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Columns > Randy Ray - Peaches En Randalia

Published: 2007/10/21
by Randy Ray

One Flew West, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest

Peaches En Randalia #20
And sohere are two concluding fall tall tales to read on the road en route to that next show in that next townVegas? 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 highwayone, 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 its 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 wasnt 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. Knowledgehmmmusually 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 youve 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 dont look too closely, because it aint 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 pythona long and huge beast that would surely devour most living creatures. Julie, it admired.
(f-fear and loathing in las vegas) Hunter S. Thompsons classic set in the same timeframe as Spielbergs 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 lawyera 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 yearWhat year? I cannot recall. Commander Codys cocktail of racing glory passes a car heading into a swampstrange to listen to that old song while I finish this Black-On-White escapadeahhhlovely swamplime-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 ladys exterior; brandy lines her ribs; mascara thrown wantonly on sallow cheeks; a Cleopatra in exile; a Queen in yesterdays ballroom gown; taxi drops off a purple cow who tells the driver: Stay here. Theyll be after me once they smell my flesh. Sure, buddy. Dont firgit the barbecue sauce. Et Tu, Brutus? Yes, me too. Im 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 thats all anybody can do. He was born knowing. The cow laughs at such haughty wisdom. Try knowing that you are just someone elses 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 sows ear. Arent we all? offers The Fly. And who are you? asks the cow. I am the writerremember? No. The late night scene from when he was nineteenremember? The hotel that had walls that spoke. Man, did you see that womans face? detours Burroughs. Her fleshy facial lines spoke paragraphs and chapters and eclipsed the fact from the imagination. Hey, pay attention, says the cow, were 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 whats been dealt, pontificates The Fly. Film reel terminates; light exterminates; visitor paints Las Vegas.
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