Faded Houses Green

Reading Ulysses in Montana #104

The lightest of feathers crumbled in the face of Odette’s flightiest breezes–done too soon.

Noon became ambivalent to the howls of the moon, howls of the swooning black swans of Proust, who never really believed Albertine had died at all and in fact reports still had her living out of a 7-Eleven in Sarasota, according to the last census. A bureau of burros believed it, and that’s good enough for the Prousts of Las Vegas, camping out at Red Rock Canyon well beyond their meaningful means. Mt. Charleston descended on a lark and the poor little thing picked up the mountain once more and set it on its head–the mountain’s head, not the lark’s.

Not the lark was the precursor to Proust, but it was lost in the calamity of feathers that befell the larks of Combray on the first day of Odette’s flighty breezes.