by
Jaye B.
It was all Project Blue Beam I admit, i.e. the cheesy, eidetic interference in the talc mines. At least my journey back, since I decided to live, was real. Along the way, I fell into a sinkhole and plummeted, gaining speed with no way to slow down. I braced myself for the leg breaking impact, but none occurred. Instead, the landing was air cushioned. I sat still and listened. Then light grew slowly brighter. Looking around, I realized that I was in an igneous gallery of the kind a schizophrenic geologist once told me were under Pacote Hot Springs. In other words, a giant, obsidian bubble. Not wanting to make a sound, I sat still as possible. There was movement, but I felt no fear, rather quite the opposite. As the light grew even brighter I could see a few people. Then more. Still no fear and my breathing was relaxed.
“ We’ve been waiting for you Jaye.” Someone up on a stage said. “We are the selfless and 100% dedicated, logical, rational, flake free people you’ve been looking 40 plus years for, to help you with all of your music, writing and film projects to the very end of successful completion.”
“Right.” I thought. Right in that, what appeared to be a man in a silver tuxedo, said was correct.
Strands of golden light played within the glassy sphere, shimmer illuminating an orchestra pit.
“We took the liberty of transcribing virtually all of your 150 plus instrumental compositions you tapped into existence on your iPads out in Carson City, alone in your car, in the wind, sand storms, cold, rain and snow, over the last eight years.”
Then the conductor turned to address me, the only audience member.
“We first transcribed the composition Helical 60 that you created on your 60th birthday on the side of a highway, in the heat of July, at the base of a 400 mile long granite pluton in the sierras, with fire ants stinging you between the toes when you woke up and got out of your car naked that dreaded day.”
Then the orchestra played a symphonic version of my song. Tears were coming out of my eyes for they captured the true intent of the piece few bother to listen to. The conductor then turned to face me again.
“Once you’re able to take the money out of the mirror, then for real you will have a dedicated, ground level audience who will attend your performances and support your work.”
When he spoke these cryptic words, I looked straight up at an oculus in the black glass dome above me. My trans human eyes zoomed in 10x to see my fossil caramelized skeleton that had melded with Calico mountain described prior. It was like a stained glass window made with translucent rock. The sun in the correct world above shone through it and cast an amber shadow over my new mirror home.
“In honor of your bone memorial above.” The conductor said, turned back to the orchestra, tapped his baton and my composition Your Vacuum Grave was played:
The skeleton above responded to the excellent suicide performance by vacuuming the entire mountain into its grave bones. The sheer weight caused it to break through and plunge through a ready made hole and down into the core of the earth. It wasn’t my intent while composing the piece for that to happen and wrote it off as yet another glitch caused by brain acne. For the first time I grew uneasy, bracing myself for the usual set up/knock down. But then felt edified that actually something real had been accomplished in my life.
But it went cold, with no more shimmer. I then was in pitch deaf darkness, a receptive amusia that sent a magnetic dread through my CNS. Rendered statuesque via petri-paralyzation, I heard the whirring of a golf cart. Harsh LED lights glared, causing the vitreous humor in my eye balls to flash bulb fry. Not much of a lens distortion occurred though, but the pain rack blinded me, but not enough to prevent me from seeing that indeed I was in a DUMB after all.
A reptoid slut pulled up before me, driving a golf cart. Then I was put on a trailer it was pulling. The soldiers didn’t even bother to fasten me to it and my thoughtless tour guide took off quickly, cause me to topple and shatter on the floor. My carnal shards were then swept into the very hole the gravity demoted skeleton fell through, seeing any reassembling was forbidden according to military code.
During the plummet I realized that the only thing left to do was to Project Blue Beam my very self out of the prolix precariousness and Project Blue Beam directly into Pacote Hot Springs the very selfless and 100% dedicated, logical, rational, flake free people I’ve been looking 40 plus years for, to help me with all of my music, writing and film projects to the very end of successful completion, quite confident that I would not get holographically disappointed if I were to do so.
TBC
©2024-Jaye B.
Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App , Ko-Fi or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
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Jaye B. is a writer, musician and artist. His art criticism has appeared in Art Paper, New North Artscape, Art Muscle, Northfield Magazine and elsewhere. His articles have also appeared in City Pages, Twin Cities Reader, Mysteries Magazine, Fahrenheit San Diego, High Plains Reader, New Dawn and Rain Taxi. He has appeared on BBC Radio, WGN Chicago, WLW Cincinnati and elsewhere in the mediasphere to discuss his work. Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App , Ko-fi or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
Great experimental tunes! Reminds me of sharing my house with a musician in Austin back in the eighties who was very talented in this way as well. Back then you needed a room full of equipment to record music like this so we had a room that was a makeshift studio. Now I suppose this has gone very compact like everything else.
Paradise mirage...
Perfect description with a twist your writing captures.