Just Passin' Through
I had an old dream one night. Not the dream that is old and repeats again, but a dream about a place that was new and grew old. You know the kind. Walking alongside a building I once knew, the building not the person. I knew the person too, kind of, but not exactly them either.
The big log came rolling down the grassy slope towards us. My companion tried to hold me down in front of the log, like under water so he could hop out of the way at the last second. Pushing him out of the way, I easily stepped out of the path of the log. He pointed a pistol to shoot me then. I snatched it pulled the slide back, scraped the barrel into the dirt, and jammed a small rock into the end of it. It was a Glock pistol with a 4-inch barrel, 9mm.
The building security guards, or maybe they FBI agents took me as I prepared to tell the story of the man with the Glock to them. I woke me up at the story telling part. Only a fool tells a story to the police: truth, fiction, or otherwise. Your own truth hangs you as often as it shields you. Others hear what they want to hear most of the time. It is the WIFM radio station always tuned to what's in it for them. No matter the man who tried to kill me had shot somebody else inside the once new building. The building had classified government projects inside, and just why, tell us, had I been in there in the first place, humm? Things flip around like that, even when you are awake. Never trust your dreams.
My mind woke me up before I did something stupid and kept my big mouth shut. Rationality went around dangerous emotions and reeducated me yet again about how silence is the best part of valor. Going back to sleep, I returned to the dream and the waiting guards to inform them that I would require legal representation before I could answer any of their questions. Sometimes dreams are quite rational.
In the rational morning light the old building from other lives appeared like that old poster from the 1960s, the one about "just passin' through," the posters showing guys with the big feet. All the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers had big feet, and they always quickly lifted them up to get going through, like Robert Crumb's Mr. Natural with the big shoes and ZZ Top beard.
Who is Mr. Natural? Maybe he was a hippie, the ones who expanded their minds, a freak brother to help you navigate the road. It was a hippie poster after all.
It's always important to stay on the road. In the thick gray mist a misstep can send you tumbling down the embankment to splatter on the mud and rocks below. You might never make it back on the road again. There is no one in the muck and unforgiving boulders to help you.
Jesus directs travelers in one of those cool white chest straps that wraps down over his shoulder and around his waist. It has shiny silver clasps that match his big silver whistle on a white cord around his neck. Very spiffy he is. Just stay on the road. Keep right except to pass, stay in your lane, and don't wander. At the exit there is a big party for dad where you will sing happy birthday to him forever, and ever, and ever. All the cake you can eat.
It's okay if you fail. It is fine to fall down in self-piteous drunkenness taken to escape the boredom of it all, just stay on the road. Then you shall be raised up. The road will rise to meet your step leading to heaven an hour before the devil knows you are dead. Keep going. Follow the sound of the whistle if you get lost.
A white bandoleer goes especially with saffron, and old bald Buddha has it goin' on with his gleaming chrome WWII American Army helmet to boot. You are free to meander all over the road when he comes, and you can come back and go down the road over, and over, and over again, until you are so sick of it that you just stop to become no mas forever. It is the ultimate pass through.
Brother Mohammad prefers an electric cow prod with the chest strap, one with the long life extrapoke batteries. Zzzt - stay in your lane. Zzzt - keep going. Zzzt - no pork sandwiches. He procures 27 virgins so when you get to the end of the road - that's all there is at the end. Zzzt - bettern' Zzzt.
The scroll brothers with the beanies don't have anybody with a bandoleer they can agree on yet. When the road ends they say the toll taker does not even have a nametag. "Hello, my name is Nobody" is as good as any name for a motel clerk when you come up frazzled after a long road trip. Just a clean room for forever on the side away from the freeway, please.
The old Indian guy sings well. Whistles, drums, gongs, bells, chanting, songs, you name it he has it happening. It is enough to wake the dead. No worries, you are of the road and with the right guide and clear vision. Sing along while you walk.
More shysters, signs, advisors, rules, and seers purvey the road than Sunset Boulevard on Halloween with LSD and steroids. If you get off the road, well good luck with that. Always stay in your lane and to keep going. Ignore the ones who wander off and refuse to come back. Follow your guide, follow the rules, pay attention.
If we are all really just passing through will we be lost and destroyed if we do not follow the beaten path, even if we can't see it?
