One Flew West, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Randy Ray
2007-10-21
Peaches En Randalia #20 And so…here are two concluding fall tall tales to read on the road en route to that next show in that next town—Vegas? New Orleans?—and to round out our heady report card. (d-duel) a television film directed by Steven Spielberg in the early 1970s before Jaws thrust him into the upper echelon of classic American filmmakers. Duel deals with rage, paranoia and a complete communication breakdown between two drivers on a highway—one, a salesman, en route to some western state destination, played by Dennis Weaver; the other, a nameless, faceless villain on the way to his destiny, death on the road… We entered the museum and immediately the vibe was a little bent, damaged, tipsy. One is believed to feel tipsy as if drunk during certain times in New Orleans. The other opinion is that the city is nicknamed ‘The Big Easy’ because it’s really easy to get hammered by strong drink and all of the fried seafood and spicy Cajun, Creole cuisine soaked with heartburn chemicals. Felt tipsy as we entered. This wasn’t your normal everyday museum. No, the site featured artifacts of the occult variety, namely Voodoo, or Vaudou depending on the ancestry of the person passing on such knowledge. Knowledge…hmmm…usually something that one obtains after careful study of the available clues and facts. The dictionary refers to the term ‘occult’ as hidden knowledge. The difficult aspect of occultism is that there are very few available clues and facts for one to investigate. Hence, the definition “hidden knowledge” should be expanded to read: “hidden knowledge that one can neither explain nor understand.” If you’ve made it this far, in this thrilling Inner Flight along the roads of our metaphysical journey, you would know that most of the clues about The Mystery Behind Knowledge are there, right over there, near the center of the page, but don’t look too closely, because it ain’t really there. Alas, this museum was there, or so it seemed. Walked down a corridor past an elderly African-American lady and encountered altars, paintings, dark burgundy lighting, shrines, medallions, talismans, goat heads, devil statues, red and white and black candles, crucifixes, visitor wish lists and photos for “good luck.” Julie exited the back door of the museum. An aging white man asked her if she wanted to see his python—a long and huge beast that would surely devour most living creatures. Julie, it admired. (f-fear and loathing in las vegas) Hunter S. Thompson’s classic set in the same timeframe as Spielberg’s Duel, is an indictment against the American Dream as seen through the eyes of a crazy, drug-and-alcohol-fueled writer and his equally deranged lawyer—a fictionalized account of reality which bred the Gonzo Journalism movement, a literary road explored by HST but mapped by Burroughs, Ginsberg, Cassady and Kerouac; the sum total of all of their journeys leads one back to musical notes played on a typewriter with the sound of improvisation dancing in the background… Alexander hands me a pipe in the Moscow bar. From 1971 to 2031.
I drift into a daydream as my head turns away from the Nest and instead, towards the West and some lost year…What year? I cannot recall. Commander Cody’s cocktail of racing glory passes a car heading into a swamp…strange to listen to that old song while I finish this Black-On-White escapade…ahhh…lovely swamp…lime-green magical flowers shine on bluish-green liquid as my mind drifts back to literary matters after a potent three-part correspondence of a different flavor colors a breezy Autumn eve. Nicotine stains on long, cold fingers coat the old lady’s exterior; brandy lines her ribs; mascara thrown wantonly on sallow cheeks; a Cleopatra in exile; a Queen in yesterday’s ballroom gown; taxi drops off a purple cow who tells the driver: “Stay here. They’ll be after me once they smell my flesh.” “Sure, buddy. Don’t firgit the barbecue sauce.” “Et Tu, Brutus?” “Yes, me too. I’m not your savior. He be dead.” The cow wanders up the road, knowing its fate, knowing what we all know and that is all one can do. William Burroughs speaks into the void: “Kerouac taught me what I already knew, and that’s all anybody can do. He was born knowing.” The cow laughs at such haughty wisdom. “Try knowing that you are just someone else’s feast.” “I do,” responds Burroughs. “I am the Naked Lunch. You are the priest that will baptize our souls.” “Pithy and ridiculous,” ponders the cow while The Fly lands on the old sow’s ear. “Aren’t we all?” offers The Fly. “And who are you?” asks the cow. “I am the writer—remember?” “No.” “The late night scene from when he was nineteen—remember? The hotel that had walls that spoke.” “Man, did you see that woman’s face?” detours Burroughs. “Her fleshy facial lines spoke paragraphs and chapters and eclipsed the fact from the imagination.” “Hey, pay attention,” says the cow, “we’re discussing flies and walls and hotels that communicate—” “So am I,” defends Burroughs. “So am I?” Kerouac enters. “Did someone call me?” “No, go back to sleep, Jack,” sooths Burroughs. “Maybe in the next life, I can hear myself dream,” reasons Kerouac. “Gotta lay down what’s been dealt,” pontificates The Fly. Film reel terminates; light exterminates; visitor paints Las Vegas. - Randy Ray stores his work at www.rmrcompany.blogspot.com.
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