sign, a shiny white poster held by a joyous young sylph. She was dancing and prancing and sparkling all over, a woman whose legs were purportedly hidden by a gauzy sarong of mandalas and rainbows. But all is revealed in the pure light of day, and so were her limbs seen barefoot and blissful, skipping and stepping, tapping and hopping, foxing and trotting.
She presented her sign to all passersby. Some people frowned and hurried away, but most of them smiled and embraced her with glee. His attention thus distracted, his libido so attracted, he wandered to where he might read the inscription on the poster she picketed with such glad-hearted pith. His mind and his body conspired to drench him with curiosity both sensual and intellectual, pushing him, prodding him, shoving him toward the zing-zippety zaftig. As he approached the proscenium of her performance, her placard pitched left, ducking the sun and revealing its message to the kind, sexy man strolling her way: FREE HUGS !
The connection made, the communication given, the poster bounced on its corners like a card on the run, flirting and bidding him beckon her call. The letters held fast, together they carried the words of their hostess, two words that she uttered and breathed into life: âFree hugs!â Sophia gushed with the lilt of honest joy, and meant them as much for Blip as for anyone else.
He smiled at the sign, and the fingers that held it, and looked up to see the eyes that propelled it. Their eyes locked tight and squinted with grins, swollen pupils stretched forward to soak up more sight. It was but a moment, an invisible instant,
no simpering stares or protracted eye goggles, only a glimpse and a blink with recognition complete. He glanced toward her sign and smirked to himself, the smirk of a fool, blind to the inevitable but brave nonetheless. âWho,â he scratched his head like a gorilla, then asked her the question that leaped from his mouth. âWho is Hugs?â
Â
38 Thus was their relationship born on the swift kiss of a pun. Neither suspected what the other would become to each of them. Like phrases running wild in the Logos, they knew neither who nor by what mechanism nor for what reason they were whistled for (if they understood that they were whistled for at all). They were simply compelled to come together. Sophia was the question, and Blip was the answer. And vice versa.
It happened like this:
Free Hugs
, confident with his identity as a gallant suggestion, suddenly slammed into
Who is Hugs?
, some smart-assed interrogative who turned him into an emotional imperative by her very presence. What a ridiculous rendezvous! Christ, the two utterances really didnât have anything to do with each other, drawn together by some clever misunderstanding, some sly twist of fate. But sense or nonsense, that which motivates the plane of language cannot be resisted any more than that which motivates the plane of life. The soul knows this, of course, as does its equivalent in the communicative cosmos. It keeps its head in the heavens, and has
Â
37 It was an appropriate anniversary of their auspicious beginning, and it was the beginning, their first moment of pure and innocent delight in each other, that they forever strove to keep in their hearts. This was apparent to any visitor to their home. A tattered placard from which their union commenced was elegantly framed and hung in their front room, and they relished any opportunity to tell and retell the story of their meeting.
Of what am I speaking? Pardon my verse, but I speak now with honor of tale well-worn, a love story born, a mythic event
that came to pass at a festival of forgotten origin. It was outside, that is certain, for Blip tells of an irritating glare blinding him as he ambled, flashes of refracted sunshine glancing at him from ahead. The source was a sign, a shiny white poster held by a joyous young sylph. She was dancing and prancing and sparkling all over, a woman whose legs were purportedly hidden by a gauzy sarong of mandalas and rainbows. But all is revealed in the pure light of day, and so were her limbs seen barefoot and blissful, skipping and stepping, tapping and hopping, foxing and trotting.
She presented her sign to all passersby. Some people frowned and hurried away, but most of them smiled and embraced her with glee. His attention thus distracted, his libido so attracted, he wandered to where he might read the inscription on the poster she picketed with such glad-hearted pith. His mind and his body conspired to drench him with curiosity both sensual and intellectual, pushing him, prodding him, shoving him toward the zing-zippety zaftig. As he approached the proscenium of her performance, her placard pitched left, ducking the sun and revealing its message to the kind, sexy man strolling her way: FREE HUGS !
The connection made, the communication given, the poster bounced on its corners like a card on the run, flirting and bidding him beckon her call. The letters held fast, together they carried the words of their hostess, two words that she uttered and breathed into life: âFree hugs!â Sophia gushed with the lilt of honest joy, and meant them as much for Blip as for anyone else.
He smiled at the sign, and the fingers that held it, and looked up to see the eyes that propelled it. Their eyes locked tight and squinted with grins, swollen pupils stretched forward to soak up more sight. It was but a moment, an invisible instant,
no simpering stares or protracted eye goggles, only a glimpse and a blink with recognition complete. He glanced toward her sign and smirked to himself, the smirk of a fool, blind to the inevitable but brave nonetheless. âWho,â he scratched his head like a gorilla, then asked her the question that leaped from his mouth. âWho is Hugs?â
Â
38 Thus was their relationship born on the swift kiss of a pun. Neither suspected what the other would become to each of them. Like phrases running wild in the Logos, they knew neither who nor by what mechanism nor for what reason they were whistled for (if they understood that they were whistled for at all). They were simply compelled to come together. Sophia was the question, and Blip was the answer. And vice versa.
It happened like this:
Free Hugs
, confident with his identity as a gallant suggestion, suddenly slammed into
Who is Hugs?
, some smart-assed interrogative who turned him into an emotional imperative by her very presence. What a ridiculous rendezvous! Christ, the two utterances really didnât have anything to do with each other, drawn together by some clever misunderstanding, some sly twist of fate. But sense or nonsense, that which motivates the plane of language cannot be resisted any more than that which motivates the plane of life. The soul knows this, of course, as does its equivalent in the communicative cosmos. It keeps its head in the heavens, and has
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