Fin-Lad of Nodfa.
By Eddie Revel.
“I’m here to be alone.
That’s what I told myself.”
I’m here to be alone. That’s what I told myself. But I’m going to get some magic mushrooms, which definitely involves interacting with other people. Shop staff and the like. And it also seems awfully pertinent that the last time I was here was with Sarah and that I’ve checked myself into the exact same hotel. It’s conveniently located. It’s cheap. And it’s got comfortable beds. I know what I’m getting. I was satisfied last time. It’s a no brainer. This is the line of logic that says I am definitely not here to plug into old emotions, to stimulate memories of Sarah, to see if I still miss her, to see if I’m still in love with her.
I’ve started hitting those little bridges and cobbled streets. I’m more or less in the center of Amsterdam. I’m not aiming for a specific smart shop. I’m looking for a red and white mushroom sticking out of one of the walls.
I’m gonna drop a bunch of magic mushrooms and see what happens. I’ve never done it before. Something has brought me here and if it’s not to be alone or a desire to rekindle something with Sarah, then it’s something to do with the mushrooms.
I see one of the mushrooms sticking out the corner of a building. I jump off the bike on the bridge and stick it next to a lamp-post with a sign on saying ‘a friend of bikes is a friend of mine’. I nearly agree. I’d say it’s more like ‘a friend of bikes might not be a total asshole’.
The minute I step inside I feel dizzy. It’s supposed to be this relaxed, chill-out-yeah-dude-whatever atmosphere. The whole thing is a hoax. Hippies. Long hair and beards for the men. No make-up or bras for the women. One of them behind the counter organizing something in the display. A few of them checking out tie-dye t shirts. Step out of the larger convention and into a smaller one. Peace dude. One love. Everyone love everyone. Liars. I go to the counter.
He says it without even turning around. Does he have eyes in the back of his head? Maybe he’s like one of those shamans that can predict the weather because he’s so connected with the environment?
He points to a huge picture in the back.
I find myself following him into this back room. It’s full of junk. Papers and books all over the place. He sits behind a desk and I sit on a stack of newspapers.
“I was interviewed by the national press of the Czechoslovakia”
“It’s not called that anymore”
Everything is moving forward and into his face, like his face is absorbing the room. I look around. There are pictures of him everywhere. Some professional. Some newspaper cut outs. The whole room is a shrine to him. He’s grinning behind the desk. The room flows into his teeth.
“Do you want to see a documentary that the BBC did on me?”
He flashes a remote over his shoulder. His face appears on this old TV. He’s smiling at my reaction to this thing that is happening in front of me. Is this what I came here for?
“I’m not interested” I say, but I don’t move.
“It’s not loud enough is it?” he says and turns it up before I’ve even considered answering. It’s blaring out. He looks like an eskimo walking through a forest.
“I’m a wolf whisperer”
I can’t work out whether he said it on the screen or in the room that I’ve happened myself into. He looks like a dirty yellow Santa in that eskimo gear. He takes off one of his wellington boots and makes a wolf noise into it. It sounds incredibly lame. I realise he’s doing it both on the screen and in the room.
I check my surroundings. I’m getting the distinct impression that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. But I can see the store behind me and those hippies being yeah-dude-whatever and it comforts me. It’s just a regular smartshop, just a regular day. I should ask him for the mushrooms and get out of here. Maybe I already have? Maybe I’ve already taken them and this is my trip? Santa and his wolf noises. I get up from the stack of newspapers.
“You want a drink?” he says.
“No thanks. I just need to move my van, I’m parked on a double yellow line” I find myself saying as I walk to the door. Do they even have yellow lines in Amsterdam? Do I even have a van?
“Nonsense” he says, so I think they mustn’t have yellow lines here. He’s busted me. I haven’t brought my van to Amsterdam. But I don’t have a van. I have a toaster.
I pause at the door. He reaches under his desk and pours some brown liquid from a brown glass bottle into some brown shot glasses.
“Cheers” he says and I reciprocate. We knock them back and my head spins. It’s lethal. I’m already doing the second. He’s a little old man in his wellington boots. I feel nothing. No words. No thoughts. No nothing. I’m looking at the ceiling. Fractal patterns start taking shape on it. It’s a simple white ceiling but it stores these infinite swirling shapes. I don’t want to hallucinate. The point of this isn’t to hallucinate.
“I’m looking for something philosophical, not visual” I say.
“Me too. But what about the truffles?” I say.
“That’s long gone. Three years ago maybe?”
“So we’re 3 years into the future?”
“That’s one way of looking at it. You had the Valhalla. That’s the philosophical one”
“So we’re time travelling?”
I look at my hands and then wiggle them. They seem normal apart from the fact that they are tigers’ paws. I’m wiggling my paws with a thought, or . What even is it? What do you call the thing that wiggles a paw? Some molecules from my brain, down my arm, to the paw?
