Charles Pendelton
      © 2008 Marty Langdon
Chapter 31

                   The shattered mind


We went from the antechamber in the basement to the kitchen area where we
stood near the kitchenette. As much as I wanted to sit down, I was terrified to
because of the lurid object above my head. Rich appeared to be attentive and
alert, but still there was something bugging him. He would begin scratching his
arm and then stare at it blindly, before falling into fits of unstoppable laughter.
He then began to blurt out words at random, and I wondered what my parents
would have thought of such irrational behavior. The walls of his padded cell
were being fastened together as his little mind slowly became unhinged.


Indeed, I had truly misjudged the effects of this drug, and the emotional
state of the user was something I hadn't even factored into the equation.

Had Peter been found before the wheels were set in motion, the whole
Huguenot endeavor would certainly never have transpired. And God
only
knows what would have been written in its place, if anything at all.




There was a wicked spirit around the kitchen sink that had somehow managed to
absorb itself into the intricate fabric of the argent metal. The two faucets now
seemed to be empowered with a form of kinetic energy I had not witnessed before.
There were unusually small bursting patterns within the alloy composite, to which
I could not define logically, and it appeared as though they were trying earnestly
to make my eyes sparkle. Considering that my pupils were already dilating, (under
the spell of this fantastic magic) I didn’t want it to go any further. Had they dilated
entirely, that would have probably caused the reality I currently knew and understood
to disappear once again, leaving me in a fictitious cartoon-like world of suspended
animation indefinitely. . . A void I may never have been able to fathom, nor exit.


As I watched them gyrate and spin, I found myself falling into a mild trance.
Such vivid color in so little space. To follow the contrast of variegated hues
into a psychedelic door that revolves without ever turning is like spinning a
coin on a table, only to find it will never stop.

You enter, but it doesn't open.
You leave, though you were never there.


Then like an exploding daydream, I was awakened from my trance.


The long slender arm-like mouth of the high arc spout was attempting to reach me,
while at the same time, that insane laughter behind me was beginning to abrade my
senses. Since I was busy analyzing and examining things, I couldn't be there for him.
I presume this is why he withdrew into his own little world. Within that plastic bubble
in the realm of his own containment he began throwing his lips out. This action made
a very strange popping noise. Every time he did it, he would convulse in laughter.




I wanted to tell him to be quiet, but that would only make him sad.

I would not let anything in the universe be sad today, because that is a
reflection on our soul. You get too many of them and God puts you on fire.

As I focused my attention on the ethereal movement of the divine faucet, I began
to think frightening loud. The aliens have metallic compounds very similar to this.
I believe they left some of it in Roswell. I'm pretty sure if the central intelligence
agency were to barge in here right now and see exactly what it is I was seeing,
there is no doubt in my mind, I would be taken somewhere far away and killed.




As the magical faucet (with an atomic structure of infinite proportions) extended
itself outwards toward me, I was pretty sure it wanted me to pet it, or at least touch
it to make some kind of human contact. Perhaps, it wanted to form a bond of friendship.
Of course, I couldn't risk any transference, so I respectfully declined by carefully
showing it my two hands, before rubbing them together in an accelerated motion.


Why I did this, I will never know.

But I will tell you with certainty, all that ‘we come in peace’ stuff that I was
so intrigued with as a child was still floating around in my head. And in that
precise moment of time, everything was clearly revolving around perception.


                                                                               Pg 152
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Why I refused to touch it however, was simple.

If you take into account that mercurial silver. That Non-Newtonian ferrofluid and
you initiate contact, there is a very good chance some of it is going to stick around.
I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if any trace elements got on me, it would
either leave patches of invisibility, or it would be absorbed through my skin and I
would begin to suffer the effects of toxic shock. I was already invisible in life. I didn't
need to be anymore transparent, and I certainly didn't want to go into shock from an
illusion. Suddenly, the sparkling faucet began to lose its shimmer and was no longer
appealing to my senses. Then it drooped, as if it were going to rest its slender neck
at the rim one of the small frying pans filled with water and begin drinking.
 

No, that wasn’t it. I had made it sad. I had destroyed something beautiful
by being overly cautious. I was not playing by the rules of the game. Almost
immediately did I feel a rush of sadness flowing upward from within and my
eyes burned like fire. Throwing my hands on my face, I must have looked
like the boy who had just witnessed both parents being executed.



