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Fiction
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Contributed by Alexander Phillips
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Friday, 20 May 2005 |
 A Divinely Comedic Tour, with Ken Kesey as Shaman
by
Alexander Phillips © 2005
I had lost my way. I was in the valley of death, five lanes of concrete each way, in heavy traffic with thousands of others. Classic California hills rose abruptly above us, acre upon folded acre of grass, punctuated by random live oaks. It was as if a reticent creator mocked with beauty the fallen race below. The leaves of grass, recently brown, were now dark green, revived by blessed rain, falling even then. The drizzle tormented the anonymous gaggle of drivers.
Did I say I was lost? I was commuting home from work, on automatic pilot, just another day, November 10, 2001. But it would turn out unlike any other day.
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Contributed by Alexander Phillips
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Saturday, 21 May 2005 |
by
Alexander Phillips © 2005
I have seen her only a handful of times. The most beautiful woman — my angel, my guardian — Tricia. She was a Botticelli Venus crossed with a tanned Athena: a goddess who can run a credible 10,000 meter race. When we met she was in her late 20s. She was my physical therapist following a car accident.
I know what you’re thinking: middle aged guy, who has not been touched affectionately in many years, falls in love with the first pretty young thing to touch him. Such a prosaic aging man’s dream. I say, so what? Maybe it’s nature’s way of telling men to go forth and procreate and, hey, be happy. Anyway, Tricia fell for me, too —
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Contributed by Alexander Phillips
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Wednesday, 25 May 2005 |
by
Alexander Phillips © 2005
I knew enough now to know I had been unconscious at times.
Antiseptic bedroom, filled with steel and white plastic gear of miraculous detail, tubes, wires, needles, small lights. Must be night. Waiting. Owww, ahhh, the pain is less, then less.
Hmmm, now all of the pain is … gone. I sense this grinding, like bone on cartilage. That’s better; I think. No?
I tried to raise my arm. No. Maybe later.
Now. What.
I was swimming again, out of breath, getting dizzy, time for a break. Tricia, help me now!
A bustle of activity around me — doctor, nurses, whomever, in green smocks, rushing someone away with urgent observations and orders. That guy must be dying.
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Contributed by Alexander Phillips
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Friday, 03 June 2005 |
by
Alexander Phillips © 2005
In the jagged morning light coming through blinds, I felt remarkably better, although my neck now had a dull, overall ache. Ken arrived.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah."
Somehow Ken got me released. He helped me out of bed and handed me some fresh clothes: a beige knit shirt, like his, but paler, and faded blue jeans to match his. He fitted a more comfortable neck brace on me. Then he rolled me in a wheel chair out to a car. Gingerly I eased myself into the front passenger seat.
When Ken had settled behind the steering wheel, he said, "Here, take these." He produced several pills of different colors, which seemed to change color as I looked at them.
"What’re these?"
"One’s for the pain. One’s for the joy. One’s to help you see better."
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Contributed by Alexander Phillips
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Monday, 06 June 2005 |
Purgatory
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Alexander Phillips © 2005
Ken Kesey’s friend, Rick, lived in an excellent suburban neighborhood, with wide, unused asphalt roads, big green lawns, and houses mimicking a pastiche of historical styles. It was like a bleary, Technicolor dream. I knew the area well, because I had been raised near here. Rick’s white clapboard house was a two story ‘colonial,’ regular windows, steeply pitched roof, well maintained shrubs cowering by the house. Only trivialities distinguished it from any other home in a similar neighborhood in America. The struggle of upper middle class Americans had once again stifled all originality.
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