Bagism: Library

Skywriting -- Feb 18, 1998
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Continued from Feb 17, 1998

Then he got hit by another streetcar.

You know, you needed to come back, boy. Back to the old days... somewhere without cars. What about Strawberry Fields? "Who's talking?" 'Give you three guesses.", the voice said, laughing. "Coming? It will be better than get hit by a streetcar."

He certainly had nothing better to do than follow this voice. "Am I hallucinating you?" John didn't care. He was quite resigned to following phantoms. "What do you think, John." So, it knows my name...big deal...Lots of people knew my name...Once I dreamt I was in this room with no furniture...just pillows and some French bird who kept saying how disappointed she was. "How do you know me?" "better yet, how do you know me?" That old French bird kept calling my name. Like she wanted me to answer...

Paul, whose hair had begun to turn a distinguished grey, now dyed it darker, Distinguished was fine, young was better. "I kinda liked being older...made more sense then.." John ran alone, following the strange voice.

Oh man, this is getting weird enough for me. "Oh boy. Don't I agree with you. Like nobody is wwanting to go on with the plot...as if we had one, right?" John had to agree. "Who are you?" "My friends call me Carolina. I came from a very far land." "How far?" , John asked. "Far as the eye can see. I am going...see you John.". And she left, looking everywhere to do not get hit by a streetcar. John got a bit confused. Far as the eye can see...

"Far as the eye can see?" She turned and was gone in a flurry of scarlet silk. A scent of honey lingered on behind her. Far as the eye can see...as far as the mind can go...please don't wear red tonight.. He noticed the night air was as thick as velvet and hard to breathe. Little diamonds twinkled in the velvet drapery.

Don't go away...explain what the hell is going on... who are you?...far as the eye can see, and where is it? Come back, please come back....who are you? Then he got hit by a streetcar. It's not that we're not following the plot- this IS the plot. :^)

"Plot? Is that what you call this shite?" John turned around angrily to face the director. "Now I know why I don't like those bleedin' actors..." HE shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Perhaps he;d had too much to drink. But there was no alcohol allowed at the Club Dakota, he knew that well.

"Well enough to know that you are lieing to yourself. They had alcohol there, you know that...hidden but they had." John looked around him, and he saw that Anna girl from the other day. "How are you?" "Wondering why this got so crazy." "Crazy are the days, John. Most peculiar, isn't it?", she said, in a simpathetic smile. "So, how's Yoko?" , she asked, looking not to him but to the limited mirrored horizon. "Yoko who?".

"What, yer wife. Sean's mother.", Anna said. "Gee, you know that I can't remember it." Anna looked to him. "Losing yer mind again? You've been tripping too much. Well, I am going. See you, John." "Be careful with the streetcars!", he shouted, as she went away. Anna drifted away, leaving John to his own thoughts.

John sighed and lowered his head. One bottle of Cognac on New Year's Eve. "So Lennon, why d'ya always have the gates?" "Gates?" "Homes with gates...Strawberry Field had gates, the Dakota.." "Keep me inside" "Keep people out..like you..." He glared at he new unknown speaker who narrowly dodged an oncoming streetcar.

"Gates make me feel safe...keeps things I don't want from getting in.." A laugh like tinkling silver bells. "Surely you saw from your window-" "I can see what I damn well please from my window!" He shot back quickly, without thinking. "So you admit you've lost touch." "I didn't say that-" Another laugh, rising to a howl of anguish. Not at all a strange voice. "I hear Yoko. Take me back." He stared furiously at the nothing. "So you hear her. So?" "Listen to me, I want Yoko. You can't very well stop me from going back there...I don't want to find the bloody past, I'm through with living in it!" "Fine." The red haze filled John's vision again. Blackness creeped in around the edges.

Continued on Feb 19, 1998

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