Watching me with an intuitive stare, that lifelike mechanical dummy released
a screech so horrifyingly loud, I spun around full circle hitting the stove.


In his achromatic world of redundancies,
there lies a harsh truth just waiting to be discovered.

As I looked at my friend in shock, the elusive stained-glass lighting fixture
was within inches of my face. Before it could snap shut like a Venus fly
trap, I dropped to the floor and scrambled into the living room.

Wow, I thought, now I can’t go into the kitchen.


In anger, I began to wonder why he screamed like he had just gotten
fucked in prison. His actions made no sense at all. He's disrupting the
balance of time, I screamed into the gray region of all abandoned thoughts
before composing myself. The only way to enter the kitchen was to crawl
like a toddler, and I had no intention of doing that. Aside from the onerous
task of having to quiet that screaming head in the kitchen, I first had to
figure out how to get back in the kitchen without being compromised.


Just then it began to dawn on me. . . He's the head of Candor!



                   *That lunatic almost sent me to Hell*


Standing beside the bookcase, and the oversized rectangular table used only for
special occasions, I began to wonder. Staring straight ahead I noticed the radio
on the wall. Carefully, I pressed the black button on the living room stereo system
and it quickly turned on. The in-wall speakers produced a dazzling clarity that
illuminated my mind. My timing was off for a song was already playing. . .


Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kid.
In fact, it's cold as hell.
And there's no one there to raise them if you did.

And in all this science I don't understand
It's just my job five days a week. . .

The song being transmitted over the airwaves was one I
particularly didn’t care for, but hearing it now, with the cosmos
expanding before my very eyes, it became so endearing to me,
I could not stop listening. When it ended, I turned off the radio.


It was now back to the old drawing board,
where I casually ran through a scenario of plans.

                                             
                             The Paupers - Magic people

After mulling over the situation, I came to the conclusion that 'Plan B'
was my only alternative. Bearing that in mind, I crawled into the kitchen
on all fours, and the venomous light simply could not reach me.


                          *Now the thing was furious*


As the unhingement of time began to accelerate the process of all living things,
I almost felt like I was in-between worlds. Watching myself crawling around
on the floor like an infant did not make me feel like a fool at all, because my
thoughts were elsewhere. I was challenged by the notion of all I had created,
and was disassembling theories which could in turn link everything ‘I was’
to an undetected vantage point in time.

A mysterious phantom was taking notes from the furthest corner of a black
hole that had propelled itself into my thoughts. It was moving at light speed
towards my eyes as they raced to see the cosmic galaxy from afar. The
burning brilliant glow from the flowery lamp that swayed awkwardly in the
kitchen held the answer to the enormous puzzle known as life.




Past, present, and future were about to collide in an astonishing display, one could
only hope to imagine. Where the hapless sorrows of bitter wreaths are hung on
timeworn doorsteps which have been steeped in the anguish of human suffering.

Malfeasant laws contrary to either world shall be disregarded when the partition
binding the seasons of time find themselves bare. An entire generation of humble
hosts shall soon be coated in radiant love, for the babes that awaken tomorrow shall
be pardoned of the sins I bore today. I dwelt on the distorted notion for a moment.


I then smiled wryly, because I knew it was all a game.
An insightful game that ‘in return’ ends up playing ‘you’.


Entering the bathroom, I flicked the switch and that coffee colored room came
alive. As my eyes panned over the rustic brown ceramic tiles, laid out in a pattern
that appeared to resemble interlocking bricks, I came to notice its artistry.


Not only was every tile considerably different, but each rectangular piece
could also be measured in depth. Like artwork of the underworld, whatever
one perceives is manufactured in the stone. Call it, ‘sleight of hand’ if you will,
because whatever I imagined, I saw and could logically change. It was just like
being in a magician’s workshop where your very thoughts could be brought to
life through objects. It was madness in a whole new light. It was indeed a gift.

When I exited the bathroom, I felt the effects of the drug increasing.

Sliding open the glass door to the external world, I figured I would take a stroll
in the backyard. No sooner did I step outside did I hear an unusual movement
by the back fence. I then saw something peering out at me from the darkness.

“What the hell is that,” I thought, so loud it made an echo?

As I took a closer look, I realized it was a massive spider.

Holy shit, this thing was huge! From afar I would say it had
to be the height of an over sized milk crate, or a medium sized
dog. My psyche bore witness to the grand illusion, and the
door that held man's greatest fear was suddenly unbolted.

