The Spanish room


An hour later, peace and quiet had been restored to the town. I walked gracefully
into the living room where I began to look around at all there was to see in there,
while the 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 the 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 would depict
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 harsh ground.
Nothing would be able to stop that haematic flow. Yet in all his pain and suffering,
he still looked 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 was almost black 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 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 both, he and I walked into the kitchen. I could tell
he was not listening to that burbling nonsense being dispersed into the air via sound
waves, and so this man spoke only to himself. I sat down in a rather comfortable
sponge chair while John opened the refrigerator door and stuck his neck inside.
What are you looking for, I asked in a somewhat groggy tone, "tomorrow?"
Might be he said, sounding like he wasn't listening to me either.

                                                                               Pg 259
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John closed the door, but continued to stare at the laminate on the olive green Frigidaire.
Gazing out the window into the yard, I saw myself inside, for the lights in the kitchen area
have filtered out the darkness. I then began to look closely at the Marlite around the stove.
Wow I said, getting up to better examine it! What do you call plastic that shimmers and
appears to be wet? "I don't know," said John, carefully examining something else, "what
do-you call plastic that shimmers and appears to be wet?" I hope you're not waiting for
a punch line. "What do you mean?"

It's a question, not a riddle. . .
You see this plastic-shit 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 builders of today
and wondered why every house doesn't come with an elaborate
urinal for the man and a courtesy bidet for the woman.

Why, because people today do not care about anything but the lining of their own
pockets! Take a look at the Casa Batlló in Barcelona designed by Antoni Gaudi
and then look at the apartment complex down the street from where you reside.



                                                         Need I say more?

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 came back from "the lavatory" as it should rightly be called,
I sat down on the couch in the Spanish room and began staring 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, it can't be explained! http://picosong.com/Yv7R  http://picosong.com/YvWF  http://picosong.com/YvWT

I saw Manoella Torres who I was familiar with, but she was yet to have her smash
hit, "Acéptame como soy," which I would absolutely adore! http://picosong.com/essR

I also saw Lolita Flores who also had a very big hit with, "No notas que estoy
temblando," but it wasn't on this particular album.   http://picosong.com/esRh

Roberto Carlos was in there with "Amada, Amante" and "Un gato en la oscuridad."   
 http://picosong.com/esk9  http://picosong.com/esYA  http://picosong.com/esYT  http://picosong.com/esVq  http://picosong.com/esXQ

Piero as well with, "De vez en cuando vienne bien dormir," & "Juan Boliche!"
 http://picosong.com/esgk   -   http://picosong.com/esgN   -   http://picosong.com/esbD   -   http://picosong.com/esQp

At last there was Claudia de Colombia, who is my favorite! I know all of her songs, but am
drawn to "Esos Recuerdos Tuyos" the most. The other forty albums, I knew nothing about.
 http://picosong.com/es84  http://picosong.com/ekku/  http://picosong.com/esh4  http://picosong.com/esAn  http://picosong.com/esAx


Me and John soon went up to his room where he played the tape I gave him with all the
cool songs I used to listen to with Harmony in the day. All the other LP's like The E-Types,
The Choir and The Gants, I bought at Venus Records in Manhattan. Most were trial and error.
Pete was a big 60's fan too, and I always made a ton of cassette tapes to give him at no cost.


 
Even though the songs were old, they sure were new to Pete!     http://picosong.com/YvG9

John on the other hand was more or less content to listen to
all that conventional bullshit they pipe into your brain on the radio.
It's all distorted truth that leads one in a complete circle to nowhere.

                                                                               Pg 260
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They'll play hitchin' a ride by Vanity Fare, but not velvet curtains by Status Quo.
They'll play somebody to love by Jefferson Airplane, but totally disregard make love, 
not war by The Tea Company. They'll play daydream believer by The Monkees, but
totally frown upon the wreck of the Antoinette by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich.
I guess it's all about the God-damn money.

Upstairs we heard songs like Another Game by Grapefruit, Michaelangelo by 23rd Turnoff and
Madame magical by The Fox. Songs that should have been hits, but the charts couldn't hold them!

                                                                   http://picosong.com/4fue



                                                    *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 is now far behind me. This is the way I would have started it.


Cat man 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. . .

Clouds moving toward another plain of gray;
don't worry about the journey, I'll be okay.
Is it true that I'm forever lost in time?
Where shadows inside the mirror come alive.

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 took drugs again. What for, to end up like before
I started taking them? God forbid. So many times while walking the tracks, I would
think about just standing there. Letting it all go, 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 making a living. I never did drugs for the sole purpose of just doing them and then
acting like a fool, 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 261
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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 inside me.
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.

Towards December 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. 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 a 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, I would stop going out at night and became a shut-in. Ever typing on that infernal
computer. My friends would come over, but I would isolate myself and type.



The second I opened that book, my entire world was thrown out of focus,
and it couldn't have been any worse had I disappeared into the vapor of
thin air, because whoever I was before died that day. The day Harmony
returned; the day we joined hands in remembrance of another time.

It was almost like she had come out of the pages of that very book itself and was
with me again. To look in her eyes again. To hold her. Finally. Till I reached
the end of course, and the nightmare unfolded once more. Now, I must lose
everything all over again, so allow me to wallow in my own self-pity for
awhile, to self-destruct in time, and to once again mourn her passing.

I have no desire to travel and would find no problem staying inside
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)

I am sure you must be wondering why my picture is nowhere
to be found. It's not there because it doesn't need to be there.
I don't need to be remembered, I'm already in the words.
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 262
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Reviews for chapter 40

Earnest Bentley - Powerfully told - Good author

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PG 259) Death duel by Michel Bohbot - http://tinyurl.com/n3n6jsa

PG 259) Bull fighter by Sherman LaMont Sudbury - http://tinyurl.com/km7r2zg 

PG 259) Pop goes the weasel by Chris Mars - http://www.chrismarspublishing.com/

PG 260) Casa Batllo designed by Antoni Gaudí - http://tinyurl.com/nsp86t9 

PG 260) Grapefruit - Around Grapefruit (Original LP, 1969) - http://tinyurl.com/kbun29h

PG 261) Picture of Syd Barrett - http://tinyurl.com/3zwgw

PG 262) Secrets by Karoly Bera - http://tinyurl.com/p994msv

PG 262) Untitled by Dan Page - http://tinyurl.com/lp33q5t