And a black fug of ‘smelly’ breathed out of Man and oozed from his pores like ichor. I liked not the sight nor the smell of Man. Nor did I like the feel of Man either. As Man hoisted me up to my feet and stared into my eyes.
And then I did not like the sound of Man either.
Man roared and raged. There was neither peace nor harmony in his voice.
‘You’re bloody stoned,’ roared Man at me. And he roared in the voice of my brother.
‘Andy?’ I asked in a tiny whiney voice. ‘Is that you, my brother?’
‘It’s me,’ said Andy. ‘That Toby has laid some very bad acid on you.’
‘Not acid,’ I said. And noticed, as I said it, that the words came floating out of my mouth as little colourful bubbles of stuff that burst all over his face.
‘Sorry,’ I said. Most sincerely.
‘He’ll be sorry,’ said Andy. And his words were black like lumps of coal.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s all right, really. This is beyond acid. I am experiencing things that I had no idea even existed.’
Andy stared at me quizzically. ‘Why are you reciting the alphabet?’ he asked.
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I think I have become at one with the universe.’
‘Stop doing it now,’ said Andy.
But-’
‘Then end it with that zed.’
‘But-’
‘One zed is enough.’
I did noddings at Andy. It was clear, to me at least, that what I thought I was saying was not what I was saying. Which led me to believe that it was not possible to express what I was experiencing to someone who was not experiencing the same thing at the same time.
And that is another of those Universal Truths!
And then Andy said, ‘There has been a bit of unpleasantness in the Winnebago. Mick told us all to get out. He wasn’t too taken with Toby shagging his girlfriend. And someone had told him that we were intending to top the bill.’
I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it.
‘So he wants us all to leave. And he’s getting his security roadie boys to chuck us out of the park.’
I said nothing once again.
‘But for some reason he has decided that he wants you to go onstage. He’s got these boxes of butterflies, apparently, and he’s going to read a bit of poetry “for Brian” and then release all these butterflies. And he wants you to bring them on stage.’
I opened my mouth. But Andy put his hand over it.
‘I think Mr Ishmael put a bit of pressure on him,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘He’s here in the park somewhere.’
And so I got to stand at the side of the stage minding the boxes of butterflies.
Now, I remember the Edgar Broughton Band and I’m sure some other band that had a black fella with a big afro playing the electric organ. And I do recall, with perfect clarity, the sight of Gilbert and George strolling through the crowd. And I also recall, with perfect clarity, how I became aware that they were perfect Humans, in the manner that they were Perfect Artists, in the manner that they were and, for all I know, still are their own art.
Which is why I recall seeing them with such perfect clarity.
And then a big roadie, who didn’t have a beard, but who wasn’t my dad, nudged me rather firmly in the rib-area and told me to, ‘Get ready with those boxes, mate, the star-turn is going on next.’
And I have to confess that even in my cosmic and all but universally enlightened condition, I was a bit teed-off that The Sumerian Kynges were not going to be the star-turn, or indeed any turn at all. Because this was the Perfect Day that Lou Reed would later sing about and the sun was shining down and Hyde Park was filled with beautiful people. So The Sumerian Kynges really should be playing. Because we were here and this was supposed to be our time.
So yes. I was a little teed-off.
‘And pull the Sellotape off the boxes before you carry them onstage, ’ said the roadie. ‘Mick can’t be having with de-Sellotaping. It wouldn’t be cool.’
Which had me more than just a little bit more teed-off.
Not that I wasn’t still cosmic. No, believe me, I was.
‘And get your act together, you stoner.’
And that was an interesting one.
Because it seemed to me that that final remark triggered something. Or put something into motion. Or brought something into being. A physical/spiritual something. And somehow I projected.
And although I never touched him with my hands, I pushed that roadie. Very hard. And he flew backwards with a look of perplexity upon his face, the memory of which I still and will always treasure. And he hit the side of The Stones’ limo very hard and collapsed in an untidy heap. And the driver of the limo issued from that limo and looked at me, some distance away, weighed up the possibility that I might have struck the roadie, mentally declared it a no-goer, looked down at the roadie, up at the big dent in the passenger door of the limo and then gave the roadie a very sound and thorough kicking.
Which caused me to turn my face away. As I was of a delicate disposition. And filled to the very brim with cosmic consciousness.
But I did smile and chuckle just a bit.
And I did regard myself and say, ‘Oh yes,’ and then, ‘Oh joy,’ and then, ‘I’m Superman.’
Which, I agree, was a pretty dumb thing to say, because if I was going to be any kind of superhero, then that superhero would have to have been Doctor Strange. For he was the Master of the Mystic Arts. And probably a chum of Count Dante, the Master of Dimac, the Most Brutal and Disfiguring of the Martial Arts. Of whom I was a great fan. Although my Dimac manual had still failed to turn up. Even though I’d left a forwarding address for The Flange Collective.
And then suddenly The Rolling Stones issued from somewhere and made for the stage. The band with the black afro-hairstyled electric organ player (what was his name?) [16] were leaving the stage. But the two bands passed each other in complete harmony, which I felt very deeply (and was glad).
‘Oi, boy,’ called Mick Jagger. And I suddenly became aware that he was addressing me. ‘Boy, bring on the butterflies when Charlie gives you the nod.’
And Charlie Watts, who was passing by, mimed this nod to me. The miming of the nod and the nod itself were indeed very similar. In fact it would have been, and indeed was, impossible to tell one from the other. Except for the fact that the miming of the nod occurred earlier.
I glared somewhat at Charlie. But I did not project. Because, in all truth, I had become something of a fan of The Stones, and of Charlie in particular. And was hoping to get his autograph later.
Charlie scuttled up the steps. And I bethought me of those other steps, the ones that led up to the school stage (from the left-hand side of the stage when viewed by the audience) on that night that seemed now so long ago.
‘And don’t muff it up,’ said Mick.
And to some extent the rest is history. The Stones went on stage, Mick read a bit of poetry ‘for Brian’ – Shelley, I think it was, or perhaps Byron, or perhaps the Great McGonagall – and then Charlie gave me the nod and I lugged the boxes of butterflies onto the stage. Although hardly lugged, as they didn’t weigh very much. And then Mick opened the boxes and shook out the butterflies, many of which were dead, as you’re not really supposed to box up butterflies. And I looked up into the wonderful skies, and saw the wonderful butterflies and I knew, just knew. I just knew.
What?
Well, that would be hard to explain.
And then I looked out at the audience, the two hundred and fifty thousand beautiful people. And my, they were beautiful, in their beautiful clothes, with their beautiful hair and their beautiful beads and bells. Just beautiful.
