Passage III--Background (Part II)

(Reader note: Part I of Passage III as well as the first two passages of Darwin Blinks, can be found below)

And now that miserable message is being made into a mainstream movie. Why, it’s enough to give me motion picture sickness.

Heard the gossipers in the pew ahead of me say that the latest in CGI special effects would be employed to bring the after-death spirits of Shepherd and Maria to “life” on the screen, as it were.

A lot of yokels who’ll see the movie in bumblefuck America will probably gawk at the screen and turn to their kids and say, “See, that’s just what it’ll be like when Jesus comes back!”

According to the gossipers, tonight they’ll be shooting the part when the cops drag off Shepherd before he can save Maria. Going to be a complicated and intense sequence to shoot, and the atmosphere is already hectic. Sure, it’s always hectic on location, been on enough sets to know that, but this set is more stressed out than any I’ve been on (a couple dozen, maybe more).

PA’s (production assistants) dash hurriedly through the church, hauling lights, cables, duct tape in every direction. I’m far too lazy to ever be a PA—16-hour days, running and being yelled at? No thanks.

Madness abounds outside the church, too. To keep the background awake, we go on breaks out there every few hours to get some fresh air (church air being decidedly stale). There are cop cars and production trucks and trailers for the cast and local news vans and a throng of screaming fans that grows larger every time I go out there.

Fans are frothing at the mouth because of the A-list o’ stars, which adds to the huge pressure enveloping this film. Budget is huge and it’s based on a “beloved” national bestseller, so it has to be a hit, has to be critically acclaimed, has to garner word-of-mouth box office, and has to win mega awards.

Amethyst Studios is counting on “Disciple” to reverse their fortunes, both in the press and in the bank. Lot of tension and anxiety on the set, which belies the film's theme of piety and tolerance.

When this film finally is released, the hype is going to be even more intense, advertising and publicity wise. Shepherd's cinematic visage will be plastered on billboards and bus stops from coast to coast, christ will become a commodity.

I say that like christ already isn’t already bought and sold on the marketplace each and every day. It’ll just be more obnoxious than usual…

Then, as if on cue, the guy with the long hair, the one that was standing next to the woman with the red hair, suddenly is walking down the aisle and I recognize his supermarket tabloid profile--it’s christ hisself!

Rather, the actor playing christ/Shepherd--Peter Delacroix, Hollywood’s most “bankable’ actor. His winning grin, bedroom eyes and perfect hair all compensate for his lack of basic acting skills.

It's said that he doesn't inhabit a character the way many actors do; he just plays at being "Peter Delacroix."

Just learned something quite disturbing about Delacroix--he's a card-carrying Crusader of the New Millennium, Theodore Pleasant’s bunch. Getting a huge star like Delacroix to join the Crusaders was a major coup for the group, as it legitimized themselves in the eyes of many, especially more liberal types who didn’t care for Pleasant’s military background.

But I don't really give a shit about him...where the fuck is red?

Then, as if on cue, she steps into my line of sight, from the other direction, meeting Delacroix right in front of me.

Close enough within earshot for me to hear her say to him, "Peter, you know you're not supposed to get out of my sight whenever you're not on camera."

He answers with his trademark deep voice and trademark lack of sincerity, "Sorry, babe, but sometimes this doggy likes to roam without his leash."

Though her back is turned to me, I can just picture the sarcastic frown on her face as she retorts, "Yeah, and if anything happens to you before this film wraps they'll be hanging me from your leash."

Delacroix playfully runs his hand through those tremendous red locks and a stab of jealousy lances my side. Why do I feel like it should be me standing there with her and not that overrated hack actor?

I want her to know me, to be worried about where I am, not that clown. Instead I'm just another extra, a meaningless blur in the background to her.

She's dressed professional to the hilt this evening, wearing a suit, much like a secret service agent would wear. She's even got one of those earpieces with the swirled wire around her ear attached to a special radio that presumably allows her to talk with other agents without allowing anyone who is not another guard to hear her conversation.

So who the fuck is she, then? Painter? Party girl? Bodyguard to the stars?

Maybe all those things...

And then all I see in my line of sight is Delacroix in the background and that amazing hair descending downward, framing his personage as christ.

And that strange, but increasingly familiar feeling overcomes me once more...

Delacroix the actor standing in front of that crimson hair becomes christ engulfed in the flames of the Phoenix.

That's because he's no longer Delacroix, he's the son of god himself, my sworn enemy. And that isn't the hair of a girl I'm naively infatuated with, but the dancing fires of retribution and ultimately, liberation.

Each strand becoming a licking, dancing individual flame…

Know it’s all in my head, because she continues to just calmly stand there, completely oblivious that her head’s alight.

Still, part of me wants to cry out for someone to douse her with water, that’s how real this Fire seems.

But I don’t dare. I know better, I think.

Couple moments pass and it’s too late for that anyway, as the Fire spreads from her hair, like a halo inferno, a bonfire waterfall, engulfing her body and the body of Peter Delacroix, who is likewise oblivious.

Like a defiling serpent ablaze, the Fire slithers up the stairs, leading to the altar, igniting everything in its path.

Quickly spreading to the rafters, the Fire can no longer be characterized as a snake, but as a spasmodic thunder lizard, threatening to torch the entire cathedral in its wake.

For a moment I wonder why some kind of sprinkler system hasn't activated, convincing myself there actually is some kind of fire going on, and this isn’t just one big hallucination in my seriously warped mind.

Wish I had a drink right now, to figuratively douse this blaze.

Know one thing for sure; if I do get out of here with my body and wits intact, I’m drinking my ass off for real at home.

Catch myself for being a pussy. I'm acting like this is a bad thing, when it's anything but.

It should be viewed as a cleansing conflagration of the congregation.

To confirm it’s just a fantasy, look over at my chatty fellow extras in the pew in front of me, to see how they’re reacting, if they see the Fire.

But they’re no longer there. Nothing but flames in the pew before me—make that all the pews around me.

Since I’m insane and know it, I'm not going to jump up and act all hysterical and panicky, because there’s nothing there. It’s all confined within the confines deranged mind.

Might as well just sit back and enjoy the spectacle. It's not so bad being in the middle of a Fire when your not getting burned.

Soon, the entire place is on Fire, save me…and the giant crucifix, still untouched, as if god is protecting it from the demonic flames.

Stare right into the vacant eyes of christ, hanging on the cross in defeat.

Christ’s eyes seem to come alive, as if beseeching me to hold the Fire.

Shrug my shoulders, telling christ I don’t control it.

And with nothing left to consume, the Fire galvanizes its power and fury and strikes like a whip, lashing the crucifix and setting it alight.

The Fire, seemingly with a will of its own at this point, takes its time with the crucifix, however, as if enjoying the meal. Creeping up the crucifix and christ’s marble body, up to christ’s hangdog expression, melting it away, liquefying those eyes that sought my mercy.

Fire saves the crown of thorns for last.

But something different happens, something special.

The crown of thorns doesn’t just burn away, but like it did on xmas eve, it rises from christ’s head, transmutating into more than a mere crown of thorns…

It becomes circular, like a Wheel, the thorns become spokes, just like last time.

