The Spanish room


An hour later, peace and quiet had been restored to the town. I walked gracefully into the living room where I began to look around at all there
was to see in there, while the Spanish decor made me feel like I was
standing in another country.

I gazed at the toreador in the painting on the wall and saw he was wearing the typical Andalusian hat worn by bullfighters, the montera. Dressed in
the traditional suit of lights, he proudly displays his red cape to entice
the bull. As the bull prepares himself to charge, he seems to be kicking
up some of the dirt with his hind legs. From there it is all a guessing
game to try and determine the winner!

A foot away hung a medieval battle mace displayed on a 40 degree angle. Who would invent such a terrible weapon to use against
his fellow man? I found this to be quite disturbing.

Three feet away was another painting on soft black felt paper. This one would depict a picador on horseback, charging with one of his many spangled lances. The bull had three in his neck already, where blood spurted out in thin streams dotting the harsh ground. Nothing would be able to stop that haematic flow. Yet in all his pain and suffering, he still looked as ferocious and dangerous as he could have possibly been.

The borders around the room were adjoined in constituent angles
to where the overlap of half-timbered wood protruded from the
wall's facade. The wood itself was unique for it was almost black
and gave off an appearance that termites had, in fact, crawled
through it many centuries ago. This was the art of illusion
through etch and stain. In between its peripherals was stucco.

As I stared at the collection of hobo clowns and Frankoma ware
in the curio cabinet that John's mom had collected over the years,
I realized there was an unending amount of things in this world
for people to collect and become absorbed in!

What a wonderful retreat, I thought, to be here now
that the madness had ended and all was made well.

John turned on the television and both, he and I walked into the
kitchen. I could tell he was not listening to that burbling nonsense
being dispersed into the air via sound waves, and so this man spoke
only to himself. I sat down in a rather comfortable sponge chair while
John opened the refrigerator door and stuck his neck inside. What are
you looking for I asked in a groggy tone, "tomorrow"? Might be
he said, sounding like he wasn't listening to me either.

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John closed the door, but continued to stare at the laminate on the
olive green Frigidaire. Gazing out the window into the yard, I saw
myself inside, for the lights in the kitchen area have filtered out the darkness. I then began to look closely at the Marlite around the stove. Wow I said, getting up to better examine it! What do you call plastic
that shimmers and appears to be wet? "I don't know," said John, carefully examining something else, "what do-you call plastic that shimmers and appears to be wet?" I hope you're not waiting for a punch line. "What do you mean?"

It's a question, not a riddle. . .
You see this plastic-shit I'm touching?

"If I knew the term for everything in my house, I wouldn't be driving
a van, I'd be a builder." I then thought about the builders of today
and wondered why every house doesn't come with an elaborate
urinal for the man and a courtesy bidet for the woman.

Why, because people today do not care about anything but the lining of their own pockets! Take a look at the Casa Batlló in Barcelona designed by Antoni Gaudi and then look at the apartment complex down the street from where you reside. Need I say more?

John simply listened like I had awakened him from a deep sleep.
A few minutes later, I got up and went into the bathroom.
The one with no bathtub or shower stall in it. As I came back
from "the lavatory" as it should rightly be called, I sat down on
the couch in the Spanish room and began staring at the curio cabinet.

There's nothing to see anymore. No one to be anymore. . .
Just me-on a chair-in a room.

It wasn't long before I began to thumb through his parent's record
collection, and found it peculiar, to say the least! Who the hell is
Leon Redbone, I asked John? Don't ask, it can't be explained!
I saw Manoella Torres who I was familiar with for she sung the
classic hit "Aceptame como soy" which I absolutely adored!
I also saw Lolita Flores, who had a very big hit with "No notas
que estoy temblando" but it wasn't on this particular album.
Roberto Carlos was there with "Amada, Amante" and "Un gato
en la oscuridad." Piero, as well with "De vez en cuando vienne
bien dormir" & "Juan Boliche" and finally, Claudia de Colombia, who is my absolute favorite! I know all of her songs by heart, but love the "Yo creo en ti" Album. The other forty or so albums, I knew nothing about. Me and John soon went up to his room where he
played the tape I gave him with all the cool songs I used to listen
to with Harmony in the day. All the other LP's like The E-Types,
The Choir and The Gants, I bought at Venus Records in Manhattan. Most were trial and error. Pete was a big 60's fan too, and I always made tons of cassette tapes for him.