Solely, the inner aspect of my fear had been affected, nothing
more. Those thoughts which can present themselves from an
incident, or an instance of unpleasantry shall become more
powerful than Satan’s Army marching out of Hades.

I then felt an inner conflict with my emotions beginning.

“What is that?”
“That is not real.”
“I know it's not real, but what is it?”
“It's an illusion, you know this.”
“I am well-aware that it is only an illusion,
but if it gets into the house and corners me,
then I'm going to know what it's like. . .

T
o be the girl with a centipede in her twat.”


That pure unbridled terror of horrific circumstance soon to
occur
could indeed paralyze my mind, turning
me into a non-functioning
creature. Whereby, reducing my mentality to a head of lettuce.


They were not crawling on me,
but I could surmise they were coming.




                                                                               Pg 153
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Little ones - Big ones - Ghastly ones
I have to close all the vents and windows now
I can't go through the kitchen
The dining room window is directly facing the spider



If worse comes to worse, I'll lock myself in the bathroom and wait for a moment
of lucidity. I know this isn't really happening. The only thing real about it is how
one's own fear can empower the imagination. If not for a mind-bending drug, I
would not have found myself tangled up in the pages of a science fiction novel.


As I peered through the window, I happened to connect with the
object in the yard. It was the old rundlet cask my father removed
from the basement last month.

How could I have forgotten it was there?

That dull gleam was simply the lights reflected from the park
shining upon the old barrel. The metal hoops encircling the
barrel were merely holding the wooden staves in place. It
was not the eyes of a ferocious spider eying me down.

How foolish was I to even think along those lines.




I solved the problem and the spider was gone. If I tried, I probably couldn't
make it return. The mind can only be put at ease when a problem is solved
or a solution is found. When all logic fails, it’s best to get a good night’s rest.
Of course, being in the present situation would not afford me that luxury.


*I was now entering a state of total peace*

However, I still had to be extremely careful around that light fixture hanging
above the kitchen table. The one crafted from stained glass and lead, then
wrought into the shape of a flower. There was a certain flux within it that made
me feel as though it were mocking me to some degree. Also, there was now be
a wavering effect in the light, very similar to a bending mirror at a sideshow.

When you stand next to it, it distorts your size.

How clever the mind in its affinity toward ever knowing
the requisite capacity to assimilate lies unresolved.

There was now a hideous distortion in the way that it was bending. I could follow
a current of energy flowing through its veiny petals, as if two big magnets were
using their polarity to stretch its sides, or was it trying to open? This I could not
surmise, but it had a sinister motive and truly appeared to be sneering at me, as
if ridiculing me for something I had done to it in the past. It was my father who
almost broke your round cylindrical body when he was unscrewing it last month
to change your damn light bulb and clean your entire stained-glass housing. . .


I should not be held accountable for his error in judgement!

I then told it I was sorry in an overly sympathetic voice in

my head, and then paused to reflect in silence, fist to mouth.

Imagine that; I had apologized to an inanimate object.
This perennial nightmare
swaying gently before me in my
warped perception, when in fact, I had done no wrong.


Indeed, I fell for the greatest hoax of all time!


The fact that I was deathly afraid of it striking me, could in no way be abolished.
My sole concern was that if it did, would I be able to stave off the infection before
my brain sends it coursing throughout my entire system, contaminating everything
in its immediate path. I did not wish for this to end in an all-out war. Ask yourself
this; is there anything worse in this life than being invaded or infiltrated by the
one thing you are most terrified of?

Have you any idea how traumatic something like that can be to your psyche?
If you did, you would understand why I refused to stand near that table.


I have read in numerous journals that the omnipresent danger of psychedelic drugs
and the risks associated with each use increases dramatically with every increment.
Meaning that people have been left severely traumatized; have committed suicide,
or have caused harm to themselves or others from far less than the current dosage
we ingested only hours earlier. And with the amount of weed I smoked in the bong,
I just upped the dosage. The way I look at it is simple, and that is, if we can control
our minds, then we can control our lives. Surely, I need no assistance here.





Life in itself was quotidian marked by mundane functions of mind and body performing
a task or enjoying a luxury. We go to work. We come home. We drive to the market.
We drive home. Why must everything we do always have to be drown in normalcy?
 

Why can’t we have ‘a day of being’ to find within ourselves who we really are?

To dabble in the illusion, without being persecuted for it? From time to time,
I find this is necessary, but is it really so wrong? It’s not like I’m going to
destroy my life by going crazy. I know what I’m doing, or I wouldn’t be here.

