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 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
our creator and resolved the whole matter once and for all, rather than live my
entire life feeling like a descendant of the great betrayer.

Maddening thoughts they were indeed, but these are the things
we think of when we are beginning to lose our minds.

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

A Native American Indian man who befriended me several years ago, once said,
“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 can 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 is 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 been learning 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, 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.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should have told them.

I am sure they would have only used it like a blade
to cut my heart out with.

                                                                               Pg 250

The one thing I can honestly say is that I am happy I no longer have to see the inside
a schoolroom again. I would usually enter feeling lost and leave, knowing I had
endless pages of homework to complete before nightfall. Homework pertaining to
subjects that had no relevance being taught to us in the first place.

Since we were learning it in school, there didn't appear to be a reason for us to
take it home and do it again. That should always have been optional to the student.

Anyway, school didn't teach me anything I wouldn't have learned in the first place.

But now I was free.
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 as logical as 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, should my
theory prove to be correct. All the lives
I could change for the better. The 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.
Finally, I was someone of importance!

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 mind,
you become nothing more than a zero.

Just think, if someone was awake their whole life, unable to interpret,
nor communicate a spoken language,
then isn’t it 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 to them?

What is a peach?
What am I saying?

They would hear only blathering nonsense through the receptors
of their non-conformed minds, and I am sure that by trying to
convey even the least bit of logic to these poor lost souls would
be, in the doctrine 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 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.

“We must carry on,” I said to them, and John nodded in agreement.

The streetlamps where in a metamorphic stage. They were just
hanging out, being themselves and I had no qualm about that.

Were we not doing the same thing?

I thought of the brown cocoons we see everywhere,
but could not think of the name to those strange objects.

“Hey John, what do you call those small brown puffy things
about the size of a wine cork we see all the time in the woods?”
“Styrofoam balls in the weeds,” John yells out.

“That’s right,” I exclaimed, exhilarated. . . They’re Styrofoam!

As we began walking, I would try to say morphing stage, when I
pointed up at the streetlight and said, “look at the metamorphis face.”

John loved it.

So much, in fact, that it became synonymous with the evening.

All night long 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.

These orange microdots were cool, in the way that things were
now so relaxed and less distorted. Unlike the purple microdots
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 conductor’s face, and 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 toward an unknown destination.

                                                 Serpent Power - Endless tunnel                 

There were no signs of life at the station, and nothing much to look
at on the other side. After what seemed like a good hour, another train
pulled in to the station, where we abruptly walked in and found a seat.

I began to think of that long psychedelic song by, The Serpent Power,
called Endless Tunnel, and wished I had a cassette player to turn it on.

“Hey Mr. Conductor tell me where are we going?”
“Hey Mr. Conductor tell me where are we headed?”
“Hey Mr. Conductor he just walked on by.”

Unfortunately, no one has the desire to listen to music like that anymore.

The conductor who was prancing through adjoining cars was now
walking kind of awkwardly; as if he had a pint of whiskey in his back
pocket. I suppose it was due to the rocking motion of the train as
it bumbled along its tracks. To me, it appeared to look as though
he’d been drinking on the job, but of course we knew better.

As he enters our car, he shuffles over to where we are seated.

From there 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 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, and I wondered if they'd start trouble.

We exited the train and sat on the station’s platform for a while.
During which time a group of young miscreants come by to do a
rendering on somebody else’s tag, and I wondered if they would
start trouble. These kids appeared to be a year or two older than
us and one of them spoke like he may have been in college.

They did what they had to do, and then they left
without upsetting the balance of time.

Rembrandt’s they were not, and I couldn’t understand why
they would bother wasting their time with such foolishness.

                        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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