Lots of other people have all kinds of rules. When you pass through their territory keep your mouth shut, and hire good lawyers when you need to. Sometimes dreams are like that.
Keep on truckin'.
The big log came rolling down the grassy slope towards us. My companion tried to hold me down in front of the log, like under water so he could hop out of the way at the last second. Pushing him out of the way, I easily stepped out of the path of the log. He pointed a pistol to shoot me then. I snatched it pulled the slide back, scraped the barrel into the dirt, and jammed a small rock into the end of it. It was a Glock pistol with a 4-inch barrel, 9mm.
The building security guards, or maybe they FBI agents took me as I prepared to tell the story of the man with the Glock to them. I woke me up at the story telling part. Only a fool tells a story to the police: truth, fiction, or otherwise. Your own truth hangs you as often as it shields you. Others hear what they want to hear most of the time. It is the WIFM radio station always tuned to what's in it for them. No matter the man who tried to kill me had shot somebody else inside the once new building. The building had classified government projects inside, and just why, tell us, had I been in there in the first place, humm? Things flip around like that, even when you are awake. Never trust your dreams.
My mind woke me up before I did something stupid and kept my big mouth shut. Rationality went around dangerous emotions and reeducated me yet again about how silence is the best part of valor. Going back to sleep, I returned to the dream and the waiting guards to inform them that I would require legal representation before I could answer any of their questions. Sometimes dreams are quite rational.
In the rational morning light the old building from other lives appeared like that old poster from the 1960s, the one about "just passin' through," the posters showing guys with the big feet. All the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers had big feet, and they always quickly lifted them up to get going through, like Robert Crumb's Mr. Natural with the big shoes and ZZ Top beard.
Who is Mr. Natural? Maybe he was a hippie, the ones who expanded their minds, a freak brother to help you navigate the road. It was a hippie poster after all.
It's always important to stay on the road. In the thick gray mist a misstep can send you tumbling down the embankment to splatter on the mud and rocks below. You might never make it back on the road again. There is no one in the muck and unforgiving boulders to help you.
Jesus directs travelers in one of those cool white chest straps that wraps down over his shoulder and around his waist. It has shiny silver clasps that match his big silver whistle on a white cord around his neck. Very spiffy he is. Just stay on the road. Keep right except to pass, stay in your lane, and don't wander. At the exit there is a big party for dad where you will sing happy birthday to him forever, and ever, and ever. All the cake you can eat.
It's okay if you fail. It is fine to fall down in self-piteous drunkenness taken to escape the boredom of it all, just stay on the road. Then you shall be raised up. The road will rise to meet your step leading to heaven an hour before the devil knows you are dead. Keep going. Follow the sound of the whistle if you get lost.
A white bandoleer goes especially with saffron, and old bald Buddha has it goin' on with his gleaming chrome WWII American Army helmet to boot. You are free to meander all over the road when he comes, and you can come back and go down the road over, and over, and over again, until you are so sick of it that you just stop to become no mas forever. It is the ultimate pass through.
Brother Mohammad prefers an electric cow prod with the chest strap, one with the long life extrapoke batteries. Zzzt - stay in your lane. Zzzt - keep going. Zzzt - no pork sandwiches. He procures 27 virgins so when you get to the end of the road - that's all there is at the end. Zzzt - bettern' Zzzt.
The scroll brothers with the beanies don't have anybody with a bandoleer they can agree on yet. When the road ends they say the toll taker does not even have a nametag. "Hello, my name is Nobody" is as good as any name for a motel clerk when you come up frazzled after a long road trip. Just a clean room for forever on the side away from the freeway, please.
The old Indian guy sings well. Whistles, drums, gongs, bells, chanting, songs, you name it he has it happening. It is enough to wake the dead. No worries, you are of the road and with the right guide and clear vision. Sing along while you walk.
More shysters, signs, advisors, rules, and seers purvey the road than Sunset Boulevard on Halloween with LSD and steroids. If you get off the road, well good luck with that. Always stay in your lane and to keep going. Ignore the ones who wander off and refuse to come back. Follow your guide, follow the rules, pay attention.
If we are all really just passing through will we be lost and destroyed if we do not follow the beaten path, even if we can't see it?
Lots of other people have all kinds of rules. When you pass through their territory keep your mouth shut, and hire good lawyers when you need to. Sometimes dreams are like that.
Keep on truckin'.
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