Considering all the hostility forming in the electric flower,
every step was met with intense apprehension and fear.


Maybe, I thought to myself just maybe. . .
I am beginning to learn that now.


                                                                               Pg 154
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A mellifluous voice within my mind gave me the rundown on life.

Everything’s right and everything’s wrong,
when everyone is right and everyone is wrong.


Time was now at an ebb and flow, and I was somewhere in the middle of it.

Memories that were mine and memories that weren’t flooded my senses
and made me hold my head in a half smile. I was baffled and awe struck,
and I wasn’t quite sure if I should sit down or begin doing an Irish jig.




Just then it turned itself toward me, and I backed up
like I was moving away from the snake charmer’s basket.




God knows, I wasn't getting any closer to it.


Like Belladonna, that deadly nightshade had already begun to poison the air.
How
quickly it burgeoned from a harmless artifact into a total mind threat.

Overshadowing the landscape with its flower petal turned wasp-like wings humming
to the tune almost effortlessly, covering my cerebral cortex with a gentle layer of film.
It infused me with terror, and instilled in my heart an intense desire to abolish it.


Indeed, the one with no authority certainly seemed to produce the most of it.


My thoughts were shattered by a hideously unnerving laugh.

In a spectral light that houses the dormitory of the insane, something
wicked had
begun to grow in its pastures. Where the well-seasoned
seer, most proficient in
his trade uncloaks the nursling from under
his wing only to find he has made
a serious miscalculation. . .

                       *The child's brain had already begun to decompose*



Anyone who chooses to tinker with the internal workings of the human mind, will one
day come to realize that the journey he or she has endured was of absolutely no gain.




The lighted flower was acting very unpredictable now, and it was just a matter
of time before it lashed out to strike. Being as how it wasn't swaying more than
a foot in any given direction from where it hung, I decided to give it an extra two
feet, just to be safe. Hopefully, the chain wouldn’t extend. I really didn't think it
would, since its pattern of behavior hasn't changed, and it was moving ever so
eerily in slow motion. Had we taken four hits each, I am sure my head would
be halfway down its fiery throat by now, and my brain, equidistant to the edges
of a searing hot frying pan. On five, he would have snapped the chain for sure,
and ultimately devoured the entire dwelling.


I thought of the moon flowers and how they only bloom at night,
but this son of a bitch runs on electricity. I can't be nice to it
and give it some water or I'll start a God-damn house fire.
 

Indeed, the game had taken a sudden turn for the worst, and all
the innocent, playful banter the world had bestowed upon me
hours earlier, had all but been reduced to a pile of ashes.


Rich was still acting weird, muttering indistinguishable words and laughing
hysterically. This had been going on since the time of my aunt's departure
and that was six hours ago. He spoke of Poly-goff-i-cits who lived in a
world of En-terr-um, and all the rest was babble.
 

What's going on in his mind? That's hard to figure out when a person is not
communicating with you. He's laughing at his life from
‘Funhouse Land’
without a care in the world, whilst I have to analyze and attempt to remedy
this whole foolish mess. It didn't seem fair in a way. Whatever was going on
inside him, however, was doing more than I could have possibly imagined.


                                                The Hollies - Stop right there


 
I turned off the kitchen light and the evil rose grew tranquil.
Keep in mind that the off switch acted only as a mild sedative.
Its defense mechanism was still on, for I could hear it hissing audibly.

A warning that I would be very wise to
keep my distance.


Cordially, I summoned my friend into the barrel room. No, this was not a
distilling room, but rather, a small living room shaped like a barrel. The light-
colored oak flooring strips with darkened auburn circles, when fitted together
formed a very unique half oval ceiling. At first glance, one would attest that it
was congenial to the eye whether they were high or not, and I marveled at it,
as if it were the first time I had seen it. Turning the knob on the television set,
we came upon the Joe Franklin show. Since neither of us understood a word
that he said, we sat there with emotionless faces and at the same time I was
mesmerized to watch that magic glass produce life.


While I pretended to wonder why a world full of people would choose
to live inside it, I also wondered what would happen if they suddenly
decided to ‘step out of the box’. To see these colorful one-dimensional
celluloid characters coming to life in the barrel room would be more
than my fragile mind could handle, and I am sure that would have
given my friend but another reason to laugh his damn fool head off.


