"That receding Rear Door Leaves me nonplussed," punned Tex quasi-anagrammatically and pensively thinking of his beloved Lost Love, while simultaneously viewing the dust cloud engulfing the fast disappearing Dacia.
Noting his flagrant pensivity, Ilinca began yodelling Cowboy Sweetheart
at a greatly increased volume, while Stasia played a mournfully plaintive doina
on her trâmbiţă
* which sent the Texile (Texan-in-exile) into a deep reverie where thyme stood still and its aromatic aroma cloyed in the breezeless air - a scent that took him back to his uncle, the celebrated sharpshooting freebooting frontiersman, Grane Zey Riding roughshod over the Purple Thyme
, back to high-spirited gunfights at the OK Corral, swaggering drunkenly through the creaking swing doors of the Last Chance saloon, foolishly tossing his lucky loaded dice into the spittoon for a wager, receiving his Junior Acme home bomb-making kit for his seventh birthday, and eating Hainz** baked beans from the billy-can around the campfire with his dysfunctional family, Ma and Pa ever-arguing over the finer points of Proust's minor epic, À la recherche du temps perdu
, and his seventeen sisters ever-bickering over Kierkegaard's thughts of the infinite qualitative distinction between man and God - and the tenuous position of women in this theory - with particular reference to the the Blessed Virgin Mary, post-Assumption - as the arch-womanifestation of the Ewig-Weibliche
in their more-relaxed moments, they would obsessively mull over the sexism inherent in Sartre's famous maxim: “Atheistic existentialism... declares with greater consistency that if God does not exist there is at least one being whose existence comes before its essence, a being which exists before it can be defined by any conception of it. That being is man....”
True, life may well have been hard, mundane and dull - but it was nevertheless filosofically phulphilling for the young illiterate gun-toting Tex.
Tumbleweeds tumbled forlornly across the barren prairie of his mind, roadrunners rampaged about chirping annoyingly at cartoon rabbits, gunshots rang out raucously and randomly. Such was his dire mental state at the time.
In his mind he was home, home on the range, where the deer and the anteaters roam, and the flying fish do play, looking back fondly at a memorable moment in his distant youth, sitting in the bosky shade of the baobab leaves with the dour Rea, Love of his Life, extracting an extraneous cactus thorn from her battle-scarred knee with his teeth, while she idly strummed a banjo and sang a ditty about going back to Oregano in her mellow, deep baritone, tone-deaf voice.
Suddenly, he was abruptly roused from his daydream by the unmistakable sensation of a rattlesnake's poisonous fangs biting through his thick buffalo-hide Gimi Ciu** cowboy spats and sinking into his wooden leg.
* aka a tulnic, like this, a traditional death announcement: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ssiZo5B1Kcimage url uploadcertificity.com
** Romanian spelling used here to circumvent restrictively draconian advertising prohibitions.