The Spanish room


An hour later, peace and quiet had been restored to the town. Walking gracefully
into the living room, I began to look around at all there was to see, while the
homemade Spanish decor made me feel like I was standing in another country.

I gazed at the toreador in the painting on the wall and saw he was wearing the
typical Andalusian hat worn by bullfighters, the montera. Dressed in a traditional
suit of lights, he proudly displays his red cape to entice the bull. As the bull
prepares himself to charge, he seemed to be kicking up some of the dirt with his
hind legs. From there it is all a guessing game to try and determine the winner.

A foot away hung a medieval battle mace displayed on a 40-degree angle.
Who would invent such a terrible weapon to use against his fellow man?



                                          I found that to be quite disturbing.


Three feet away was another painting on soft black felt paper. This one clearly depicts
a picador on horseback, charging with one of his many spangled lances. The bull had
three in his neck already, where blood spurted out in thin streams dotting the ground.
Nothing would be able to stop that haematic flow. Yet in all his pain and suffering,
he still seemed to look as ferocious and dangerous as he could have possibly been.



The borders around the room were adjoined in constituent angles to where the overlap
of half-timbered wood protruded from the wall's facade. The wood itself was unique
for it had a distressed black finish, and gave off an appearance that termites had, in fact,
crawled through it many centuries ago. This was the art of illusion through etch and stain.

In between its peripherals was stucco,
while the ceiling had been discolored by the nicotine of countless cigarettes.

As I stared at the collection of hobo clowns and Frankoma ware in the curio cabinet
that John's mother had collected over the years, I realized there was an unending
amount of things in this world for people to collect and become absorbed in.



        What a wonderful retreat, I thought, to be here now
        that the madness had ended and all was made well.

John turned on the television and together, we walked into the kitchen. I could tell
he was not listening to that burbling nonsense being dispersed into the air via sound
waves from electrical signals, and so the man in the box spoke only to himself. I sat
down in a rather comfortable sponge chair, until John proceeded to enter the kitchen.
With nothing else to do, I followed him in a rather curious manner. When he opened
the refrigerator door to stick his neck inside, I asked in a groggy tone,“What are you
looking for, tomorrow?”

“Might be,” he said, sounding like he wanted to call it a night.

                                                                               Pg 268
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John closed the door, but continues to stare at the laminate on the dingy white Frigidaire.
Attempting to gaze out the window into the yard, I could not, for I only saw myself
inside, where the lights in the kitchen area have somehow filtered out the darkness.
I then began to look closely at the sheen of the Marlite around the stove. Wow I said,
getting up to run my fingers across it.

“What do you call plastic that shimmers and appears to be wet?”
“I don't know, said John, “what do-you call plastic that shimmers and appears to be wet?”
“I really hope you're not waiting for a punch line.”
“What do you mean?” asked John.
“It's a question, not a riddle. . . You see this white plastic material I'm touching?”
“If I knew the term for everything in my house, I wouldn't be driving a van, I'd be a builder.”

I then thought about the general contractors, and wondered why every house doesn't
come with an elaborate urinal for the man, and a courtesy bidet for the woman.

It is because “the builders of today” know that less is often better, and so they
create a dwelling as simple as possible, and turn it over for an immediate profit.




Sort of like the writers of the today. They create a story simply by compiling words
together in mindless repetition and then use sex as a crutch to sell the novel.

John seemed to be listening like I had awakened him from a deep slumber.
A few minutes later, I got up and went into the bathroom. The one with
no bathtub or shower stall in it. As I returned from “the lavatory” as it
should rightly be called, I sat down in the very comfortable sponge chair
once again and began to casually stare at the curio cabinet.

There's nothing to see anymore.
No one to be anymore. . .
Just me - on a chair - in a room.

It wasn't long before I began to thumb through his parent's record collection, and
found it peculiar, to say the least. “Who the hell is Leon Redbone,” I asked John?
“Don't ask, because I can't even explain it.” Lazy Bones  The Sheik of Araby  Champagne Charlie

I saw an import from Manoella Torres of Mexico in there.  Acéptame como soy

I also saw an LP by Lolita Flores from Spain in there too.  No notas que estoy temblando

The legendary Roberto Carlos of Brazil was in there as well.  
 Amada Amante      Qué será de ti      Un gato en la oscuridad      La distancia      Detalles

There was an album from Piero of Argentina.
 De vez en cuando viene bien dormir   -   Llegando llegaste   -   Juan Boliche   -   Yo vengo

An album from Leonardo Favio of Argentina.   Ding dong estas cosas del amor

And at last, there was a Greatest Hits by Claudia of Colombia, who is my favorite Latin singer.
 Hoy daria yo la vida  Tiempo para amar  Es un laberinto mi vida sin ti  La vida seguira  Este amor   Tu alma golondrina    Ya no eres mi amigo, eres mi vida


As me and John walked upstairs to his room, he played the tape I gave him with all the
cool songs I used to listen to with Harmony back in the day. Most of the LP’s, I bought
at Venus Records on 8th St. in Manhattan. Most were trial and error, so I experimented.
Pete was a big 60's fan too, and I always made some cassette tapes to give him at no cost.



 
Even though the songs were old, they were new to me and Pete.          Grapefruit - Lullaby

John on the other hand was more or less content to listen to all
that conventional music they pipe into your brain on the radio.

In the end, It's all distorted truth
that leads one in a complete circle to nowhere.

                                                                               Pg 269
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They’ll only play songs that were hits, rather than play songs that should have been hits, had
the other songs of the time not knocked them out of the box. As time went on, the music grew
older, and the younger generation who has just reached puberty is hearing for the first time,
(I can’t get no) satisfaction by The Rolling Stones. Only now, does it all seem to make sense.

