This is not a drill.
“This is reality, Greg.” E.T. can’t just beam up to his ship. The 40 pounds won’t just melt off. My books and songs won’t fly off the shelves — “If you build it, they will come” only works in that other movie. A sick dog won’t heal herself. I have to do the work.
Ready, set, go.
Hello? Off your duff. Ready, set, go. Jumping jacks — ready, begin. OK, maybe not jumping jacks. But move. Now.
It will be interesting to see what happens in the afterlife. Don’t get me wrong — I am in no hurry. I have no desire to leave this earthly plane anytime soon, and if I suddenly die, feel free to investigate any and all conspiracy theories.
I just wonder what happens when we depart our earthly vessels — what becomes of our souls, will we “learn all the answers,” will we be able to find and communicate with lost loved ones — do we really meet Peter at the gate or have a session with Jesus before anything else — if we all face Jesus, he must be a busy guy, although he is the infinite God, after all.
It’s just a healthy curiosity rather than something morbid — really. I am fully invested in staying on this side of the grass as long as I can. (Although if I was “fully” invested I would be exercising and obsessively trying to lose that weight, wouldn’t I? I can say, at least, that I’m invested in the idea.)
Somewhere not far from here is a place where river cruise ships hire tangerine porters with looking glass eyes. Elementary penguins stroll along the deck singing Hari Krishna. When the cruise comes back to port, newspaper taxis appear on the shore, and people climb in the back with their heads in the clouds.
Yes. I came of age in the sixties, but I never partook of the implements of psychedelia. I just loved the imagery of surrealism. (And yes, I know I mixed up the songs and words.)
I loved the band names — Strawberry Alarm Clock, Bubble Puppy, Moby Grape, Electric Prunes, Iron Butterfly, Pink Floyd — and what the heck is a Jefferson Airplane, anyway?
I loved the inventiveness of the wordplay — “I had too much to dream last night,” what a great line! And some of the imagery, surprisingly, makes perfect sense. I just learned today that semolina pilchard is actually a thing.
One of these days I might decide to write a psychedelic novel while sharing time with several species of small furry animals gathered together in a cave and grooving with a pict. It would not have to make sense, except it would have to be true to its own rules, just like a science fiction or fantasy world. That sense of unity is what makes “Revolution 9” a classic of the genre while others are just nonsense.