It expands and enlarges, absorbing all the wild flame, becoming the unbridled FireWheel once again.

Growing more massive until everything is the FireWheel.

Everything except me.

Not sure exactly what happens next; either I step into the FireWheel or the FireWheel cascades over me...

But either way, I pass through its purifying illumination, as the FireWheel burns itself out, cleansing everything in its wake…

And step into a shimmering, transformed arena; no longer a painfully dull church

Like a sanctuary for a culture evolved, replacing the chapel of death.

The pews have become individual benches equipped with a desk, and a solitary, comfy cushioned chair. Each desk is equipped with a liquid-screen laptop.

Most profound is the absence of...kneelers, they’re not needed in this place.

The stainglass and statue depictions of saints and angels have been replaced by busts of great philosophers, artists and scientists.

The altar is now a row of shelves holding a book, film and music library.

In short, all the mystical connotations have been removed and replaced with the spoils of rationality.

Even the cast and crew have been suitably transformed; for example, Delacroix is now the caterer, preparing a group meal to be consumed shortly.

The vision seems to carry with it a bit of cosmic justice; the most important positions (scientists and artists) seem to be held by the ones who were extras and grips back "there."

Perhaps I misspoke in my haste of trying to take this all in. It isn't really about who has the better job, it's not about status or some kind of veiled caste system. Everyone seems to pretty much take pride in what they're doing, like it's an art in and of itself.

Even Delacroix, tossing salads.

But it's not like it's work camp. On the contrary, people are up to all sorts of activities, leisure and otherwise. One couple (I think they were the wardrobe girl and the cinematographer, respectively), are practically dry humping right out in the open.

And a few people are reading. Each has a copy of the same book, I can tell by the jacket.

A familiar book. And when one of the readers pauses to take a drink of water and closes the book in doing so, I peep the title:

Bye Bull

Holy shit! They're all reading the book I allegedly have penned in this fantasy world I keep returning to.

Step back for a wider view of the proceedings, and slightly admonish myself when I notice for the first time that the giant, unseemly crucifix is long gone. Yet nothing hangs in its place, which I find a bit odd.

A quick glance to my left reveals what will ultimately replace it--a painting of the FireWheel, rendered by none other than the redhead herself.

Now she's a part of my fantasies, an occupant of my inner mind. She really does get everywhere.

As I step closer to the canvas for a sharper view, slowly, softly, as not to disrupt her concentration, realize I have to correct what I just said a minute ago...

This is not a painting of FireWheel as it exists only in my mind, it is THE painting of FireWheel as it exists only in my mind.

The way she's painted it, the FireWheel looks down on us all, so vivid, it seems like it’s going to burn through the canvas and ignite this place as well.

No, not in this place. The FireWheel has done it’s work, now it’s a symbol of our triumph.

Judging how by how colorful and detailed her redention of FireWheel is, even an painting novice like me can tell it's about done.

Then, she suddenly turns her head, and looks me right in the eyes with her pale blue pair, freezing me. So wrapped up in her hair (I wish!), I didn't pause to notice how damn beautiful she truly is.

Don't even know her name but I know I love her more than any other woman I've ever known.

It's as if looking at me serves some purpose known only to her and she just as quickly snaps her head back to her brush and the canvas, like those are the only two entities in the universe, like nothing else matters except finishing it.

And with that, she adds one final, violent stroke of orange red to the trail of the FireWheel (as if saying that trail, what the FireWheel leaves behind is the most important element of all), and then lowers her brush, stepping back from the work.

She finally pulls her stare from it, as if symbolizing that its for public consumption now (guess only I had seen it before now) and as if on cue, the director Sara Marsh is now some kind of maintenance worker and she takes the painting to a ladder at the end of this sphere.

Cradlling it as if it were her firstborn, Marsh walks the painting up to the wall, and hangs the portrait of FireWheel...in the precise location where the crucifix had once mocked me.

The meaning of this moment is almost too much for me to stand. See, this is the world I was meant to live in.

But I also know that it's just an illusion, I know it's going to all go away.

And the first sign that it surely is comes when the redhead begins to...tie up her hair.

And the FireWheel painting, which loomed so large over us all but a second ago, seems to dissolve into the hair she ties up.

Shake my head hard enough that I revert back to the sad reality of St. Whatever, surrounded once more by depressing pews and statutes and stainglass.

The cast and crew are back on the scene, no more future freethinkers with a taste for reading me.

Worst of all, the crucifix is back to ridicule my fate, with nary a trace of the FireWheel.

And there she is, as Delacroix's bodyguard wearing that suit, no longer painting...tying up her hair in a ponytail.

Sure it's more practical, but it oughta be against the law.

I'm fucking serious. Legislation should be enacted, yeah, something like California Penal Code 42711.23: “No woman with desirable hair shall be permitted to tie it in an unflattering ponytail in a public place, lest it deprive"

Sure it's not very democratic, but it's for the greater good, like everybody changing the laws in the names of god and christ always claim as their underlying motivation.

Now I really need a drink. Mostly because that enchanted, animated hair is now confined and restrained, besides the fact it took me out of that wondrous vision, jarring me back to the sullen reality.

Sure, the ponytail’s cute, but all the sensuality is dried up. It’s as if her identity has been removed.

As she completes the ponytail with one hand (quite dexterous, isn't she), she fishes a cellphone out of her coat pocket and answers a call.

Fortunately, she happens to heading in my direction and I can pick up remnants of her conversation:

"Let me tell you, I don’t want to be here today. You think I like being in a church? You know I’m not into that. I’m only doing this as a favor to Peter, because he doesn’t feel comfortable with the security here.”

Wait a minute… The woman with that hair “doesn’t feel comfortable in a church?"

Not only that, she doesn’t care who know it?

I’m in love. Yeah, even with the ponytail.

After a pause, she responds, “What is Peter’s concern? Oh, just that there are hundreds of fans gathered outside the church and there aren’t enough cops to hold them back."

A slight degree of annoyance creeps into her tone, like she's on a short fuse at the end of a long day: "I don't know, there’s something going on in the Haight or the Mission that has a bunch of cops tied up, so we’ve got to delay shooting for an hour until I can assess the situation and come up with the best plan to make sure that no one’s going to interfere with the shoot once you do start.”

Trying to figure out who the hell is on the other end of that call--an executive producer, maybe?

Another pause, as she listens. She’s so wrapped up in the call, I could burn holes in her with my eyes and she wouldn’t notice in the slightest. “I understand that delaying the shoot an hour will give you headaches and cost you money, but imagine the headaches and cost if the shoot is interrupted by fans getting into this church.”

Another quick pause, then: “Alright, give me a half-hour.” Apparently, she gets it because she replies: “Thank you.”

She turns to Delacroix, who had also stopped. Can see all the female extras are checking hi out, but he’s just another person to me, especially standing next to her.

“Alright, Peter," she says, "I’m going to take care of it now. Let’s go back to your trailer.”

“Thank you so much, dear,” Delacroix replies graciously.

