Having said that, you must understand that I always bullshit, so that anything I might have said will not stand up in a court of law. So, Mr. Deerfield, what kind of bullwhip do you normally use to quell revolts? Oh hell this is so hard, painful, cold, trashy, slobbery, unwillingly done, and so full of retribution. Aren't we going to see the real you, Mr. Bloomfield? Will you deprive us of a good view in this operating theater, this namby park? What is it, am I losing it, am I going off my rocker, down the tubes, around the bend, and over the hill? Out to lunch, over the cuckoos nest, out of my mind? And sometimes it just hurts too much to write about.

Will I go down, down to the bottomless blue? Blue Hole--the lake they never found the bottom of. Blue Hole, and Olentangy Caverns, with the blind fish. Fragmentary farm. Plowing fragmentary thoughts, jagged, sharp, broken glass thoughts, brittle crusty thoughts like old snow after cold nights brown and crusty layer on top that cracks when you step on it. It looks like ice floes, crusty dry white and brown ice floes. Dirty snow. Snow with grass sticking through, snow with cinders and dirt by the side of the road. Snow full of brown dirt from the hole dug in an emergency by the back hoe in our back yard when the septic tank clogged up. The strange fragmentary static that bleeds from my brain like a broken transistor radio that will not turn off, no matter how hard you smash it. Plastic broken, circuit board exposed, tiny speaker ripped, but still on, still receiving the broadcast, that golden oldie still blares in a scratchy rasp from the fractured speaker, and won't quit, won't die, just keeps squawking away, a funny little dog wanders by and stares at it quizzically. His ears are up; his head twists back and forth.

I do not know the meaning of this; cannot guess the significance; I've got no reference point, no referent, this symbol points only to emptiness, is merely a wild goose to chase down, and find nothing. The echoing corridor to nothing, where I stare down the long tube of memory to find the lonely thought, the immature realization, the small boy with a little bone to gnaw. I remember the feel of the bone, its odor, its implication. I do not remember what it meant, or that it did not mean much at all. Like the flimsy scene that floats black and white, color quavering, boys playing in brown leaves, parents hovering in some background kitchen, speaking in serious tones about unknown fears, laughing with both confidence and doubt in their eyes. The old maple tree now with bare branches overhangs the little boys’ play like a frozen princess with graceful spare arms spread out wide. She has stared out of her wooden enchantment since the mystery time before the flood, down on the farm, over hill over dale, and down the dusty trail. I'm a broken broadcast, wandering all over the band. Snatches of information are scrambled; the cut up method with sound and thoughts and inspiration all mixing, dynamic drool, just spilling, dripping at intervals from the idiot's mouth.

I remember the time me and Roger and Rick put on a dance at the high school. That was probably the first time the three of us got together. I think we were sophomores, so I guess it was 1968. Roger turned us on to Sergeant Peppers, and we were convinced it was the best album ever. We thought why not put on a dance with this wonderful stereo gear we had from Jimmy Rea Electronics. We could put on a dance with the greatest music, the Beatles, the Who, it would be much better than anything any of these garage bands could do. We would put on a dance, yeah. And Dad got into the act. How about that, Dad got into the act. We wanted some atmosphere, so I told him man it would be great if we could use the strobe light from your Dynamic Balancing Machine for effect at our dance, and he agreed, and brought his equipment to the dance and set it up on the stage at Olentangy High School for the dance. Yeah. Sergeant Peppers on hi-fi stereo from Jimmy Rea Electronics, and Dad's strobe light. What could be better? But our audience was very underwhelmed. No one danced, not many came. Another slow night at Olentangy High School. Roger and Rick and I were disappointed. Oh well, no one understands true art, we thought , no one understands the sublime aspects of the Beatles that had us totally in enthralled. No one got it but us.