                                                                               Pg 155
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What I really liked about Joe was that he always seemed happy. Most
of the time he just sat there in a comical light, reaching for words that
should already be there. Like a stand-up comic desperately trying to
act the part of a talk show host. As I watched him on that bromidic
television set encased in its sturdy wooden console, I wondered just
how many of these TV’s would still be in use a hundred years from now.




I noticed that Joe seemed to be stopping more frequently, before rushing to get the
words out. Maybe that apprehension was a defect in his character, but I considered
it to be a part of his own uniqueness. While his facial gestures and hesitant motor
skills made me laugh, I could not stop thinking of someone I once loved dearly.
A woman who meant more to me than any of my parents or siblings combined.
Someone who took my entire world with her when she left.


The only person I cannot bring myself to speak of.


The forbidden lifestyle of the unconventional poet has a damaged
spine and many
pages missing, but the book still reads the same.


To my left was a family portrait next to an open bookcase that appeared to be crafted
from a rather large walnut. Individual pictures of my three siblings stood in separate
frames. My dad and stepmom holding a flag atop Mount Washington rested in another,
while an old monochrome photographic image of my grandparents in a country setting
stood firm in its original silver frame. That picture was taken by a neighbor before my
parents were born. Pieces of a family tree that only I could keep alive by having children,
because my dad had three girls, and my uncle Bob had three girls. My aunt Gloria who
teaches stenography in California married, but never had children of her own.

Every summer she returns and has done so for the past fourteen years.




Everyone was there except me.
I'm never around. Why do I even exist?

Sometimes, I feel more like a ghost than I do a living person.
Someone who resides on an entirely different level from most,
and goes about his daily routine as a solitary creature of habit.


I realize I have no earthly business being here. I’ve cast
myself into the abandonment of a meaningless life with no
hope of ever finding a parody to the malady that ails me.

To live apart from my beloved is my torment.
My hell on earth. My absolute despair.


When at last, I close my eyes for the final time, will I hear
the heavenly trumpet calling me to glory after I've slept
more than a billion years in less than a fetid breath?


Or will I be led into the fire of my own damnation?


As I watched this man inside a box of glass speak openly to an audience of
animated humans, everything inside my head just evaporated. Was I losing
interest or was it suddenly the time that had begun to drain me? Too many
thoughts would begin to manufacture their own anxiety within me; while good
old Joe was living his life through others. Like an empty shell, I just sat there.

When Joe Franklin bid us farewell, I slowly turned off the television set.




Once again, I and my friend ascended the staircase to the second floor. As the
wind gently exhaled, the curtains to my parent’s room unfurled in a wavy pattern.
When the warm air touched my skin, I could hear my friend laughing hysterically
in my sister Carolyn’s room, where the high grew stronger still. Entering my room,
I wasn't sure what to make of it now. It was becoming drawn out and I was beginning
to feel peevish, to say the least. I looked up at the skylight and saw the turning point
of a nightmare as it came to life. Similar to the blades of a helicopter as seen through
a variegated lens, it swiveled in a continual motion on an invisible axis lifting itself
out of the plate which had held it in place for so many years. It then returned to its
original position and repeated the same action until I could watch no more.
 

That's it, I thought. The point where everything comes undone and there's no fixing
a shattered mind. It's going to get bad, and I'm really trying to prepare myself for the
worst that could possibly happen, because it just might. It should have been starting
to wear off by now, but it just keeps building in strength. It hasn't reached its peak
yet. All this research and writing for nothing. My reward for it all was going to be
irrevocable lunacy. Similar to its creator,
I too had in fact, found out too late.


Slowly, I am going out of my mind.

The evening was growing, and I can attest to it because I was watching it grow.
It was more realistic than any television program because it was alive, unscripted,
and living its life through me. Much akin to the way the passing of time abandons a
deranged child in its own unkempt seclusion, I myself had been placed somewhere
I did not wish to be, and I was truly terrified. Shock was beginning to set in.  


                    There was no time for forgiveness. . . I already pulled the trigger.



                                           Why is it every time I win, I lose?

I shuddered like a virgin on a prom date to think that in but a few short moments from now,
   the chemical element that I held in such high esteem would soon have
its way with me.



I didn't know if every insect in creation was going to come pouring out of the crawlspace
and cover me, or if my heart would suddenly stop from the stress of anticipating the outcome.
 



                        Either way you choose to look at it, there was nothing I could
                          do or say
that would have it release me
from its evil grasp.

