Charles Pendelton
      © 2008 Marty Langdon
Chapter 34

                       Metamorphis face

Over and over that scene ruminated through my mind as I walked along the dirt path which
stretched out into the unfiltered gloom. As we rallied on, I was unable to stop my own mind
from destroying me, and in return, I could do nothing but contemplate why it happened.
I wished I could have just sat down in a room with God and resolved the whole matter
once and for all, rather than live my entire life feeling like a descendant of the great betrayer.

My conscience was provoking my spirit, yet the only thing I was guilty of was living.

An American Indian man who I befriended several years ago, once said to me, "If you should
ever become worried or guilty about something you know is right, do not fear, it is only your
heart telling you to be brave. However, should you ever feel uneasy or have second thoughts
about doing something you feel in your heart is questionable, then that is something you must
walk away from." I thought about his words as I walked the dirt trail into nothingness.

When we reached the street, I noticed it was moving in a strange kind of way. The abstracted
levels seemed to change the tar and pebbles in the road, which were separated by plains that
shifted, before coming together again. It was fascinating to see! Similar to that of watching a
mirage form on a hot summer day. When the sweltering heat bakes the earth, you see the steam
emanating up from the black tar road. The lake of water, off in the distance is your illusion!

Trying to reach it would be like attempting to find gold at the end of a rainbow. Unless of
course, the end of your rainbow should hover ever so gracefully above a banking institution!

Certainly, this was much more enjoyable than science class! Becoming the experiment was a lot
cooler than playing with evaporators and filtration devices! If you don't become a chemist, then
what the hell's the point? Shouldn't we have learned something that was going to advance us in the
future like a trade of our choice? “Maybe you're just not trying hard enough.” That was the answer
I'd get when I needed help with something. “Maybe you should stop listening to that stupid music,
and focus on your math and science class you're failing.” (((Maybe))) Maybe if the dog didn't stop
to take a shit, he would have caught the rabbit! Maybe, if she didn't have so much stress in the first
place, she wouldn't have gotten sick, and we could have still been together. Then you wouldn't
have had to help me with anything, because I wouldn't have asked you two in the first place!

Note to my parents. . .

Are you sad that I never confided in you?

Are you angry with me because you had to find out this way?
Believe me, you would have only used it like a blade to cut my
heart out with; until the time came for fate to do it for you.

                                                                               Pg 250

The one thing I can say I am honestly happy about is that I never have to see the inside
of a school again. Maybe not in the literal sense, but still. I would enter feeling lost and
confused and wind up leave depressed, with endless pages of homework to complete
pertaining to subjects that had no relevance being taught to us! Yet, we had to comply.
Then we had to go home for more studying, but now I was free from it. Free to live life
as it comes. *Satan laughed, delighted* “Ah yes" he said, "but with no one to live for.”

After my torment subsided, I began to focus all my energy on trying to fully comprehend
every aspect of this mystical and insightful drug. If this substance has the uncanny ability to
make the sane go insane, then couldn't it for all intents and purposes make an insane person
sane? Aside from being obvious, it was more logical than a simple mathematical equation!

I closed my eyes for a brief moment and became puffed with pride. “What an astonishing
thought,” I heard myself say, as I came to realize all the people I could help! All the lives
I could change for the better! The big dinner party many will attend and everything wrong
in my life would suddenly be made right. The unremitting sound of hands clapping put me
in the spotlight, as the masses rose to a standing ovation in the amphitheater of my brain!

I was beaming with joy, for I was not who I was before! I was someone of importance!

Satan snickered again; “you will never learn, will you? How can you wallow in the glory of
saving the world's people, when it is the very world itself that despises you? Wouldn't it be
better to destroy them? It wasn't I, who hurt the woman you loved, but the world you love so!
Pledge your allegiance unto me and I will shower you with untold riches. You shall have any
woman you so desire; what do you say?” “Oh wicked one, there is nothing you can offer me to
give me piece of mine, so please take your business elsewhere for I'll have no dealings with you.”
“I am so sorry to hear that; in that case, I guess I just have to say, Checkmate.”

Then like an approaching storm, the dark clouds of reason came to wash away my happiness.

Do you honestly believe you are the first person to try and find the miracle hidden within
psychedelic drugs? The Indians used it for thousands of years, with guidance and have had
positive results. To this day they still use it, but have not cured the afflictions of the insane.

The hippies used it with no guidance at all, and look at what happened to them.

