They lumber with a nonchalance, leaving a boulevard of crushed grasses. Others will come along and feast on the collateral damage as the patient sits in isolation waiting for reports regarding this week’s side effects. Perhaps a new specialist will get in on the money train. Dimen is removed from all of it, sitting in the big chair, in solitude, in a room full of big chairs. He is watched by a rhinoceros an elephant and a bear, popping his feet and jumping up and down, listening to that Slugs’ album, reading the notes about how the studio had to optimize the setup for reel-to-reel tape playback from DeJohnette’s quarter-track format, converting Ampex ATR-102 machines, rewiring the playback head in lieu of the 2-track professional head and Dimen is thinking Bobby McCarthy would dig the crap out of this stuff, and they just stare because they don’t know a damn thing about what he’s talking about. And in the reconstruction of a slight reversal of the myth, the cock crows, sending Dimen to the woods as the dragonfly helicopter disturbs the horizon. Dimen bows, in a pantomime of worship, to the Calochortus nuttallii, also known as the sego lily, when a bullfrog croaks, frolicking in the backwash stranded with the hasty retreat of recent high waters. In other parts of the world this would not be unique, at the Thunderbird Compound it may be dubbed sui generis and the cock crows a second time, putting Dimen in a small room with Jorge Luis Borges, hereinafter referred to as JLB, a muse and a demon, sharing summaries of tales covering the history of philosophy here and on yet-to-be-found other worlds based on stories he had already written and Dimen imagines JLB often laughing as he wrote, thinking of his readers, poor dumb bastards, yet only in the most respectful sense. Dimen rises to face his hourly, late-night wanderings through the artificial shadows (all of the diodes from appliances and devises, now shining when in the off position; from the paranoia of neighbors infiltrating the windows) with no concern, when Carlos lands near the door to interrogate Dimen once again. And no, says Dimen to Carlos, I have never been in the company of JLB. Though this was stated but once, the cock crows a third time as Carlos rises from the railing, his ingeniously fat wings sucking all sound from the cosmos. Then they rolled the stone back, closing the tomb from the inside.
Peas and Hominy
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Shades of Carlos Castenadas, William Carlos Williams, and Willie Reebe (a tombstone below the lift at Lost Trail.) Add a dash of Bob McCarthy music magic, and it triggers good trippy sequences. Like a series of blinking images , stills grow animate. When Dave Digs Disney, the tune, is hip.
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