Upstairs we listened to “Believe in things” by Floyd and Jerry with The Counterpoints,
“Careful what you say” by The Tikis, “Not so near” by The Zoofs, and “I hate to laugh
alone” by The Paniks. Yes, it was the unmistakable sound of early 1960's garage music.

Thrown in were a variety of Syd Barrett songs, designed to enlightens one's mood.

                                                                   Syd Barrett - Bob Dylan blues



                                                      *Long Live Syd Barrett!!!*

I would love to have tripped out and wrote a song with Syd in his world
of magnesium proverbs and suds, but that life, it seems is now far behind
me. The song I would have written would have went something like this.


Night clown in glittering gold and silver,
take me away from a world of killers;
find me a girl, a mere mortal lies in love.

Walk through the halls of enchanted laughter.
Search for a woman with lust for matter,
until the edge of time, drift upon the air.

Thee air. . .

Look in the meadow where the willow tree weeps,
I bear my heart to the wind.
Until the morning hour, when in the spiders creep,
what a tale of yarn they could spin.

Why oh why,
am I so oppressed by the feelings that
lie deep within me for a life unkind?

Hello. . . Mister Reality,
we're going to blow your mind.
Don't be afraid
to come out and say,
you haven't seen the light.


I never finished it, because I never experimented with drugs again.
There was no need to go any further than I have already traveled.
So many times while walking the tracks, I would begin to ponder the
unspeakable, but I made a promise to my sweetheart many years ago,
and this promise is bound by a sacred seal. *It can never be broken*
 
As I opened my eyes to the dawn of a new day, I realized that I
would have to abandon these foolish dreams, and set my sights
on a new course. One which deals with reality, and that of earning
a living. I would never do drugs for the sole purpose of just doing
them, but rather, because I was hurting inside, and I didn't know
how to assemble my emotions, so I figured why not just do them.

                                                                               Pg 270
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But now, I was no longer a disease!A walking curse. For the first time in a long
time, I was at peace. No more would I have to worry about the nighttime hours
and that feeling I would get of utter helplessness. That terror that made me believe
I was truly damned, because in my own mind, I really did believe I was somehow
a direct descendant of Judas Iscariot. All those feelings I had to keep hidden inside.
Just walking inside a church, I would get an overwhelming feeling that something
did not want me there. . . Thank God it was finally over. I am only thankful the
vision came to me early, before I got a chance to do some real damage.

How strange is life? That I should be completely at ease with
the memory of my sweetheart for exactly twenty two years.

Toward the end of 2003, my girlfriend Maya stumbled upon a box inside a large
wooden crate downstairs in the basement. Inside the taped up box were all my writings
that I have carried with me from place to place throughout the years. Not only the drug
experiences, but the journals of hope I wrote when I was with Harmony. The second
she broke that seal, it was as though she had opened Pandora's box, and I knew the
very moment I saw those books, that nothing was ever going to be the same again.



As I began reading the memoirs, I happened to find the documentation of one day.

June the 11th, 1982. As I began piecing this story together, I spent months debating
whether or not I should open the Harmony journal. Finally, I would find I had no
choice. As I read and rewrote endless pages of fading penciled notes, I found I had
stopped going out at night, to become a shut-in. Ever typing on that infernal
computer. Friends would come over, but I would isolate myself and type.



The second I opened that book, my world would be thrown out of focus,
and it couldn't have been any worse had I drowned in a river, because
whoever I was before, died that day. The day Harmony returned.
The day we joined hands again in remembrance of another time.

As crazy as it may seem, it was almost like she had come out of the
pages of that very book, and was with me again. To look in her eyes
again. To hold her gently in my thoughts. Till I reached the end of
course, and the nightmare unfolded once more. Now, I must lose her
all over again. So please allow me to wallow in my own self-pity for a
while, to self-destruct in time, and to once again mourn her passing.

I have no desire to travel and would find no problem staying in
this apartment for the rest of my natural life. Does it matter if
the sun is shining or the rain is falling? If I'm crying inside.
Does anything really matter? Because of these wretched woes,
this book has become more of a curse for me than a blessing.

Enjoy it, I wrote it for you.

As for me, I'll probably wind up living my days alone;
in this solitary confinement we call a human existence,
or at least until I can seal that box again.

(Figuratively speaking)

In truth, I don't need to be remembered, neither do I care to.
All I want is for this book to live on in the hearts and minds
of those who read it. Surely, the next breath I take will be my
last, and the same goes for anyone reading this. Though I
do not expect them to comprehend that now.

Just look at everything in God's time, and you'll understand.

Take in everything you see and feel, and know you're being judged
because in God's time. . . We're already dead.

                                                                               Pg 271
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Reviews for chapter 40

Earnest Bentley - Powerfully told - Good author

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PG 268) Death duel by Michel Bohbot - http://tinyurl.com/n3n6jsa

PG 268) Bull fighter by Sherman LaMont Sudbury - http://tinyurl.com/km7r2zg 

PG 268) Pop goes the weasel by Chris Mars - http://www.chrismarspublishing.com/

PG 269) Casa Batllo designed by Antoni Gaudí - http://tinyurl.com/nsp86t9 

PG 269) Grapefruit - Around Grapefruit (Original LP, 1969) - http://tinyurl.com/kbun29h

PG 270) Picture of Syd Barrett - http://tinyurl.com/3zwgw

PG 271) Secrets by Karoly Bera - http://tinyurl.com/p994msv

PG 271) Untitled by Dan Page - http://tinyurl.com/lp33q5t