A whole generation of people went raving.
They burned out like comets in an astral plain.
Once you lose something as precious as your own mind,
you become nothing more than a zero.

Just think, I thought to myself,
if someone was awake their whole life,
unable to interpret, nor communicate a spoken language,
it is then safe to assume they have no knowledge of anything around them?

I'm sure they understand their own individual language
of blatha' blatha', but what was a letter or a number?

What is a peach?
What am I relaying?

They would hear only blathering nonsense
through the receptors of their non-conformed minds,
and I'm sure that by trying to convey even the least bit of logic to these poor
souls would be, in the philosophy of all immanence, a precursor to disaster.

And so once again, another wonderful idea of mine
would become as curdled milk in the noonday sun.

                                                                               Pg 251

As we proceeded to walk to the Huguenot train station, I noticed a long line of streetlights had all
been transformed into demon faces. The amber glow from them was so relaxing, it looked like melted
glass, drooping down in a form of pulled taffy. Comparable to a pound of molten silica that had been
pulled too soon from an annealing over! “Carry on,” I said, and John nodded in agreement.

They were just hanging there, being themselves, and I had no qualm about that. Were we not doing
the same thing? I thought of the little balls we see everywhere, but could not think of the name I was
yearning to say! “Hey John, what is the name of those brown cocoons, the size of a wine cork, you find
in the woods sometimes” “The little Styrofoam balls in the weeds!” “That's right,” I yelled exhilarated!
“I wish I could tell you,” he said. I tried to say, morphing stage, but I pointed up at the streetlight and said,
look at the metamorphis face! He loved it! So much, in fact, that it became synonymous with the evening!
All the way to the train station we were in animated form, looking up at the street lamps and saying,
“metamorphis face” and then clamoring with glee. It was good, I thought, that he saw them too!

Part of the reason was due to the fact that they were 3rd generation Westinghouse OV 25's, and when
standing in the world of the surreal, the hexagonal pattern in the thick plastic covering, when captured by
the eye, creates a unique and pronounced face! A long line of conspicuous faces that look like they were
crafted in Hell to be an assemblage of mischief makers. They are not. They are, in fact, quite harmless.

John was staring up at them when he uttered the following words,
"all the souls of lost children become light, and they know us."

I then studied the glowing objects with great resolve.

This orange mescaline was cool, in the way that things were so relaxed and less distorted.
Unlike the purple, where everything assumes a milky, more deformed character. As the train
pulled into the station, John refused to get on. He said he would not be able to restrain himself
from laughing in the conductors face, so we decided to wait for the next train. As it rattled down
the tracks into the dark abandonment of a sinister night, I do not think I could have exhibited
more expression, had it lifted off the rails and took to the sky, for I was mentally exhausted.

There was not a single soul at the station, and nothing much to look at on the other side.

After what seemed like a good half hour, another train pulled in to the station,
and we got on it. The conductor who was now prancing about through adjoining
cars was walking most awkwardly. I suppose it was due to the rocking motion
of the train as it bumbled along on its tracks for an unknown destination.

                                                 Serpent Power - Endless tunnel                 

To me, it appeared as though he had been drinking on the job, but of course I knew better!
He soon enters our car, shuffles over to where we are seated, and we hand him the money.
As he lumbers away, we begin laughing and cannot stop. Upon entering the third car,
he walks methodically into that little room of his to say, “next stop is Eltingville!”

We then exited the train at that stop and sat on the station's platform for a while.

During which time a group of young miscreants
came by to do a rendering on somebody else's tag.

Loud and obnoxious were they, and I wondered if they would start trouble. I would have to say,
they were definitely older than us and one of them spoke as though he might have been in college.
They did what they had to do and then left, without upsetting the balance of time. Rembrandt's
they were not, and I simply couldn’t understand why they would bother wasting their time with
such foolishness. I guess, the same could be said for us too in the early nineteen eighties!

                        I guess they just weren't sure where to start in life.

           You start by putting down the paint can and putting on the work boots,
     but who was I to talk. I was nineteen years old and my life was a powder keg,
                         rolling down the steep incline toward a raging fire.

                                                                               Pg 252


Reviews for chapter 34

Gina Mathers - Very good job!

Donald Pascal - Holy smoke, you have your own dictionary? That must have taken
forever because the definitions are not all from one source! And how do you know
about third generation Westinghouse OV 25's? Wow, talk about doing your homework!

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