Hi – Before we get to Part 5 of Road Trip, I want to remind you of my webcam performance on Glogegig Radio this coming Thursday, Feb. 21st at 3pm. I’m looking forward to this and I’m told by Ken Foster at Aurovine that this is the first time they’ve tried doing this type of broadcast. We’re hoping there will be no technological glitches. I’m planning on performing at least 4 songs – maybe more if things go good!
So that’s http://www.globegigradio.com and click on the webcam tab.
My new album – Pass On The Love – is just about finished and next time I’ll provide some details about it. Now here’s Part 5 of Road Trip! Please give me more feedback about the book. I’m very interested in what you all think. Thanks for reading and more importantly – enjoy it!
I was supposed to meet her at seven; here…or was it eight…she left me in a drowsy sleep, and when I awoke she was gone. I dimly remembered her leaving and she told me to meet her here…HERE…RIGHT HERE. I inhaled my cigarette deeply and watched the smoke fall around the donut container on the counter. It rolled down around my cup uniting with the steam from my coffee. The tinkling of her bell, a small camel’s bell she hung around her neck became the triumphant entrance call as the door swung open and her smile entered. I glanced at the clock for some reason – 7:38 it said. She was next to me, all resilient and warm, saying things about coming here and missing the train, stopping to adjust her sandals and seeing the sun rise when she left me, thinking about me, and polishing her bell. I smiled, ordered another coffee and one for her. After awhile, we walked out, hand in hand to find the day and what it might bring. The streets were newly alive and we became a couple of many; asking one another, “What shall we do today?” We parted later that afternoon, and as was the custom in those days sometimes, I never saw her again.
Café Innisfree – University of Rhode Island – Summer 1965
That particular morning, I arose like I had never been awake before. I felt as if I was sliding out of some hot sticky womb. There was fog and mist and my head was swelling like one of those huge paisley balloons being pumped up by helium. The taste of wine lingered more in my stomach and bowels than in my mouth, which at the time was totally inoperable. The night before was like some grotesque farewell party given for me before I left that some-other-land to be born again. Girls running around with American flags draped around them screaming – “Get him out of here!!!” to my black-caped friend who was trying to do just that – get me out of there. The deep burgundy slosh seemed to belch out of the clear glass gallon jug which kept it imprisoned, and I was its only means of escape. The thick wine longed for the eternal bliss to be found within my innards, where its new found freedom would take it reeling through my veins – eventually carrying me off with it. Needless to say, both the wine and I succeeded. I freed it from its glass prison and in turn it freed me to explore the very limits of my inhibitions. Together we flew to that hanging abyss called the morning after where we were branded as outlaws and confined to a death-like state of nothingness. But the night before was truly ours! I wailed harshly on the guitar and my voice sounded like it was a bubbling caldron of witch’s brew – purple, as nearly coagulated blood. A white light over the stairway grew whiter and brighter, while my eyes gave sharp signals to my brain that they might just stop functioning. My friend Simon with the baret and others carried me up the stairs to the charming tune of unpleasant female screams. I remember, she really pissed me off. She would never understand me and really didn’t care to, as long as she could follow in my boot steps as the alluring playmate of the “hip, folky singer of romantic ballads that seemed to make even the most frigid female quiver with desire” But at that moment, my boots staggered over the impossible stairs that led me to the showers. Clothes were torn off me every step of the way. “On to Golgotha” I heard someone say. The nails of crucifixion couldn’t hurt half as much as my pride hurt, as I stumbled naked under the cold spray. The laughing voices of my friendly executioners moved me spiritually, so I forgave them – they knew what they were doing. I could still hear the virginal cries of anguish downstairs. I thought for sure they were deflowering her or carrying her away in grief at the final moment of her “hip, folk singer savior’s departure from this place. But my illusion broke as the mirror reflected the brightness of my room, as someone threw open the door. My sarcophacal cot awaited in all its gray and yellow dinginess, and I tripped over a cigarette butt right into it.