                   It would simply have to run its course, and I was too tired to fight.




I am starting to fall, yet I haven't moved. Like a swamp reed swaying gently in the
summer breeze. Until the day of the Lord's judgment shall I continue to ponder my
own undoing. On the eve of this starry night, I have led a lamb to its slaughter. I took
an innocent being and cast him like a sheet to the wind, for no other purpose than
that of my own thoughtless experiment. I can almost begin to feel things on my skin
crawling. Whether real or not, it will have no effect on the conclusion of this fiasco.


                                     Surely, I have rolled the dice and lost.

The sensation which had caused my blood to slither, is just another obstacle
thrown under my feet. What I do know is something terrible will soon occur,
and I am going to the darkest part of Hell.




                                                                               Pg 156
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                             What happens when the ceiling flies away?

                   Will I still hear strange laughter through the darkness,
                                or will the darkness be my only light?




It would be different if Harmony were here with me now.

She could turn a criminally insane nightmare into an unforgettable evening
of insatiable delight with a mere wave of her hand. Without her by my side,
I fear I am in permanent danger of getting lost in the stream of time. Like
a
timorous man, I sat on the edge of my bed and began to absorb into its
fabric as my mind tried earnestly to unwind.

All the while listening to the rantings of a friend gone mad.



Right there and then it occurred to me that we are only born to die. There is
nothing we can do about it, for the inevitable is sure to come. Yet, what about
the ravages of time? The curse of growing older and gradually losing your
independence, until you're nothing more than a malfunctioning machine that
eventually stops. A babbling old man with the intelligence of a flagpole.

One that holds no flag, and is situated in the middle of an isolated forest.


Those days that seem to be light years away are right
around the
corner, and will be here before any of us ever come to realize it.
Why is
it that no one ever pauses to give it a second thought?

                                    Maybe we shouldn't.




Once again, I would find I had created something I could not control.

Not only did I have to keep myself together, but I had to make sure nothing bad
happened to Richie. Trying to be a guide and a tourist at the same time was like
trying to plant seeds in stone. Not only was it beyond my capacity, but it was futile.




                   
It seemed I was living only to destroy myself, and this time I had
               pulled someone else into the ever-rising sludge of my failed existence.




I cannot function like this. If I do not return to normal, I cannot live like this.
I cannot do anything like this, and I have a very strong feeling that my life is
going to be very different soon. Some things in this life are worse than death
itself, where I'm sure I may be tortured for all eternity; simply because I
chose the path of least resistance.




In time perhaps, new adjustments could be made to my cerebellum where I may function
as to hold a glass of water. Whether or not I will know what water is or why I must drink
it to sustain my own body, this I contemplate trembling. I began to hear a song in my head,
and so I jotted it down on scrap paper. I never gave it a title, and I never spoke of it again.


Spiders come crawling out of crevice electric.
Day turns night for a while.
Where do you go when you lose your soul?
When your blood runs cold
inside your veins of darkened steel?
Reflected from the path you yielded by day.

It's not easy;
living a brand-new life.
It's not easy,
when you hear strange voices at night
that seem to come from out of the closet
and carry a knife.    

You're alone here, you're the patient.
There's no one there it's only you.
And though you played the game,
you were bound to lose. . .
Am I to die in this padded room?

The clown in the corner sat laughing, and I thought of what I had done.
Knowingly, I lured him into madness through suggestion. Why would I
do such an evil thing? Not yet had he even loved, nor begun to live for
that matter, and I sealed his fate with one deceitful gesture.

Why am I kidding myself?

There is still time for Richie to find someone who can relate to him.
If I can come back to earth, then I'm sure he'll be returning too.


                                                             The Move - Cherry Blossom
 
Clinic   



Afterwards, when everything had returned to normal again, I found my friend
still laughing and drooling. Trying to hold a conversation with him now was
impossible. Sure, he could travel alone on public transportation, or drag his feet
to the store to buy smokes and various sundries, but he would never be able to
hold a job or raise a family. Just smoke, laugh, drool and talk to himself rather
openly. My friend lives in a home now. A home for mentally challenged people
and that is something I will have to carry around with me for the rest of my life.




Just to know that I destroyed another human being.
A friend who trusted me, I betrayed. Don’t feel bad?  


How the hell am I supposed to feel?




