Have I been here before? I’m pretty sure there was a jungle here, and a tribal ritual, and an African albino playing the banjo or some associated instrument. I’m confused. Is this real? The Milkyway is ever-changing. TO THE TASK AT HAND - I was sent here. Don’t really know why it was me they called for. Needed meeting minutes to be kept. Not sure I’m qualified. I tend to mess up meetings more than I can recollect them in an orderly manner. Last thing I knew I was talking Afrobeat with a bunch of teenagers and choking on mushrooms and tea in creative lounge near the psychology faculty. Ah! To be learned but twisted. I love myself a good psychology student.
Snap back to present time. What day is it? Am I really here on a weeknight? Heard a Warlock with a big beard mention these Wednesdays only come every five years. Tells me this day is borrowed, not a keepsake. Mommy would not agree. Make every day yours. THIS PLACE. There’s a musician’s vibe here, like an almost tangible cloud the loose brainmatter of hundreds of creatives float freely in the air. It’s a many colored beast whose loosely switching between our reality and some foreign dimension. I see the Swinging Star, brooding songwriters, rockers humming ancient anthems and a few lurking vultures scourging the land for easy prey.
Then, on stage, an angelic apparition. You can almost see through her soft skintissue, but her raven hair and dark eyes go right through me in return, sending a shiver down my spine. She’s somewhere midway between a Great Guitarist and a Deadly Siren, ready to send my little raft into the cliffs. Ruthless, iconic, charming. She’s asking whether I ever really stared at her. I touch her arm, whisper, “how about right now”. Gasping in amazement turns out to be an activity of great communal merit. The more these drones are doing it, the more she lights up. It won’t be long ‘til she combusts I’m sure. Burst into flames. Burn the house down. Do it for us, your devoted followers. She shreds and kisses our ears in a single instant.
... Suddenly outside. Foreign creatures and Strange Mercy. I talk to the Quiet Singer. People are ushering me into the darkness. Why me? I can’t help but follow. Garden of Eden turns out to be just another bar in the heart of the night. Sex is not on the mind, it IS the collective hivemind itself establishing itself. It’s all about Connectivity. Our phones, social media, chit chat, long letters and single syllabic messages all end in that final stage of Connectivity. It’s the only religion I dare to follow. How about some LSD? I kindly refuse, this trip has brought me far enough. Enjoy the scenery first. Breasts and bottoms. Events of a homosexual nature nearly miss me. Too close. But, no tongue no foul. If you start setting rules, you better play by them. A fair man is hard to find, but they’re out there.
In a dark street. Suddenly not so empty. I see Philosophy Girl, a true hero. Hipster passing by. Former love past in present. A glorious pastiche of faded opportunities. I never regret a thing. Something I picked up from my attorney, you might say. Makes you look weak. Never bargain a deal looking weak. Press onward, dodging bullets and bystanders. On & on we go, past canals and hobo’s and deep fried dinners. The place suddenly starts making sense. Unforgiving Nature has some gloss, some silver lining to it. I never saw the light of day. I only saw the brightness as the bar closed down.
Time to move on.
Confusion is a merit of wandering. It clears the mind, unlocks the brain’s backdoor. Lots of weirdo’s come in through there. The more the merrier.
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