I made a joke, once. I rambled and uttered sweet, beautiful words and said things like, "old", "drunk", "metal", and "in case you don't know, this is a Motörhead reference." I informed you, oh, my big-nosed friend, that I was on a journey. A pursuit. A grand adventure! And said, quietly, elegantly, that I'd been arrested for trying to smuggle cocaine, even though it was only amphetamines for my tight chest and numb left arm, and how that horrible experience had convinced me that I needed to escape wretched Civilization and her diabolical hatred of all things that kill lawns.
My destination was Jamaica. Where'd I'd get to ride a horse and smoke human beings and take it to head.
No one laughed. Neither did I.
But there was truth there, as there always is in my charmless delusions. The ocean has always whispered my name in the silence of mid-afternoon. The mountains, I admit, have my number. When they call, I hurry to them as quickly as my feet can pitter-patter up the hillside. But you see, I switched off the phone a long time ago, and they've never bothered me again.
Yes, I admit, once more, that the cliff is my mistress; I still think about her, and I know where she lives and I know that anytime I knock on her door, regardless of the time or day, she'll open it and her arms and embrace me in her sweet, beautiful, craggy bosom. And yes. Yes, yes, yes. I know that she tried it before, and if it isn't a spider or some sort of transportation vehicle or a knife or water or a snake (I don't know why, but I'm thinking taipan, perhaps. Or a member of the viper family) that kills me, it's going to be a slip where my fingers will scrape thin air instead of bark and my last word will be a resounding "Geronimo!!!!" before I THUMP and maybe even SPLAT on a hard, Earthian floor.
Maybe my last painting will be called, "A Blade of Grass is Painted Red".
But while the mountains have had my number, and while they'll always give me that one moment of silent passion, while they'll always be my mistress waiting around the corner to grab my head and shove it between her peaky breasts and shriek impassioned scenery, the ocean will hold my head against her beating heart and softly whisper my name.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Leyenda (Asturias) was composed by Isaac Albéniz. You can listen to the piece I used here, performed by Gordon Rowland.
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