Damn, why didn’t he say her name? Why did he have to say “dear?”
Liked him a helluva lot better when he was a chef in my fantasy.

Whatever her name is, she proceeds to reveal more of herself,"I swear, Peter, this is the last time I’m doing this. I want to paint full-time.”

So she is a painter, which means she was defiitely was carrying one of her pieces on xmas eve.

Apparently, she’s also a high-end security consultant. That must be how she pays the bills. Hard for me to fathom she’s a bodyguard…or working at all in security. She’s so petite, so delicate, so poetic.

An artist--that I can believe-but not a bodyguard. And apparently, a bodyguard with considerable influence, if she can get a producer to rearrange a shooting schedule.

Apparently, she and Delacroix have finished business, because they resume walking and pass me by in the process.

Can’t resist the temptation to twist my neck and take one last look at her.
Wish I knew her name, so I could stop referring to her as “her” and “she” or, of course, “that redhead.”

Should I really be disappointed that she never looked at me? Maybe it’s not that she “wouldn’t,” it’s just that she “didn’t.” Either she didn’t remember or recognize me from that xmas eve or at the Labyrinth on new year's eve, or worse, she does, but doesn’t want to encourage me.

And why the fuck would I expect her to look at me, to acknowledge me in the first place? She’s a painter and a top-notch bodyguard. She on a first-name basis with Peter Delacroix (although ol’ Pete’s so conceited, he probably doesn’t even know her name and only calls her “dear.”).

I, on the other hand, am just another extra to her. A nobody, wannabe actor.

Background.

That’s what hurts. That she doesn’t know about me, that I’m not some wannabe actor. That I’m a writer, I've been published and I have ideas that would likely interest her.

It hurts, because to me, especially now, knowing how she regards religion, she is…everything.

What I'd call a dose genuine salvation.

Foreground.

Passage III--Background

(Note: The first two passages of Darwin Blinks can be found below).

It’s just a bland blur of brown pews that flip through my line of sight as I raise my head from yet another involuntary nod into momentary slumberland.

Until all the dull is suddenly broken up by a red most vibrant.

A unique red I recognize.

Her again?

Like at the club last week, still can't be sure because her face is turned from me.

If it is her, what the hell is she doing here, of all places?

Either she's stalking me or I'm stalking her, subconsciously.

She's not alone as she walks down the aisle with a long-haired man who appears to be jesus christ, himself.

She should be engaged in conversation with me, not my arch-enemy.

That's what I get for going to church.

Course, I'm only here 'cause I'm getting paid.

Really never thought I’d enter a church ever again. With no family nor friends, there aren’t a lot of weddings and funerals to attend.

And even if I had the opportunity to attend such, not sure if I’d do it anyway, not wanting to be in a church and all. It’s been a humiliation and an embarrassment having to come to this church every day for the past week, and sit in these pews, surrounded by all these garish reminders of why the world’s gone horribly wrong.

And it's not just any church I'm in but one of the most famous in the world

But if there’s one thing I hate more than christianity, it would have to be being homeless. And that’s what I’ll be, see, if I don’t sit in this church pew. I’m here as background.

"Background" is the collective term given to extras in this movie biz. . I’m one of the parishioners appearing in the most critical scene of this hyper-budget blockbuster entitled Shepherd, the movie about christ finally returning to Earth, settling down in modern-day America.

It's based on a novel by a woman named Gere, where christ is sent back to "save humanity" once more by his all-father. He takes on the mortal guise of Chris Shepherd (subtle, huh?).

Yes, it is true. I, of all people, am actually sitting in a church and participating in a film depicting jesus christ walking the Earth in the 21st century.

The most ludicrous thing in the world--christ's return is, and here I am playing a role in perpetrating that myth, however small, inconsequential and nonspeaking that role may be, in making it a reality.

Normally, I’d hope that I’d be out of focus or not even visible in each and every shot of this scene.

But in the event that's not the case, I’ve been subtly subverting the film in my own small way: Every time we’ve been used, as parishioners reacting to all the “amazing” events taking place around us—I’ve brandished a shit-eating grin.

Easily the most inappropriate reaction one could offer. Even if I were emoting murderous rage, that would be more fitting.

No one’s noticed me yet. If some AD (assistant director) does, I'll just attribute it to “nervousness or something,” and promise to react properly.

Then I’d go back to smirking like a smart-ass.

Lucky, I’m closer to the back, so no one’s noticed. Probably am out of focus or not in any of the shots, anyway, so all my subversion is likely for naught.

Shouldn’t push my luck, though. Don’t want to lose a day’s pay or get in the doghouse with my casting agency, Bay Bridge Casting, which supplies extras whenever a movie’s shot up here in the City.

There’s got to be a more dignified way to make a living.

But beyond writing, I’m not clever enough to figure out how to do that. And no one wants to pay me to write anymore.

This is the first work, of any kind, I’ve gotten since November. Been here a week and at $150 a night including overtime (the average shoot is a 16-hour day), that’s going to cover rent and all my living expenses for the month, and then some, considering how spartanly I live.

When my casting agency offered this job, I nearly balked, given the subject matter and my aversion to it. But they insisted they had nothing else for me and all my temp job agencies were likewise dry due to this wretched economy, so here I am.

As much as I value my integrity, it doesn't pay much of the rent.

So lost in thought, didn't notice the redhead and the actor playing jesus christ have sauntered off together, leaving me uncertain and full of regret. My usual state, these days.

Just about to wonder if I'll see her again, but I already know the answer to that--of course I will. When don't I see her?

Half-expecting her to be loitering in my apartment when the shoot ends.

Churches normally give me the creeps anyway, but this one in particular really skeeves me out. Don’t really care what the real name is, like I said, I just call it St. Whatever, even though it's non-denominational, not actually catholick.

He’s the patron saint of not giving a flying fuck.

This is the oldest and most renowned church in SF, at the very top of Snob Hill and as ornate and showy on the inside as it is on the outside. The high arching ceiling seems to literally reach for the sky and the stain glass depictions of various biblical events are as pretentious as they are majestic.

Everything is immaculate at St. Whatever, from the freshly vacuumed carpeting to the spotless shining chalices on the altar.

But none of that bothers me, really. No, what gets me is the giant crucifix on the wall, facing me.
Seems like it's 42 feet high. As big as the one in the window I tripped out on was small.

It's the christian symbol of death...come to life, as it were.

The crown of thorns, the tears of the mesiah's doubt and pain mixing with the droplets of blood.
The spikes through the hands and feet, the big brown cross of wood, the sorrow in christ's eyes--it's all there.

Mocking me, reminding me of what a chickenshit sellout I am for doing this. Better I sell drugs to children then be a part of this outlandish, pretentious waste of celluloid.

Only thing to do is to stop looking at it and think about other things.

Lot of Hollyweird celebrities have been married here--then promptly divorced back down in L.A--where aesthetics don’t mean as much, except how fine a foreign car one’s divorce attorney happens to drive.

St. Whatever is non-denominational, not catholic actually.

This is also the very same church I encountered on xmas eve, just before I had the first vision that night, which of course means it’s right up the hill from my abode, which makes it awfully difficult to show up late. Even for a lazy ass like myself.

