Phantasmagoria 1

Phantasmagoria: An Epistolary Short Story, Installment 1


Phantasmagoria--An exhibition of optical illusions produced by means of a magic lantern (OED).

Every thing is so miserable that I often wish myself quite dead although it is so shocking but to think of.

--Claire Claremont to Lord Byron, 19 November 1816


Dearest Albe,
I could think of no earth-shattering praise such as you have given me. I cannot dwell on what has been any more than raise the dead. Not that I would. What has died should be left alone. Opening the mouth is not so terribly
important after all, is it?(1) And where are you now that I write this? You have gone from me and here I am, all alone with my tea and a hope of seeing you again. But I know that cannot be. You have left and taken with you the better part of my heart. I am so lonesome without you. Won't you please send me word of how you are doing? Any small, short line will do, even a reprimand by way of the Snake(2). I have nothing to look forward to but your scant word here or there delivered through the post. I will remain yours--CC


I think you've got to be more open to the simple phrases and delectable sentences of life. I think you have got to be more in union with the ultimate source of power before you can lay claim to knowing the eternal mysteries of nature. Only through and by the power of exploration will the truth come to light. Only through an investigation into the dim portal of fate will
we ever find ourselves truly free of misery. Is it misery that you seek? If so, you have found it out and, if not, it has found you and has not yet introduced itself, as it shortly will. Rest assured, the titanic efforts you make to control your
lust and limited understanding of the world are small measures near and dear to anyone's heart. What use the pompous stain? --How valiantly cavalier the free soul? What are these things but lies deduced to confound us in every single thing we do. How shall we escape from ourselves when so few remain free and single from a particularly cruel fate? I would not ingest such words unless you plan on performing some barbaric and cruel surgery on your spleen, for any understanding of the things about which I write will lead but to misery, misery mine. But I saw all this foreshadowed in a dream. My noonday slumber
gave rise to a labyrinth and within this labyrinth there arose a misunderstanding of means and I felt myself bereft of locomotion or hope or even charity. What more can I say? Chaos reigns complete and madness is taking its own toll. Lugubrious I may not be at this time in my life when found treasure is more priceless than air. Like some alchemist bending
over furnace fanning charcoal, smelting a mysterious stone, so I labor on, proving my soul hearty and irregular, vast and void as the circumference of azure sky that seeks to encircle me under its dome. I have found a fine drought and now by inference await the chance to mold this plastic life into something new. For now I remain yours--PBS
* * * * * *
Cancelled Lines For A Promethean Drama

"Sprite to Prometheus, Titan"
What plastic shape is this that moves without will?
How shall I put down the heart-felt insurrection?
What has died and what is not yet dead? All these things and more I seek.
What can we know but sickness, lethargy, rebellion?
So take the strain and break away from that which sucks the frozen floe
through tempest chill.
Make known the boundaries of your own energy and free the
mechanism that would tie you earthbound.
A rock face shall become your new home and fuel the fire renounced.
For what is magic but ill design and transparency?
* * * * * * *

My Dearest Maria,

Well what do you want for me to say? You received a free frank(3) and for that you should be grateful. I, however, have no recourse but to protest. I can only hope that some simple misunderstanding does not swamp what has been a
very bright career. Saw Tommy Turner this night and he was lamenting his inclinations. I encouraged him to marry and thereby put his desires for young men aside. He claims his nature is perverse but unaffected. I tend to believe him in all that he says. His eyes were misty with feeling. So much promise he shows as a writer and painter, dual his talents. He read me a poem about a drunkard that I thought quite good--every common pub has one, every village its representative. He says he was inspired by a poem of Royall Tyler. What can I say but weather on? It is all any of us can do. I remain yours--CC

Footnotes:(1.) From Egyptian burial rite(2.) Shelley(3.) Duty-free postage, a privilege of Parliament

(c) copyright January 2006, Jeffrey Snodgrass