Garages on Sundays

Twice yesterday in a little country village, I felt the curling depths of my pristine indignantry. So sombrely I stepped across a stone crossing infested with a team of bullfrogs. Marching to and fro and squealing with delight as the poor little flitzy flotzy flies came fluttering about in the wrong kinda neighbourhood. This gang, this demonic army of severely grotesque bullfrogs are in control of this feeble looking road crossing made with little stones on a burnt orange hue of gravel as opposed to white paint on tar.  My car had run out of petrol a little way up the road and I was trodding along, minding my own Facebook page, scrolling away, stalking a secret admirer on my Galaxy S20, when bam shawam! I am surrounded by an awkwardly stoner moment, unsure of the delicate veil between worlds and that ridiculous paranoia where you reckon you've sliced the world apart with your mind. You know that feeling I'm talking about. I looked around me, expression of pure drug-buying guilt. Check right, make sure no-one is looking, look left so right looks less obvious and I just realised that I was actually crossing the road. So natural road crossing behaviour as a matter of fact. But that inner feeling of guilt, like someone's gonna drive past and scream 'wierdo!' and hoot and push me out the middle of the road where I ought not to be in the first place. I'm like ok I better cross the road quickly and not get run over just because a bunch of simpleton looking bullfrogs are coming after my ankles and trying to get me off balance so I can topple over and get hit by a car with some whimp screaming 'wierdo!' at me and reverse just to hear the squelch to make sure I've cross my heavenly road.

To be continued.....

Checkpoint

Stop here. Take a breather. Feel my ghostly breath tickling your earlobes. I've been a ghost once. Once when I died. I died because my curiosity killed me. Like a cat. Pussy. I watched my blood being extracted from my arm. Thick, gooey, then those grey dots. "Daddy, I feel funny". Dead. Like my grandparents, all of them. Like my pets in the backyard under brush, under stone.... Dead. No bright light, no random jesus with a clipboard or the broad heavenly smile of his dad. Just pure nothingness. Like a sleep. With dreams. Like those break-time school days with the boys in the toilets. Taking turns to pass each other out. Those dreams. Those are probably the dreams you have in the elevator to the gates of heaven. It must be a long ride up. Coz those dreams were pretty intense and always felt like ages. No cheesy elevator music. Just dreams. I'd call them more like explosive imagery scenes of information. It always felt like I'd learnt something after a pass-out break-time session.

I look up and see a teeny miniature human being baptized. How sad. The creature has no say in its own religious choice. That's pretty fucked up. Then the adult humans laugh and clap hands and cry. Oh, the mother admits the miniature has no idea about what's going on. But in defense claims the kid is having a good time. Parents sometimes know nothing about what's going on in their offspring minds.

Like my dad. He was calling the mortuary when  my ghost returned to my body. He cried and clapped his hands. How weird. Why do humans sometimes clap their hands and cry?

How silly!