                                                                               Pg 157
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It is a terrible but true fact that the people who were once cool will become old,
and everything that was once considered to be the rave will no longer be in fashion,
leaving us to become obsolete as our parents and grandparents have already
experienced. Yes, we shall be replaced by a new generation of people who have
absolutely no knowledge of what anything is about, and the music that was once
so hip, shall become irrelevant. Even so, as we enter the stream of middle life, rebel
youth which has taken us part of the way, shall fall from us like withered branches. 

When the only thing we are able to focus upon is self-preservation,
we know the end is not far away.


At this very point in time, I can almost feel time itself moving,
and in a profoundly morose kind of way, I have somehow fallen
under the illusion of being covered in ancient thinning cobwebs.


I can vividly recall feeling almost the same way
with Harmony and the mushrooms back in ‘74.


As it appears, if I were to stand now, my legs would most certainly crumble
inside their dusty shells, straight down to the pants cuff. Time is attempting
to show me that I have become a relic. Although I was a teenager, in the
swing of things, however, birth and death tend to exist in the same breath.

I knew the grand illusion was nothing more than a great scheme devised
by my own hand to concoct a historic night that would be so memorable,
it would be able to stand up to any event that could ever have been
remembered in our nation’s history. . .

In doing so, I tried to produce a monumental evening that would have
been forever stamped in the footprint of time, when instead I produced
two misfits that will not have the intelligence of a single shoelace.

A shadow of doubt would reflect through the opening of time,
my inner consciousness, personifying the young man who tried
to build a world out of despair and tears, but created only ruins.




Something flies into my mouth and is now buzzing around from cheek to cheek.
Opening my mouth, a fly is released and begins to encircle the room. He buzzes
around before landing on a tree in the small village upon my wall. Following
his own senses, he flies into the bell tower of the church over by the clearing
and becomes lost in a dream of his own misdoing. But it seems I have something
more important to concern myself with at the present time. Trying to remain sane
was only part of the equation, for the whole house was becoming deranged.


                           
The Village East - Building with a steeple



As I gazed at the walls surrounding my room, they appeared to be breathing

in and out slowly. I then placed my hand upon the breadth of its median as
the town scattered, thus allowing me to feel the contractions of life within its
very core. The movements within the wall felt like a rather odd combination
of both water pressure and that of compressed air traveling about.



                       If I become one with the universe, will I also become the illusion?



I ran my hand up and down its fleshy walls while it breathed in gently,
and calmly wondered to myself, if I poked it would it bleed?


Could it feel pain?


If we see something in pain, is it not in pain,
because that is what the mind perceives?

I then wondered, who would wish to do harm like this in the
first place? To enjoy making it suffer would be no different
now, than to torture an innocent puppy or a helpless child.


*Nothing should be wrought to suffer*


No animal, nor insect, nor object, and
especially not another human being.

Something which exists only to live should not be harmed.
It should be allowed to live without any human intervention.

Even if it isn't really real. . .


                                                                                          Am I very wrong?



But still that thought has me baffled.

Let’s just say out of pure speculation,
I were to put a nail in the wall to hang a picture.
Now the wall begins to bleed and cannot stop.

What shall I do?



I may be forced to leave the house.
I did not want to leave this house. . .

Neither did I wish to have an internecine power struggle to deal with.

More than anything else, I did not wish to disrupt the fabric
of my environment which I was presently enjoying.




Instead, I will watch it grow, the same way one would take pleasure
in observing their own children in their developing stages of life.




When something is beneath your feet,
isn't it better to step over it than upon it?


Even though it takes a greater effort?


All things that live must have some significance
in this world, or they would not ‘be’ in the first place.

Of course, this excludes brain eating amoeba,
flesh eating bacteria, and every other microscopic foe
that takes form in a human host to cause illness.




                         “Yes,” I thought aloud, “this is the answer to God’s love.”
                   “It has to be,” I said with fists clenched and pupils fully dilated.

                                               
                                       This made the clown laugh harder still.



Once again, he falls on his back like a sack of potatoes
and begins to bump with fury, his posterior skull to the old
hollow sounding wooden floor in an accelerated motion.

I tried to ignore him for he was not with me.

I then waved to one of the workers in the field, and it
did not come as a surprise to see them waving back.


No, I will not hurt you little people in the field for you
are truly breathing, and I. . .
I am on the other side now.

                                                    Apple - The otherside


                                                                               Pg 158
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Reviews for chapter 31


Mark Demaio - You were really out of your shoes on this bummer of a trip to nowhere

Sally Diloreto - I do not understand this line, "two worthless misfits
that will not have the intelligence of a shoelace."