John was more or less content to listen to all that conventional
bullshit they pipe into your brain on the radio. It's all distorted
truth that leads one in a complete circle to nowhere.

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They'll play hitchin' a ride by Vanity Fare, but not velvet curtains by
Status Quo. They'll play somebody to love by Jefferson Airplane,
but totally disregard make love, not war by The Tea Company.
They'll play daydream believer The Monkees, but frown upon
the wreck of the Antoinette by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich.
I guess it's all about the God-damn money. Upstairs we heard songslike Another Game by Grapefruit, Michaelangelo by 23rd Turnoff and Madame magical by The Fox. We also heard the lost classic,
Bob Dylan Blues by Syd Barrett. . . Long Live Syd Barrett!!!

I would love to have tripped out and wrote a song with Syd
in his world of magnesium proverbs and suds, but that life
is now far behind me. This is the way I would have started it.

Cat man in glittering gold and silver,
take me away from a world of killers.
Find me a girl, a mere mortal lies in love.

Walk through the halls of enchanted laughter.
Search for a woman with lust for matter.
Until the edge of time, drift upon the air. . .

Hello. . . Mister Reality,
we're going to blow your mind.
Don't be afraid
to come out and say,
you haven't seen the light.

I never finished it, because I never took drugs again. What for, to end
up like before I started taking them? God forbid. So many times while walking the tracks, I would think about just standing there. Letting it
all go, but I made a promise to my sweetheart many years ago, and
this promise is bound by a sacred seal. *It can never be broken*
 
As I opened my eyes to the dawn of a new day, I realized that I
would have to abandon these foolish dreams and set my sights on
a new course. One which deals with reality and that of making a living.
I never did drugs for the sole purpose of just doing them and then
acting like a fool, but rather, because I was hurting inside, and I didn't know how to assemble my emotions, so I figured why not just do them.

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But now, I was no longer a disease!A walking curse. For the first time in a long time, I was at peace. No more would I have to worry about the nighttime hours and that feeling I would get of utter helplessness. That terror that made me believe I was truly damned, because in my own mind, I really did believe I was somehow a direct descendant of Judas Iscariot. All those feelings I had to keep inside
me. Just walking inside a church, I would get an overwhelming feeling that something did not want me there. . . Thank God it was finally over. I am only thankful the vision came to me early,
before I got a chance to do some real damage.

How strange is life? That I should be completely at ease with
the memory of my sweetheart for exactly twenty two years.

Towards December of 2003, my girlfriend Maya stumbled upon
a box inside a large wooden crate downstairs in the basement.
Inside the taped up box were all my writings that I have carried
with me from place to place throughout the years. Not only the
drug experiences, but the journals of hope I wrote when I was
with Harmony. The second she broke that seal, it was, as though
she had opened Pandora's box. I knew the very moment I saw
those books, that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

As I began reading the memoirs, I happened to find the documentation of an entire day. June the 11th, 1982. As I began piecing this story together, I spent months debating whether or not
I should open the Harmony journal. Finally, I would find I had no choice. As I read and rewrote endless pages, I would stop going out at night and became a shut-in. Ever typing on that infernal computer. My friends would come over, but I would isolate myself and type.
The second I opened that book, it couldn't have been any worse
had I drown in a river, for whoever I was before died that day.
The day Harmony returned.

It was almost like she had come out of the pages of that very book itself and was with me again. To look in her eyes again. To hold her. . . Finally. Till I reached the end of course, and the nightmare unfolded once more. Now, I must lose everything all over again, so allow me
to wallow in my own self-pity for awhile, to self-destruct in time,
and to once again mourn her passing.

I have no desire to travel and would find no problem staying inside this apartment for the rest of my natural life. Does it matter
if the sun is shining or the rain is falling? *If I'm crying inside*
Does anything really matter? Because of these wretched woes,
this book has become more of a curse for me than a blessing.

Enjoy it, I wrote it for you.

As for me, I'll probably wind up living my days alone.
In this solitary confinement, we call a human existence,
or at least until I can seal that box again.

(Figuratively speaking)

I am sure you must be wondering why my picture is nowhere
to be found. It's not there because it doesn't need to be there.
I don't need to be remembered, I'm already in the words.
Just look at everything in God's time, and you'll understand.

Take in everything you see and feel, and know you're being judged
because in God's time. . . We're already dead.

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