Thing about being an extra is, I can show up half-asleep (or even a higher percentage) and it doesn’t really matter, as we’re only required to be on camera a few hours total each day, as it takes the crew that long to set up/adjust the lighting, camera positions, blocking the actual actors, etc.

Most of the time, we just sit around, waiting for orders from an AD.

Meaning I can come onto the set all tired and dragging my ass, but I can’t be late, which is never an issue because St. Whatever is only a few blocks uphill. I can wake up 30 minutes before first call at noon for a 16 hour day which usually concludes at four in the morning.

So it doesn’t matter how little sleep I get, as I can always make up for it snoozing in the pew for hours on end. We’re only required to “act” a few hours each day out of the 16, because the crew is forever it setting up/adjusting the lighting, camera positions, blocking the actors, etc.

Don’t even have to worry about dressing in the morning because I wear the same ill-fitting suit that’s waiting for me every day, provided by Wardrobe because I didn’t have one at all. Almost cost me the job, but they were desperate to fill the pew seat and because I have the “churchgoer look” according to the casting director.

Super, just the look I cultivate.

Wonder if they clean these things, ‘cause it sure doesn’t smell like it. Wardrobe probably just throw them on the rack every night (or morning) after I peel them off.

Wonder if the odor bugs any of my soon to be erstwhile fellow extras? Wouldn’t know, haven’t spoken to any of them.

I don’t talk to any of them and none of them talks to me, it’s a mutual understanding that works well for all parties involved.

Tonight’s supposed to be the last night I’ll have to inhale the stale of this outfit anyway, as the rest of the shoot on location at St. Whatever is supposed to only involve the principal cast, no background. Either close-ups, or the camera will be positioned in the pews, from the perspective of the parishioners, so we’re no longer needed.

My casting agency didn’t tell me this; because there’s always a chance something could go wrong or be delayed and then they’d want to bring me and the other extras back tomorrow.

Know all this, for despite the fact I have chosen not to engage in a lick of conversation with any of my soon-to-be-erstwhile fellow extras this past week, that hasn’t stopped any of them from gabbing away the hours all around me

One particular pair seated right in front of me consisting of two gay guys are such heavy film and gossip buffs, they seem to know as much about what’s going on here as any of the producers do.

So by osmosis, I’ve absorbed quite a bit these last few days.

According to the gossipers, all of the major Hollywood studios wined and dined Joanna Dimeter, author of Shepherd for years, each trying to secure the rights to the book. Finally, Amethyst Studios won, and had some award-winning screenwriter (forget his name) pen the script.

The director is another award-winner, Sara Marsh, renowned for the “emotional depth” of her films. This film is being hyped as a “can’t miss blockbuster,” and for Amethyst, that better be true, because they’ve had a string of stinkers which has severely damaged their rep as a major studio in Hollyweird.

And in that town, sometimes rep, or perception, means even more than money.

Yeah, that’s how depraved that industry can get.

The crew is scheduled to film at St. Whatever for two weeks or longer. The gossipers said Amethyst had to pay the church oodles and oodles of dinero to film here. This church happens to have “the perfect look” the director was looking for.

Ha--just like me. Isn’t that special?

Since it’s a hobby/quasi-profession of mine to monitor the influence christianity has on cultural trends be they political or pop, I am well acquainted with the plot of “Shepherd.”

Refused to pay for such tripe, but had no compunction with reading it for free in one of those “franchise bookstores” which encourages customers to read in the stores while slurping java, so I took full advantage of their munificent policy.

(Still do. Read at least a couple of books a month for free that way, long before they hit the library).

The plot of the novel Shepherd:

It opened, quite pretentiously enough, with god him(?)self sitting on his throne of clouds, musing if the time is right to send his "only son" back down to Earth.

Then he witnessed two events in two disparate parts of the globe that made the choice for him: In New York City, a four year old boy was thrown out a window to his death for crying too much, while in Jerusalem, a four boy was strapped down with explosives under his T-shirt and sent to a playground, killing dozens of children.

god decided then and there that christ was needed again by helpless, hapless humanity.

For christ’s encore performance in that theater-in-the-round known as terra firma, he was given the name “Billy Shepherd.” The significance of the name is that christ has been often referred to as “the good shepherd” and it also symbolizes his cultivating new disciples for this retelling of the popular myth.

Just like in the original, this Shepherd messiah was born in poverty in an urban ghetto in New York City to a virgin mother (where’d they find a virgin in NYC? Talk about fiction…) and he becomes a social worker upon reaching adulthood, turning the tables on his lifetime of bad experiences into helping others. ("He's walked in their shoes") Shepherd lived in relative poverty, humility and obscurity until he turns 30 (yet somehow managed to afford rent in Manhattan all that time).

Still restless and full of boundless energy at that age, Shepherd received word from “above” that he was to venture across America, “spreading spiritual love.”

The intent of the author, far as I could tell, was to portray christ as a purely spiritual entity, not bound to any ideology. Shepherd didn’t have a political agenda, he just wanted to…spread spiritual love Yeah, he still has the long hair and beard thing going for, but he’s traded in the tunic for a half-jumpsuit, half-karate gi outfit. Shepherd is depicted by the author Gere as being extremely good looking and drenched with charisma (maybe a wet dream of hers), which greatly aided his seeking out a new set of a dozen disciples that would spread his word.

Naturally, the ominous specter of faith was present throughout the book; Shepherd sought out a new set of a dozen disciples that believed he was the son of god based solely on his pledge that he was the son of god incarnate. For those that choose to believe him, Shepard performed a miracle to validate their faith (all with New York twists natch); bringing a dead pigeon back to life, turning tap water into spring water, etc.

For those who didn’t have faith, for those who didn't believe in Shepherd's word, they were sent away and never witnessed a miracle.

Word got out about the new messiah, and Shepherd became a media sensation, the lastest flavor o' the month, attracting a helluva lot more than 12 disciples in the process. And Shepherd, like any good Western deity, used his newfound fame to denounce technology as "dehumanizing to man’s spirit."

It wasn't long before Shepherd held huge seminars/rallies in every corner of America in which he orated passionately on the need for everyone to find love in their own hearts and to share it with everyone they encounter. Shepherd led his disciples cross-country, as they performed good deeds whenever the opportunity arose, with the mission of “changing this country, one soul at a time.”

His fame really caught fire when a local news channel that had been following him undercover filmed him performing a miracle to revive a child who had just choked to death. The media dubbed it “The Miracle on 134th Street” (named for the ghetto street on which Shepard revived the Latino youth. Latino because they're America's biggest minority now. 20 years ago, the kid would have been black).

(The book, as I recall, was highly critical of the media in general, seeming to blame the fifth estate for everything ill with the world. While I’m no fan of mainstream media and its conformist agenda, I know the root of all evil is institutional authority, in its various components; religion, military, law enforcement and government. I have yet to include the judicial system on the list, but that day may be coming. The media is merely a relatively recent tool employed by said institutional authorities.