Charles Pendelton - If a shoelace and a man who is restrained lay on the ground, the man
who is immobilized will attempt to remedy his situation by escaping. The poor shoelace
will forever remain, because it doesn't have the will to move until the wind blows.
.
.


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PG 152) Being is perceiving by Jeff Christensen - http://tinyurl.com/mundgwo 

PG 152) Black clown devil
by R. S. Connett - http://www.grotesque.com/

PG 152)
Forbidden Planet Space Cruiser - http://tinyurl.com/kpovg

PG 153) Black Heroin
by R. S. Connett - http://www.grotesque.com/

PG 153) Leonardo's bioconstruction
by
Ruben Cukier - http://www.rubencukierart.com/

PG 153) Along came a spider
by Dan Staten - http://tinyurl.com/l43zzq6

PG 154) Spider web
by Steve Thomas - http://www.stevethomasart.com/

PG 154) Back alley tavern
by Lisa Hunt - http://tinyurl.com/llwpa3g

PG 154) Synergenesis
by Simon Haiduk - http://tinyurl.com/lwhzaak

PG 155) Irish Night
by Christos Karapanos - http://tinyurl.com/6ms8ne7

PG 155) The Game
by Ilene Meyer - http://www.ilenemeyer.com/ 

PG 155) Delusions
by Paul Booth - http://tinyurl.com/lhyx4c9

PG 155) Bio
by Andrei Beloborodov - http://tinyurl.com/m6houuv

PG 155) Today will be a dessert apple
by Jaroslaw Jasnikowski -
http://tinyurl.com/mvoea8j

PG 156) Do The Freddie
by Pat Rocha - http://tinyurl.com/ksuvout

PG 156)
Si les ecrits s'envolaient...
by Catherine Alexandre - http://tinyurl.com/l2j8s6c

PG 156)
Het spel van Bastet
by
Frits Dang - http://tinyurl.com/lyawclj

PG 156)
News cult
by J. Slattum
- http://www.jslattum.com/

PG 156)
At the gates of the forgotten Gods
by Raceanu Mihai Adrian -
http://tinyurl.com/q94d7jz

PG 156)
Confiscated identity
by Aunia Kahn - http://tinyurl.com/knk4v4q

PG 156) Fear
by Joe Scorsone and Alice Drueding - http://tinyurl.com/lavecy7

PG 156)
Despair
by Alex Grey - http://tinyurl.com/c3p439v

PG 156) Lovecraft's Nightmare "B"
by Michael Whelan - http://www.michaelwhelan.com/

PG 157) Insight
by Oleg Korolev - http://tinyurl.com/k7ql9lo

PG 157) Final thought
by Brian Smith - http://tinyurl.com/keyh85v

PG 157) Paranoid_I
by Paul Booth - http://tinyurl.com/lhyx4c9

PG 157) Grip
by Andy B. Clarkson - http://tinyurl.com/kpsnffe

PG 157) Guilt
by Joe Scorsone and Alice Drueding - http://tinyurl.com/lavecy7

PG 157) The extraction of the stone of madness
by Hieronymus Bosch - http://tinyurl.com/25qfuh3

PG 157) Everlasting souls of love
by Michael Cheval -
http://www.chevalfineart.com/

PG 157) Simple Simon
by Marion Peck - http://tinyurl.com/l9vv8l7

PG 157) The Visage of War
by Salvador Dalí - http://www.virtualdali.com/

PG 158) Passions disparues
by Claude Verlinde - http://tinyurl.com/ot47wz2

PG 158) Recollection of a town
by Marcin Kolpanowicz -
http://www.kolpanowicz.art.pl/

PG 158) Oversoul
by Alex Grey - http://tinyurl.com/c3p439v 

PG 158) Yoim
by Satoshi Sakamoto - http://tinyurl.com/l6sucbk

PG 158) Harmony
by Remedios Varo - http://tinyurl.com/lxbo4gk

PG 158) Abracadabra
by Chris Buzelli - http://www.chrisbuzelli.com/

PG 158) Waterhouse
by Esao Andrews - http://tinyurl.com/2b9t7aa

PG 158) Notte del fungo
by Dean Fleming - http://www.deanfleming.com/ 

PG 158) Cthonic
by Scott Purdy - http://tinyurl.com/lv899zc

PG 158) Scarecrow
by Jeff Christensen - http://tinyurl.com/mundgwo