Stream of Consciousness: April 19, 2018


Where were we. Ah yes, motivation.

As we find our growing group of suitors deep in a foreboding forest under the watchful eye of Ujor, all monitored by the king Emota and his servant sorcerer Getroya, the Narrator, aka omniscient being previously known as Author, contemplates the benefits of sobriety. Something he does from time to time.

Considering it highly overrated for the task at hand, a walk had been planned to the nearest beer store conveniently located less than a mile away. As we have now returned to the task at hand, cold brews secure in the studio’s beer fridge, we update the current status of, well, the journey at hand.

How about some time travel? We had introduced that some chapters previous with our friend now known as Adam, who had then arrived on some desolate beach among the roaring tide, ebbing seaweeds, and some pesky seagull seemingly out-of-place among his own flock? Could this also be some metaphor for an awkward adolescence?

Sure, let’s go with that. The alcohol is setting in nicely.

While the thicket bashes the brains out of the group trekking down the muddy, painful path, Adam finds himself lost in time.

A cheap stereo sits atop a child’s dresser in a small room in the three-bedroom red-brick ranch. On the floor two albums, booty from the recent American Clearing house contest, lay. Two boys listen as the confused sounds of the sixties flow from the integrated stereophonic speakers connected to the turntable spinning a slow 33 1/3 rpm, one notch faster than the 16 rpm, not quite as fast as 45, considerably slower than the highest speed, 78.

These speeds of course becoming more important as the years progress and a 13-year-old smelly little boy plays his dime store guitar to one of the albums currently at his feet. That Album? Led Zeppelin II of course. It had been ordered in error by his brother, who at the moment was enjoying the societal 60’s renditions of one Bobby Sherman.

“You can have that one” the older boy says to the soon to be smelly 13-year-old. He picks it up, it will become one of his jealously guarded possessions, worthy of fighting for when the older boy comes to him some four years later trying to take it, and the shitty stereo back.

But for now it is 1968. And the two boys sit alone in their room in the three-bedroom red-brick ranch. The younger is 8. Of course, who would this boy become? Well, isn’t that just a gas of a guess for us all to take.

None the less, we need to illuminate the times we find Adam in.

Everywhere is freaks and hairies
Dykes and fairies, tell me where is sanity
Tax the rich, feed the poor
Till there are no rich no more

I’d love to change the world
But I don’t know what to do
So I’ll leave it up to you

Population keeps on breeding
Nation bleeding, still more feeding economy
Life is funny, skies are sunny
Bees make honey, who needs money, Monopoly

Or is it really that important, because 10 years after the smelly little boy finds himself caught in global conflict miles away from the coast where his one day wife is currently being bombarded by the very American war ship he is busy working on to keep afloat. So I’ve heard.

Coming across now, the stereo, your ballroom days are over. An old man types at a keyboard wondering about the days gone by. Wondering if anybody understands. Get together, one more time. Riding the snake, as it were. Ah, but the beer is good.


Bobby Sherman plays across the stereophonic speakers, the mother comes in, nodding approvingly. But someone is looking for the girl with the sun in her eyes. Of course, she would be found under a bridge by a fountain where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies.

Yes, that’s it. Of course. Bobby Sherman sucks. It’s as simple as that. Unfortunately the mother wouldn’t come in, nodding when the sounds of such things came across the shitty stereo speakers. It seems, born to wander like the shifting of the sand, would be in store for the boy who “had something wrong with him”.

The alcohol is cresting. Just at the point of tipping where incoherence would be the norm. A few more and then all bets are off. Our friend Adam? He looks on helplessly, just as he has done in the past. What is the question here, that’s what the keys cackle back and forth trying to answer.

Joplin scream’s take it, another little piece of my heart now baby.

In the Garden of Eden, that old bitch of a tune starts blaring across the speakers. The mind is numb now, which is cool, at least that’s the plan we’re following, but suspicion is many have been lost along the path to here. This is after all, supposed to be something different. Is it working?

Are you still here? What was up with that seagull?

Adam snaps back in time to the forest, Ujor had been watching him, as the others. They had found a clearing. Adam now rested beneath a shade tree, relaxed. Looking fatigued, he sits up on his haunches. “Where have we been” he ask.

Seth looks at him, disgusted. “What do you mean where have we been, where have you been?” The contempt is felt in the others. Adam looks upon this young man, unsure what to make of what he has just said. “Seth, what is the reason you are so angry with me” Adam ask.

Seth humps away in disgust, grabbing a branch he makes into a spear. Off to the woods he goes looking for game for dinner. He vanishes into the forest thickets.

“Ujor” Adam looks up to the old Sorcerer, “what is happening to me” he ask.

Ujor, himself unsure, looks down on Adam. “I am not sure I know, but in time we will find out. It is fearful what I think will happen to us, but it is, I’m sure, how we, no, how you face the challenge that determines our fate. Of the ending of that, I am not sure.”

Sarah looked at them both, then looking to the place in the forest where Seth had vanished, a look of certainty came across her face. The look wasn’t lost on Ujor. She reached down to stroke the Minotaur. He leaned his head into her warm caress.

And then all hell broke loose.

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