Furthermore, I’m undecided about the corporate world as well, again it preaches conformity, but it is an extension of free-market principles, which is an extension of freethinking. However, free-market capitalism depends on perfect people in order for it to be a pure system, and people are far from perfect.).

Anyway, back to the plot … So a prominent atheist organization, composed mostly of scientists portrayed as horribly narrow minded, feel threatened by Shepherd's power, especially following the miracle.

Until Shepherd came along, atheists always had the upper hand, because there was no tangible evidence of god/christ et al. Shepherd’s appearance also answered the skepticism that had always challenged the christianity; why god and christ interacted freely with humans in ancient times, but never since, lending credibility to the argument that the bible is just folklore from the past.

The atheists recruited a young scientist fresh out of college named Jude Chariot (again, the subtlety has me wincing) to join their ranks, and used their sophisticated mind-control technology to control the youth. They programmed Jude to join Shepherd’s ranks, with the hope he could become one of Shepherd’s confidants.

Chariot is successful, eventually climbing the ladder being appointed as Shepherd’s 12th and final disciple. Of course, Shepherd knew who Jude really was and allowed the charade to unfold, because it’s all part of his heavenly dad’s master plan. Jude was supposed to learn anything incriminating about Shepard, or get proof that he was not the messiah. But Jude finds nothing and then is shown a miracle by Shepherd.

Frustrated and frightened, the atheists switched plans, programming Jude to brutally rape and strangle an old woman he was caring for as part of his charity work under Shepard. Jude waited at the murder scene, quietly reading the bible. When the cops arrived, Jude told them that Shepherd put him up to it, that killing her was all part of “god’s plan.”

Again, Shepherd was aware of all this, as he and pop wanted to “test the faith of America.” Also, he knew the old woman was just days from natural death. The irony is, her considerably brutal death is part of “god’s plan.”.

One of Shepherd’s fringe members was Maria Pilot, who still believed in Shepard and was convinced the renegade disciple, Chariot, acted on his own. Shepherd was impressed with her faith and he appointed Maria his new 12th disciple. Only problem was, Maria Pilot was the daughter of liberal U.S. Senator Laura Pilot. Senator Pilot was about as anti-religious as a US congressperson could ever be, so she was always suspicious of Shepherd, and when her daughter actually became one of Shepard’s disciples, she got hot on his trail.

(In this way Maria is author Gere's representation of Mary Magdalene. The character of Maria Pilot fulfills Magdalene's outside of societal acceptance whore role by rebelling against her mother, the literal symbol of government authority).

(See how liberal women in power and scientists/atheists are the antagonists of the plot. So much for “liberal Hollywood.”).

Anyway, with Senator Pilot intensifying the hunt for Shepard, the FBI got into the act. Shepard knew it was just a matter of time before he was captured and he didn’t want anyone else getting killed, so he agreed to surrender, here, at this church I'm standing in now.

But before he does, Shepherd told his disciples that one of them would betray him, but that he already forgave the betrayer. No one, least of all Maria, believed they would be the one to betray Shepherd. The Feds broke into the church, and Shepherd was about to surrender, but Maria freaked out and didn’t want to lose him, so she put herself in front of Shepherd as the FBI approaches and a nervous agent shot her.

Shepherd is arrested and Maria is rushed to ER. In surgery, Maria made a miraculous recovery, causing Congresswoman Pilot to denounce Shepherd as a fraud. Maria was subsequently “deprogrammed” by the best psychiatrists from Shepard’s influence. Maria even testified against Shepard during his trial—she was the one who betrayed him. After Jude was found guilty and sentenced to death, public sentiment turned against Shepard. Only his remaining disciples believed in him.

Shepard was found guilty for commanding his disciple, Jude Chariot, to kill the old woman. At his execution, years later, which Maria and her mother, Senator Pilot, attended, Shepard made one final speech where he restated his mission of love, asked god to forgive those who were killing him, and uttered some pseudo profundity like, “Though my body dies, my spirit lives on.”

Shepherd receives the lethal injection. When he’s pronounced dead, an eerie quiet fell over the room. No one can leave, the doors won’t open. Then, the impossible happened. A ghostly apparition, Shepherd’s spirit, rose from his corpse, and hovered over the gathering. He tells them that Shepherd was merely a vessel for the son of god, jesus christ reborn, and that Shepherd was innocent of the crime he was executed for.

Shepherd admonished the gathering to “look to the ones without faith” if they wanted to find those guilty of the Jude murder. The events sent Maria into remembering who Shepherd was, and she dropped dead of shock. Senator Pilot rushed to her daughter’s side, but it was too late, and all she could do was weep over her lifeless form.

But then, Maria’s spirit also rose from her fallen flesh. Maria joined hands with Shepherd (as much as it’s possible for two spirits to clasp mitts), and Shepherd announced they will be ascending into heaven.

Shepard’s last words (we can only hope) were to tell those present to spread Shepard’s message of spiritual love, because the world was still not worthy of being saved. But he added, such salvation would be possible if they all lived their lives like Maria Pilot, the 12th Disciple, the faithful sheep in the flock.

Maria said goodbye to her mother and then she and Shepherd ascended skyward. As I recall it ended with Senator Pilot investigating the atheists who set up Shepherd and bringing them to justice. Then she resigned from the Senate and devoted her life to spreading the gospel of Shepherd and telling every person she met the story of the deity and her daugher.

That’s the big metaphysical payoff of the novel; that the world still must become more “spiritually pure” in order for the masses to receive redemption. Technology and democracy should remain subordinate to the spiritual whims of a faith like the one Shepherd preaches. This is why author Marsh made the scientists and politicians like Sen Pilot the antagonists.

The book and the movie both represent a new danger to the freethinker: A liberal bias towards christianity. Whereas once the majority of liberals stood opposed to christianity and its influence on the culture, more and more now seem to sanction it, albeit with their own quasi-socialist spin on things.

We’re not good enough, Shepherd is telling us. We're not living up to somebody's standards, and a change is necessary.

Passage/Entry II Strobe

Took my nightly drunk out on the town tonight for New Year's Eve. A night when one shouldn't be surrounded by four lousy walls.

Been drinking steadily for a week now, since xmas eve. But starting tomorrow, I'm going to be sober, at least till another unemployment check appears in my mailbox.

The thought of a dry spell is scary. Dry as in no booze, I mean, not as in no money. All it would take is one bout of sobriety...and the...fantasies could return.

Avoiding hallucinations is just an excuse, though. Prefer this state of being really, 'cause drinking is so much fun. It is head-spinning reliable optimism. I've really fallen in love with drinking, and severely tempted into making it a lifestyle, which naturally will require me to display a higher level of commitment.

Translation--drunk by noon.

Even the hangovers are sweet. Excruciation is like a whole new buzz first thing in the morning.

But if I want to not only keep up--but expand--the debauchery, gotta generate some income soon. Not much of a lifestyle if I can only afford booze 15 days a month.

But not going to let it bother me tonight.

Not here at the Labyrinth, a former warehouse turned spacious nightclub in smack dab in the always suitably dark South of Market (SOMA) district

I’m here because I have no woman and I have no friends to spend New Year's with, and it’s a good place to get drunk and also because my favorite band, Anarchistic Puppetry is headlining.

