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Halfway through the long tunnel of night, i could feel my vision blurring from the evening's assault of fluorescent lights and monitor screen. Roy Orbison on the tape deck was bringing me back to consciousness, when the sweeping curve brought the sight of brightly coloured lights filtering through the trees.
Out of nowhere, populated by no one (visible), was a fairground that must've erupted from the soil overnight. Fumbling for the camera, wedged in the backpack on the passenger's floor, i backed off the accelerator, anticipating the upcoming crossroad. Following unfamiliar country roads, drawn to the spectral kaleidoscope, i drew alongside the park at a creep. Low piston-hammering of generators, angles of pulsing illumination... still no sign of another living thing. Like the world had emptied. But, it was ready. Waiting. Beckoning. That woke me up. I fought the effort of looking in the rearview as i passed, to make sure that it was really there. The rest of the day was dreamlike as well. Skies progressively turning darker shades of grey as morning mutated into day... swearing that i could grab a fistful of air and squeeze water from it. Sense of smell heightened... from the drop-you-to-your-knees funk of the Speckled Beast's lethal zagnut deposit, the melon-y scent of the mimosas, the heavy undertones of chlorophyll. It was Scent-O-Rama. Drifted through the last pages of the story of the boy with the lightning bolt scar... hating when i closed the back cover. So mature. It'll be Upton Sinclair, next. Not ready for another hard c0re english debauch. On to better feasts for the eyes. |
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