years of being hassled by his label.
Rossiter wired Jim that he was on his way and jumped the next jet to Paris, hoping the telegram would get there before he did. At first he was relieved to see Jim waiting for him at Orly. Then he got a good look at him. He had not seen his friend for nearly two months, and he was shocked by the changes the drummer had undergone. Where once Jim appeared boyish and energetic, now he was wasted and bloated. It was clear that Jim had given up psychedelics in favor of harder drugs.
The reunion turned uneasy within a day. Rossiter was eager to see the sights the fabled City of Lights had to offer, but the only thing Jim was interested in was shooting up in his rented pension. Rossiter returned home after a couple of days, disgusted and depressed by his friend’s dissolution. Jim sent a few more letters after that, but he did not read them; instead, he stuffed them in his desk drawer unopened. When the news came of the inevitable overdose, Rossiter found himself consumed by grief and guilt. He took out the unopened letters and read them. Most were stoned rambles about the duplicity of women, with the occasional stanza of bad poetry thrown in for good measure. One letter was actually a grocery list stuffed inside the envelope by mistake.
Strange he should think about the dead poet at that moment. It had been years since he had last thought about him. Rossiter shook his head, dispelling the vivid memories the weird designs had triggered in his mind. He was reminded of the visual puzzles in the back of the old Children’s Hi-Light magazines. Maybe if he sat there long enough, staring at the lines and squiggles that comprised the design, he would finally see the monkeys hiding in the trees and the Indians crouching in the bushes. But, instead, the longer he looked at the designs, the heavier his eyelids became...
He was somewhere that wasn’t anywhere; he could feel himself hovering just beyond his physical body. It was disconcerting but not unpleasant, kind of like the effect he got from huffing nitrous gas. He didn’t feel warm and he didn’t feel cold. He didn’t feel anything. He was in a place that was neither dark nor light.
While there was no time in this place between places, there was certainly space. As his vision adjusted, he glimpsed traceries of light and movement all around him, like tiny, fluorescent tropical fish darting about a vast aquarium. As he focused his attention on the flickering lights, they began to take on form and substance, and he recognized them as the elaborate vévés that decorated the interior of Papa Beloved’s temple. He recalled a photograph he’d seen of Picasso drawing he outline of a minotaur with a penlight and empty air. The sudden realization that something might be creating the vévés unnerved him. He wondered if he was visible to whatever it was that drew the vévés , and if it might resent his intrusion.
There was a ripple in the nothing. Then another. Although he could not see or hear anything, he knew something was approaching. The vévés suddenly burned as bright as suns, their outlines suffused with color, like the throat sacs of lizards challenging a newcomer.
His soul froze as if pinned to the spot, like a rabbit facing an oncoming automobile. He wanted to scream, but he did not have lungs. As the vévés burned like neon snakes, he turned inward, not wanting to see whatever it that was coming for him. Then--just as suddenly as it had arrived--the thing gone. Although he had not seen whatever it was the vévés scared away, he had the distinct impression that it had smiled at him.
“That was sure one wild-ass dream,” Tee said when he related his experience to her.
“You think that’s all it was? A dream?”
“The Loa communicate through dreams all the time. Maybe you just happened to get a closer look than most folks.”
“But I didn’t see anything.”
Tee sighed and rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one
Rossiter wired Jim that he was on his way and jumped the next jet to Paris, hoping the telegram would get there before he did. At first he was relieved to see Jim waiting for him at Orly. Then he got a good look at him. He had not seen his friend for nearly two months, and he was shocked by the changes the drummer had undergone. Where once Jim appeared boyish and energetic, now he was wasted and bloated. It was clear that Jim had given up psychedelics in favor of harder drugs.
The reunion turned uneasy within a day. Rossiter was eager to see the sights the fabled City of Lights had to offer, but the only thing Jim was interested in was shooting up in his rented pension. Rossiter returned home after a couple of days, disgusted and depressed by his friend’s dissolution. Jim sent a few more letters after that, but he did not read them; instead, he stuffed them in his desk drawer unopened. When the news came of the inevitable overdose, Rossiter found himself consumed by grief and guilt. He took out the unopened letters and read them. Most were stoned rambles about the duplicity of women, with the occasional stanza of bad poetry thrown in for good measure. One letter was actually a grocery list stuffed inside the envelope by mistake.
Strange he should think about the dead poet at that moment. It had been years since he had last thought about him. Rossiter shook his head, dispelling the vivid memories the weird designs had triggered in his mind. He was reminded of the visual puzzles in the back of the old Children’s Hi-Light magazines. Maybe if he sat there long enough, staring at the lines and squiggles that comprised the design, he would finally see the monkeys hiding in the trees and the Indians crouching in the bushes. But, instead, the longer he looked at the designs, the heavier his eyelids became...
He was somewhere that wasn’t anywhere; he could feel himself hovering just beyond his physical body. It was disconcerting but not unpleasant, kind of like the effect he got from huffing nitrous gas. He didn’t feel warm and he didn’t feel cold. He didn’t feel anything. He was in a place that was neither dark nor light.
While there was no time in this place between places, there was certainly space. As his vision adjusted, he glimpsed traceries of light and movement all around him, like tiny, fluorescent tropical fish darting about a vast aquarium. As he focused his attention on the flickering lights, they began to take on form and substance, and he recognized them as the elaborate vévés that decorated the interior of Papa Beloved’s temple. He recalled a photograph he’d seen of Picasso drawing he outline of a minotaur with a penlight and empty air. The sudden realization that something might be creating the vévés unnerved him. He wondered if he was visible to whatever it was that drew the vévés , and if it might resent his intrusion.
There was a ripple in the nothing. Then another. Although he could not see or hear anything, he knew something was approaching. The vévés suddenly burned as bright as suns, their outlines suffused with color, like the throat sacs of lizards challenging a newcomer.
His soul froze as if pinned to the spot, like a rabbit facing an oncoming automobile. He wanted to scream, but he did not have lungs. As the vévés burned like neon snakes, he turned inward, not wanting to see whatever it that was coming for him. Then--just as suddenly as it had arrived--the thing gone. Although he had not seen whatever it was the vévés scared away, he had the distinct impression that it had smiled at him.
“That was sure one wild-ass dream,” Tee said when he related his experience to her.
“You think that’s all it was? A dream?”
“The Loa communicate through dreams all the time. Maybe you just happened to get a closer look than most folks.”
“But I didn’t see anything.”
Tee sighed and rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one
Similar Books