Cost me my last $50 to get in here, but that includes all I can drink, a very good bargain for New Year's. Figured I'd end a shitty year on a high note.

Also able to rationalize it on the basis that the cover is supporting Anarchistic Puppetry.

AP is the very band I was listening to on xmas eve, right before those visions overtook me and dragged me under.

But I've been happily figment-free for a week now, thanks to the aforementioned drink.

Before leaving my crib, finished off a pint of vodka, and am now on my third--or is it my fourth?--screwdriver since I descended into the Labyrinth.

AFTER MAY 2010 LP EDIT

Getting so drunk am no longer self-conscious I’m the only person here that’s alone. Pretty much everyone is with someone else and having fun. Plenty of women of all shapes and sizes here, many appearing to be single—but not alone; either guys are draped all over them or they’re with their other single girlfriends.

Not that a woman being by herself is a bad thing—well, maybe in her mind, but not to a guy. [expletive], the vast majority of guys would prefer it if more women went to bars alone—because there’s nothing that 99.9 percent of all guys like better than an open road in the guise of a desperate single chick in a packed bar.

On the other hand, a guy by himself has loser written all over him.

While men feel a rush of excitement at seeing a lonely desperate woman, women tend to be repelled by single men. Women, especially confident ones that buzz around in bars, generally want what they can’t have; a challenge.

Anyone could have me, ergo, nobody wants me.

That’s why none of the fine females that populate this place tonight cast nary a glance my way.

I’ve come to accept that fact long ago, and any lingering emotional paint associated with such rejection that could trigger latent clinical depression can be easily lobotomized by my fourth--or is it fifth?--screwdriver in hand.

Find myself mostly staring slightly up at the still-empty stage, waiting for it to be filled by the masterful musicians of Anarchistic Puppetry, occasionally allowing my eyes to wander at the ass of a random female passing by.

Got here too early, that's part of the reason I'm standing around like Joey Schmuckola. But didn’t want get here too late and risk the show selling out, since it’s already been established that everyone, even newbs, to out somewhere to party on the night we kill the old year. Didn’t want to take a chance and underestimate how popular Puppetry might be these days, besides the limited floor space capacity at the Labyrinth holding about 500 souls, tops.

Elevating (sinking?) to the level where vision is blurring, and along with a corresponding loss of equilibrium, or impaired balance at the very least, though I doubt it's oncoming taxia. Either way, am forced to consciously hold my balance with the last lingering vestiges of my sobriety.

Reward myself for not falling to the floor with yet another swig of the latest 'driver some passing waitress slipped into my grip, which naturally means it’s now going to be even harder than ever not to fall to the floor.

Close my eyes and cock my head back as the cool liquid pours down my throat, bringing the freedom from everything that only comes with completely inebriated obliteration.

So drunk, not even sure how close it is to midnight and the latest year. And not even sure if I care if I missed it. Doubt it's that late if the band hasn't even come on yet.

A waitress walks by and I flag her for yet another Stoli and OJ.

While waiting, with nothing to imbibe, my sloshed attention span has me drifting across the room, and out of the corner of my eye...

A flash of red.

A unique red I recognize, even this fucked up.

Is that…her?

Is that the Redhead from xmas eve? The one who walked past me before I reached my apartment?

One thing that has me convinced, it's those amazing, blazing tresses, descending down the back like sensual vines.

Crimson strands, reaching down to an ass most delightful, which also seems familiar. That's right, I looked back at her that evening, after she passed me by without a glance.

But still, can't be positive it's her just from the hair and ass. Not to mention my soggy perceptions.

See that she's here with a couple other women—facing them, turned away from me. Can only be sure if she turns her head towards me. No men anywhere near them—could she--by some miracle--possibly be single?

[expletive]! Not going to get the chance to find out—houselights just went down. Meaning it’s time for Puppetry. Will have to wait till after the show to find out if it's Red.

But for now, just going to enjoy the music, which always sounds better when blasted. Hard to put into a coherent thought, but it's something about the way booze relaxes you that makes you more receptive to the music, it breaks down the filters we normally construct up to live life logically, while holding back enjoyment of 'frivolous' elements of life, like music. Booze put the music at the forefront, and pushes reason to the side.

Murmurs of anticipation run through the crowd, as a single light illuminates the center of the stage. One by one each member of AP steps into the light before assuming his position at his respective instrument. Never seen them do something like this before, kind of heavy on the dramatics. Must be a special NYE shtick.

For once, timing is on my side—waitress shows up with my , my last drink of the year. Hand her my last ten dollars (that will have to cover the tip, too) I’ll spend this year. And if I don’t get an unemployment check soon, not sure when I’ll be spending money in the new year.

But again, that’s practical worries for January 1 and beyond, not tonight. Drink is mixed so strong, it even makes me recoil and shake my head, soused as I am.

What I like best about Anarchistic Puppetry is that they don’t speak to the crowd. Never. There are no song introductions, none of that “How ya doin’, San Francisco!” or "Left side, can you get louder than the right side?" bullshit. Once onstage, PA just dons their instruments and plays.

They kick off the holiday show with a sprawling instrumental that I’m not familiar with—maybe something new? Whatever it is, it’s like a box of crayons come to aural actualization with a strong emphasis on the darker shades.

Take a quick look around and see that the rest of the room’s digging it too. Spend an extra moment to catch a glimpse of the redhead, but it’s still too dark in the audience to tell.

It just occurred to me that if it is indeed her, that she may very well be an Anarchistic Puppetry fan. Meaning, we have something in common--the basis for a relationship.

Hope this last drink gets me drunk enough to get the nerve to speak to her.

In my wildest fantasies, she would walk up to me, then buy me a drink

In reality, I’ll be lucky if I strike up the nerve to walk within three yards of her and don’t puke all over her.

Five or six songs later and I’m at the bottom of my drink, looking down at some very lonely cubes of ice.

Just then I hear someone counting down “10…9…8…”

It’s not until “7” that I realize that it’s the end of the year and that I have to finish my drink before the year ends.

Down it all as the countdown hits “2” and the ice slam against my teeth.

“…1...HAPPY—“

Meh, I’ve heard it before.

And at that explosive moment, while everyone in the crowd is exchanging hugs and kisses and toasts to the changing o’ the calendar, I stand here alone in the middle of all the revelry.

It’s a different kind of alone.

Distracted from all that as the band launches into one of their best songs, “Gray Rainbow” that features a pulsating beat and swirling guitar work. It’s a unique, infectious sound that never strays into pop sloppiness.

Best thing about “Rainbow” is that it accelerates in pace…And as the music speeds up, the light show changes in accompaniment, blinking in pre-determined sequences instead of slowly flowing streams…and when the music is flying fast and furious and nearly out of control, the lights strobe.

[expletive] gets really trippy when the house lights mimic the strobe effect going off on stage.
the crowd, the entire club, is bathed in the strobe lights.

It was bad enough when it was going on stage, now every movement by everyone everywhere seems surreal, animated, deconstructed.

