Friday, August 17, 2012


                   This place has been overthrown.
Everything's upside down. And there seems to be some kind of light flashing from the kitchen.
                    It looks as if a gorilla has run rampant in the place for hours, trapped in some terminal rage.
                    Beside the catastophic mess of broken plates and cement rubble, there's a large road sign with peeling white paint. In the centre of the sign, there are three letters which are not peeling. The letters are black and about one foot high in the center of the sign.
                    On the sign there's one word only:

            Beside the sign there is a large orange traffic cone - one of those big ones they have out on the highway. It's taller than the sign. Behind the sign, that's where the flashing's coming from.
            It's a yellow flashing light from a highway  barricade. That's a relief.
             I was thinking, "Maybe it's a cop car in the alley below. Maybe Blind Jimmy has done something monstrous. Maybe he's
on the floor in cuffs... Maybe they're coming for me..."

              Ugly thoughts for an ugly time.
 I find I'm locked out of my blog once again this morning. Some fool must have changed the password! I'm writing this longhand. I find a note from Blind Jimmy under my keyboard. It's also written longhand.
            The two handwritings are not the same - I want to be clear about that.

             In the middle of the kitchen floor there's a huge primeval  stone, with a massive hook coming out of the top. The damn thing's about a foot thick and almost two feet across. It weighs easily two hundred and fifty pounds, probably a whole lot more.
            I give it a hard shove. It doesn't move a bit. Only the branches cemented to its back quiver a bit.
              "How the hell did this get here?" I wonder. And, "How come I didn't hear them carry it up the stairs?"
                And, "What's the meaning of this hook?" 
             The hook rises out of the center of the rock, like the hook in some demented giant's curling stone, only eight times larger than normal. And darker and more ominous standing in the middle of the kitchen floor.            
                Lucky I was sober. If I had smoked anything strong in a pipe, I know the damn thing would have assumed a conscious presence.
                Already it seemed to know what I was thinking.

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