… even though we ain't got scratch …
“Find a dusty old volume,” Wycliffe commanded.
Came up with The Trial of the Daffodil Three. Hitchhiker guessed right.
“Photography is easy,” Bosch echoed.
At last, we would movie ruthlessly.
Look at the Plastic Pigs with their Painted Faces! And these women? “I want a man to look like a man, and a woman to look like a woman,” said Castrator the Barbarian, the Theologian, as quoted by Bosch.
Party hairmen. The hoard of education … New Yori … Godberg … Golddell … Arthyr … Dianne Gunning … Everything kept losing its focus. The cat lady and her trashy house, down at the corner of personality disintegration. According to Laing, these drugs or schizophrenia are an “initiation ceremony through which one must be guided by people who have been there and back.”
Homer had it right.
“Dragonfire no hell,” answered martyrs unknowingly.
The goodbye death scene: Movieola out of business, as envisioned by Virgil.
Across galloping dawn rides day with its exploding nerve endings, skin aflame.
The BANANA BANG.
Wipeout. Shootout. TV news.
A bad spell under fire.
Out where there were only Lutherans, Catholics, or Volunteer Firemen, as Hitchhiker had found.
The TURK QUAKE.
The Prague newspaper: Mlada Fronta, on Isadora’s desk.
Democratic aucus. Homer laughed.
HATE!!! These constraints, fears, invading TV pitchmen, roaring automobiles, chrome glaring friendliness! LET ME BE! QUIET ON THE SET! Open space, for prowling. No more police. Now back to business. OPEN these prison minds, let down these curlers, wash off the makeup no longer fearing what everybody else fears just once SCREAM and roll wild and even touch someone else, like …
Yes, like the Wolf Bitch clutching a baby she owns a slave-driver someday, just maybe, will LET GO, coming in the homestretch, as the 29th Cavalry’s wiped out. Preliminary wire reports say. Or would.
Not by the sounds of an era but its accomplishments is it judged. Someday, ever?, will good triumph, virtue flourish, and knowledge reign? Homer again, adding perspective. A photo-essay of the moon. Symmetry of Sugar Creek. Left, right, left. Gargoyles in Middletown. Oregonia after the Blitz. From the viewpoint of contemporary American heroes.
The packing plant, the foundry, elevator, mill, transmission plant, chemical plant, rail yards, and quarry out on strike. Bosch roamed the neighboring cities. Out on the rails.
Is it 6 M (or) W 9: written on the sidewalk? In front of storefront the Dharma Hall Om Bhao.
The swirl of politics, seen in rear view: LBJ / Gene McCarthy / Bobby Kennedy / Martin Luther King and Malcolm X / Spiro Agnew / Nixon, all ways, the war without declaration / no commitment / long hair / increasing frustration and anger / swelling toward Watergate, pisshole of the party. “I worked that convention like a whore.” More of the times in: Dow Chemical, pie in the face being the conservatives’ funny joke, until a radical does it: protests, Czechoslovakia, peaceniks & hippies, race, going militant. Business trips with calcified remains.
walking that lonesome valley / backwaters / embryos / self-criticism / pyrotechnica / shelters / intentions / rifts / melting spot / origins / sources / seeds / graphs / tracings / nonlinear problems / enzymes / biological order / programming language / hierarchial structures /burning your sources
Candidia / Rolpodia / Dormiendo / Helepida / Dorejment / Kisopida / Savery Row / Sinsomphie / Nilemphoria / Concrephrie / Zampandu / Lipsodement …
New Riegel’s celebration Mass, followed by the drunken band / Rising Sun’s fire department street fair / McCutcheonville’s Zebra Research Station
“What you are, I am, too,” she sang out. “Just for the grins.”
We filmed Sandy Mile Road Methodist BIGOTS vs Catholic SINNERS. The DeKalb ear & buckle. CORKSCREW MEMORIES.
Was he or wasn’t he the police chief? In the end, it wouldn’t matter.
“I just like to carry a gun.”
“And get in her pants.”
On the railroad to Indian No Place. This was, after all a documentary, with dancers.
GROWN UP CLOTHES, what we wear to work, how different they are from the other clothes we really wear, like at home and on weekends.
The late 20th century TRANSCULTURAL CONFUSION as Deep Compressions. The misguided spiritual elements of Dionysian life. Also, the “rich aspirants” syndrome of “my, aren’t we cool! My, aren’t we pretty!”
Doctors’ and lawyers’ kids. Considering villains.
“Pop Tibetan,” too.
Using rubber cement like the time X did it to all Y’s condoms.
As a TEA MASTER, Narpa was dizzy, sitting on the floor. Grinning inanely.
Hitchhiker: “If I don’t come back Monday, I’ll probably be back soon after that (during the week). Please tell her not to paint the room or move in till I gets me stuff out. OKAY? Dig you later. Your almost former apt. mate.”
IN THE MORGUE: Indianapolis Is Torpedoed; 833 Are Lost / U.S. Cruiser Sinks Off Leyte; 315 Men Saved After Torture. GAUM
Life is composed of shots and scenes, so that Eisenstein images and plots / circular rectangular ascent / excretion unfolding / concave blunt perforated percolator / edge interner / front side life … You understand the movie talk, don’t you? MOVIE TALK: interior / side / metabolic / marrow / regression / plunge / Montana / luminary / oracle / omen / arena / foot / inborn / moody / Mars / phase / maya / blank /
We were starting out behind once again. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Treading water, catch up on all the rest. All over again.
Out of nowhere, Isadora flashed into Homer’s house, blasted out, over the horizon, into Bloomingdark.
How times change! Once upon my life, I couldn’t read or write without music playing intense, dramatic, symphonic sounds. So Isadora said. “Perhaps that was some of my best thinking. Now total concentration is required and composition is difficult. Silence, how strange!”
We’d need list of rules for Hitchhiker. Along spiritual lines.
Outside the Pinky’s Big Bundle Launderama window, two Chicago subway cars passed by. Double doors, green stripe along the side. In destination window, one said EVANSTON. The other, LINDEN. On flatbed trucks.
Morrison Knudsen Co. On an index card.
Hitchhiker had changed. So had the subways. Fear and muggings. Nobody wanted to share anything anymore. No more granola. No more gorp. No more duty of companionship and conversation. Weird tales circulated. Knifings. Homosexual rapes. Free-riders so stoned they couldn’t speak, except to demand music money or a smoke. Had authentic thumbing gone underground once again? Had it vanished? Or merely changed form? Hitchhiker would uphold what he could, wherever he was.
If only the Amish would discover hitchhiking. Or subways.
Don’t confuse free-riders with vandals, he insisted. One is constructive and helpful or, at worst, passive. The other is always destructive.
“There’s a vision I want to proclaim,” Bosch admitted.
It takes great courage to movie a book in Kastoria. As everyone knows, there are no subways. Not even Chicago’s. No buildings taller than the grain elevators or foundry smokestack. And yet, finish and you’ll never again see New York quite the same. Or Boston, Philadelphia, the District of Columbia, San Francisco, London, Paris, Moscow, Pittsburgh, Baltimore …
Here’s a token. Take off. Far into the 21st century.
To open the complete (free) novella, With a passing freight train of 119 cars and twin cabooses, click here.