As then they go and do it. The strobes speed up, from one second of light/dark to a half-second of light/dark to finally a quarter-second, something comes over me.

No…it can't be.

That same feeling I had on xmas eve…

Perceptions altering, not seeing things as they are.

But it can’t be, it shouldn’t be. I’m drunk; this isn’t supposed to be happening.

But the numbness that the ethyl alcohol brought has been instantly replaced by a sharp clarity, my mind racing, instead of wading.

Tripping sans drugs, as it were. Sure, booze is a drug, but it’s not a hallucinogen.

Must be the strobes that are bringing it on, perhaps triggering the release of certain neurochemicals in my brain. Like an anxiety attack, or a flashback of some previous mental recreation.

See, it’s not just a typical distortion of motion that a strobe effect brings…

It’s more like the strobe has some inter-dimensional ability to warp time and space on some subatomic plateau…

Transforming me from nowhere to somewhere.

With each alternating moment of strobe “dark,” I see myself on stage, actually fronting this incredible band.

And with each alternating moment of strobe “light,” I’m back standing in the crowd.

It’s like the alternating strobe moments of dark and light are teleporting me between the stage and the floor.

But all the while not feeling myself move in any kind of physical sense.

As weird as this all is, possibly the weirdest thing about all of this is that when it’s dark, I’m observing myself sitting on the floor, and when it’s light I’m observing myself on stage, even though I can’t be in both places at the same time.

Or can I?

Anything’s possible in this alternate reality I obviously have a penchant for visiting—at least on holiday nights.

Another thing about this is that time has slooooowed down soooooooo much for me; each alternating black and white flash of the strobe effect seems to linger for an hour.

It's the singularly strangest thing I've ever experienced in my life--or at least since last week.

Watching myself on stage with Anarchistic Puppetry wailing behind me is weird, but even weirder is the fact I’m not singing.

But rather, I hold a book.

Takes a few more “darks” until I grasp it’s the same book I saw on xmas eve. The book I am supposed to have written.

Bye Bull

I open it and begin reading from it, railing on about the concept of faith (no surprise, given what a bugaboo of mine faith happens to be), with Puppetry’s music serving as more than appropriate accompaniment:

“Faith is the invisible glue of christianity; invisible because it is an abstraction that truly does not exist except in the mind of the faithful. But it is like glue in that it binds the christian to christianity in a way that nothing else does.

“Faith is what the faithful use to “fool god.” Sincerity doesn’t matter, you see—it’s all about pulling one over on god (as if that could be possible, considering their god is allegedly omniscient).

“The primary motivation for any christian to have faith is found in the new testament of the bye bull, john 3:16 to be precise; that belief in christ will ensure that one’s “soul” will gain “everlasting life”--meaning, ascension into heaven--and “shall not perish."--meaning, avoidance of hell."

(One question about this fantasy: Is this supposed to be the final draft? Surely I can come up with some better metaphor for faith than “invisible glue”)

And as my tone grows more dramatic, so does the playing of AP behind me. I shoulda been a musician. A singer, specifically. What a rush, what a sensation of raw power it is.

Really feel that power surge through me when I spot the redhead having left her friends behind and looking right up at motherfucking me.

She's staring up at me, hanging on my every word as I continue to recite from the book.

And during the instant of light, she’s back at the table, enjoying the company of her faceless friends.

But when it’s dark, I make sure my eyes meet hers and can see how enthralled by me she is and I don’t ever want this fantasy to end, don’t want the dark to end, even if it is just for quarter-second intervals.

But eventually it does end, as Puppetry shifts into a new tempo, slowing things down considerably and venturing back out into slow, dark space.

And with it, the lights change, and my fantasy dissipates,

I’m just standing here with my empty drink, watching the band.

The redhead is back with her friends, totally into the band, not me.

Though this fantasy was more pleasant than the one on xmas eve, it was still scary losing control like that.

And even drinking didn't serve as any kind of defense for keep the maddening visions away from me.

And I don't want coming back, so I do the unthinkable--I leave in the middle of Anarchistic Puppetry's set, out onto the cold lonely streets in the cold lonely night, back to the mundane security of my four walls.

And to ensure that security, this time, I'm not even going to look out the window.


BEFORE LP EDIT
Getting so drunk am no longer self-conscious I’m the only person here that’s alone. Pretty much everyone is with someone else and having fun. Plenty of women of all shapes and sizes here, many appearing to be single—but not alone; either guys are draped all over them or they’re with their other single girlfriends.

Not that a woman being by herself is a bad thing—well, maybe in her mind, but not to a guy. Shit, the vast majority of guys would prefer it if more women went to bars alone—because there’s nothing that 99.9 percent of all guys like better than an open road in the guise of a desperate single chick in a packed bar.

On the other hand, a guy by himself has loser written all over him.

While men feel a rush of excitement at seeing a lonely desperate woman, women tend to be repelled by single men. Women, especially confident ones that buzz around in bars, generally want what they can’t have; a challenge.

Anyone could have me, ergo, nobody wants me.

That’s why none of the fine females that populate this place tonight cast nary a glance my way.

I’ve come to accept that fact long ago, and any lingering emotional paint associated with such rejection that could trigger latent clinical depression can be easily lobotomized by this screwdriver in my hand.

Find myself mostly staring at the empty stage, waiting for it to be filled by the masterful musicians of Anarchistic Puppetry, occasionally allowing my eyes to wander at the ass of a random piece of pussy crossing my line of sight.

Got here too early, that's part of the reason I'm standing around like Joe Schmuckola. But didn’t want get here too late and risk the show selling out, since it’s already been established that everyone, even newbs, party on the night we kill the old year. Didn’t want to take a chance and underestimate how popular Puppetry might be these days; besides the fact this limited floor space capacity at the Labyrinth, only holding about 500 bodies, tops.

Halfway through my second drink and I’m really starting to feel it.

That’s because while it’s only my second drink at Labyrinth, my buzz was already set in motion much earlier this evening, from the half pint of vodka I absorbed before leaving the homestead.

Vision is blurring, and along with a loss of equilibrium, forces me to consciously hold my balance with the last lingering vestiges of my sobriety.

Reward myself for not falling to the floor with yet another swig of 'Russian water', which naturally means it’s now going to be even harder not to fall to the floor.

Close my eyes and tilt my head back as the cool liquid pours down my throat, bringing the freedom from everything that only comes with further inebriation.

So drunk, not even sure how close it is to midnight and the New Year. And not even sure if I care if I missed it.

A waitress walks by and I flag her for another drink

With nothing to imbibe, my attention drifts across the room, and out of the corner of my eye...

A flash of red.

A unique red I recognize.

Is that…her?

The redhead from xmas eve? The one who walked past me before I went into my apartment?

It's those amazing, blazing tresses, descending down the back like sensual vines.

Crimson strands, reaching down to an ass most delightful, which also seems familiar.

But can't be sure just from the hair and ass that it's her. She’s with a couple other women—facing them, turned away from me. I can only be sure if she turns her head more towards me. No men anywhere near them—could she be single?

Fuck! Not going to get the chance to find out—houselights just went down. Meaning it’s time for Puppetry. Have to wait till after the show to see if it’s her.

But for now, just going to enjoy the music, which sounds even better when blasted.

Murmurs of anticipation run through the crowd, as a single light illuminates the center of the stage. One by one each member of AP steps into the light before assuming his position at his respective instrument. Never seen them do something like this before, kind of heavy on the dramatics. Must be a special NYE shtick.

For once, timing is on my side—waitress shows up with my vodka on the rocks, my last drink of the year. Hand her the last five dollars (that will have to cover the tip, too) I’ll spend this year. And if I don’t get an unemployment check soon, not sure when I’ll be spending money in the new year.

But again, that’s practical worries for January 1 and beyond, not tonight. Drink is mixed so strong, it even makes me recoil and shake my head, soused as I am.

What I like best about Anarchistic Puppetry is that they don’t speak to the crowd. There’s no introductions, none of that “How ya doin’, San Francisco!” bullshit. PA just dons their instruments and plays.

They open with a sprawling instrumental that I’m not familiar with—maybe something new?
Whatever it is, it’s like a box of crayons come to life (with a strong emphasis on the darker shades) and most welcome, completely pleasing to my aural senses.

Take a quick look around and see that the rest of the room’s digging it too. Spend an extra moment to catch a glimpse of the redhead, but it’s still too dark in the audience to tell.

It just occurred to me that if it is indeed her, that she may very well be an Anarchistic Puppetry fan. Meaning, we have something in common--the basis for a relationship.

Hope this last drink gets me drunk enough to get the nerve to speak to her.

In my wildest fantasies, she would walk up to me, then buy me a drink

In reality, I’ll be lucky if I strike up the nerve to walk within three yards of her and don’t puke all over her.

Five or six songs later and I’m at the bottom of my drink, looking down at some very lonely cubes of ice.

Just then I hear someone counting down “10…9…8…”

It’s not until “7” that I realize that it’s the end of the year and that I have to finish my drink before the year ends.

Down it all as the countdown hits “2” and the ice slam against my teeth.

“…1...HAPPY—“

Meh, I’ve heard it before.

And at that explosive moment, while everyone in the crowd is exchanging hugs and kisses and toasts to the changing o’ the calendar, I stand here alone in the middle of all the revelry.

It’s a different kind of alone.

Distracted from all that as the band launches into one of their best songs, “Gray Rainbow” that features a pulsating beat and swirling guitar work. It’s a unique, infectious sound that never strays into pop sloppiness.

Best thing about “Rainbow” is that it accelerates in pace…And as the music speeds up, the light show changes in accompaniment, blinking in pre-determined sequences instead of slowly flowing streams…and when the music is flying fast and furious and nearly out of control, the lights strobe.

Shit gets really trippy when the house lights mimic the strobe effect going off on stage.
the crowd, the entire club, is bathed in the strobe lights.

It was bad enough when it was going on stage, now every movement by everyone everywhere seems surreal, animated, deconstructed.

As then they go and do it. The strobes speed up, from one second of light/dark to a half-second of light/dark to finally a quarter-second, something comes over me.

No…it can't be.

That same feeling I had on xmas eve…

Perceptions altering, not seeing things as they are.

But it can’t be, it shouldn’t be. I’m drunk; this isn’t supposed to be happening.

But the numbness that the ethyl alcohol brought has been instantly replaced by a sharp clarity, my mind racing, instead of wading.

Tripping sans drugs, as it were. Sure, booze is a drug, but it’s not a hallucinogen.

Must be the strobes that are bringing it on, perhaps triggering the release of certain neurochemicals in my brain. Like an anxiety attack, or a flashback of some previous mental recreation.

See, it’s not just a typical distortion of motion that a strobe effect brings…

It’s more like the strobe has some inter-dimensional ability to warp time and space on some subatomic plateau…

Transforming me from nowhere to somewhere.

With each alternating moment of strobe “dark,” I see myself on stage, actually fronting this incredible band.

And with each alternating moment of strobe “light,” I’m back standing in the crowd.

It’s like the alternating strobe moments of dark and light are teleporting me between the stage and the floor.

But all the while not feeling myself move in any kind of physical sense.

As weird as this all is, possibly the weirdest thing about all of this is that when it’s dark, I’m observing myself sitting on the floor, and when it’s light I’m observing myself on stage, even though I can’t be in both places at the same time.

Or can I?

Anything’s possible in this alternate reality I obviously have a penchant for visiting—at least on holiday nights.

Another thing about this is that time has slooooowed down soooooooo much for me; each alternating black and white flash of the strobe effect seems to linger for an hour.

It's the singularly strangest thing I've ever experienced in my life--or at least since last week.

Watching myself on stage with Anarchistic Puppetry wailing behind me is weird, but even weirder is the fact I’m not singing.

But rather, I hold a book.

Takes a few more “darks” until I grasp it’s the same book I saw on xmas eve. The book I am supposed to have written.

Bye Bull

I open it and begin reading from it, railing on about the concept of faith (no surprise, given what a bugaboo of mine faith happens to be), with Puppetry’s music serving as more than appropriate accompaniment:

“Faith is the invisible glue of christianity; invisible because it is an abstraction that truly does not exist except in the mind of the faithful. But it is like glue in that it binds the christian to christianity in a way that nothing else does.

“Faith is what the faithful use to “fool god.” Sincerity doesn’t matter, you see—it’s all about pulling one over on god (as if that could be possible, considering their god is allegedly omniscient).

“The primary motivation for any christian to have faith is found in the new testament of the bye bull, john 3:16 to be precise; that belief in christ will ensure that one’s “soul” will gain “everlasting life”--meaning, ascension into heaven--and “shall not perish."--meaning, avoidance of hell."

(One question about this fantasy: Is this supposed to be the final draft? Surely I can come up with some better metaphor for faith than “invisible glue”)

And as my tone grows more dramatic, so does the playing of AP behind me. I shoulda been a musician. A singer, specifically. What a rush, what a sensation of raw power it is.

Really feel that power surge through me when I spot the redhead having left her friends behind and looking right up at motherfucking me.

She's staring up at me, hanging on my every word as I continue to recite from the book.

And during the instant of light, she’s back at the table, enjoying the company of her faceless friends.

But when it’s dark, I make sure my eyes meet hers and can see how enthralled by me she is and I don’t ever want this fantasy to end, don’t want the dark to end, even if it is just for quarter-second intervals.

But eventually it does end, as Puppetry shifts into a new tempo, slowing things down considerably and venturing back out into slow, dark space.

And with it, the lights change, and my fantasy dissipates,

I’m just standing here with my empty drink, watching the band.

The redhead is back with her friends, totally into the band, not me.

Though this fantasy was more pleasant than the one on xmas eve, it was still scary losing control like that.

And even drinking didn't serve as any kind of defense for keep the maddening visions away from me.

And I don't want coming back, so I do the unthinkable--I leave in the middle of Anarchistic Puppetry's set, out onto the cold lonely streets in the cold lonely night, back to the mundane security of my four walls.

And to ensure that security, this time, I'm not even going to look out the window.