“Let’s go for a walk in the park” he says and gets up from his desk.
Of course. In nature. We need to be in nature. That is the purpose of this. My whole life’s purpose: this walk in the park.
“But first, let’s take a lie down” he says.
Of course, in silent darkness, I think. He passes me some earplugs and a mask. I thought the mask would be to cover my eyes for the darkness part of the silent darkness but it’s not. It’s something for a masquerade ball. It’s hard to get the earplugs in and the ball-mask on what with the tiger paws so Stan does it for me.
I’m already there. My beating heart. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. It’s all I am. This heart is a universe. The whole thing sleeps in that gap. Then it wakes up and it pumps some more blood, the same blood, the same tide. It’s how it survives. It sleeps and it wakes. It rises and falls. A tree sheds it’s leaves and it’s raining. I’m a cell in the muscle of my leg. The wave passes over me. The moon. I try to stop it. I’m slowing it down. I’m putting it into the darkness. The distance increases.
This is how I will die. I’ll lie down. I’ll feel it. I’ll stop it with only a thought.
“Time to go” Stan says, and it is, so we get to our feet. We were lay on some yoga mats. I check on the store again. Still regular. I check on the office and Stan. Everything is normal but there’s something that’s off. The documentary is still playing.
“To the park” he says, or I do. I can’t tell.
I’m overwhelmed by the sight of the park. There’s a bridge going over a canal. There are trees everywhere. It’s raining. There are bats ducking and diving through the trees. There are ducks landing in the canal. There’s a homeless man under the trees. I’m taking a slash in his home. Broken blue duck eggs sit underneath the weeping willows. The slugs are eating fallen brown leaves. There are barges swimming the canal. There’s a party on one of them. The people are tiny. Others are walking their dogs. There are one or two runners. This is all happening at once. I’m doing it and I’m walking through it. Walking in the park, in my brain, in the rain. I look down at what I’m wearing: two t-shirts, my beige pants, some socks and sandals. It’s a warm, light rain. The rain in the brain. The air is blue. We’re stood on the bridge.
“You know, I thought I might have been here to feel something with Sarah, but I’m not even nearly interested in that”
“You’re talking about her”
He’s right. How can I say that I’m not here for these feelings if I’m talking about her and the feelings?
“No. I’m just acknowledging a possibility and discounting it”
“Choices. That’s what you’re struggling with. Take for example this bridge. Let’s walk off it”
The minute he says it I want to stay on it.
“You’re struggling to follow. You have trouble with people telling you what to do, because you want to make all of your own choices”
This guy knows me inside out. He knows me better than I do. He’s me, that’s why. I follow me off the bridge.
“We’re faced with a fork in the path. So do we go left or do we go right?” he says.
I think about it. With a left or a right decision, I normally just go left.
“Then let’s go left”
“No, scrap that. Let’s go right”
“Then let’s go right”
“No, you’re right, we should go left”
“You’re the boss”
So we go left and I instantly regret the decision and feel like going right would have been a better view. We take cover from the rain under a weeping willow. The blue eggs are here. The ducks are landing in the canal.
“You’ve tricked yourself into thinking you have choice. Everything is set like a record and you’re just the pin of the gramophone-” he says.
“-Look at the state of that”
I point to a slug. He’s not sucking on the rotten leaves like I thought a minute ago. He’s crunching on a blue egg. Do slugs even have teeth?
“This is your mum talking. Your mum is the one who says ‘look at the state of that’. You’re infected by words”
He’s right. I’m right. But I’m confused with revelation. It’s like the more I know, the more confused I am. I would like to whittle things down. Like first of all: is this guy really called Stan or is he just a manifestation of my thoughts, another trick that I’m playing on myself?
“Are you Stan or are you me pretending not to be me?”
“I think I’d rather call you Stones”
“As you wish”
We leave the tree. An old couple walks by. Me as an old couple, perhaps. I let onto them. Then a jogger runs by. I try to let onto myself again but I blink away my eye contact and carry on running.
“Are all these people pretending not to be me?”
“I’m Stan, I’m Stones, I’m anything but you”
Well that settles it. People don’t pretend to not be me. I’m me. Plain old me, like I always thought. A dog runs around the corner.
“Hello” the dog says and I say hello back. The owner is next but I decide not to converse with him. He looks like he’d prefer it if I didn’t exist at all. My t-shirt is soaked. I’m in a warm bath.
“Are we going to see that homeless man under the trees? I need to take that piss”
“You already are”
Stan Stones is right. I’m standing here pissing like I knew I would. There’s shit-smeared toilet paper on the floor. It’s jarring to see that someone who shits in the woods still clings to the amenity of a toilet paper. I’m trying to act surprised to myself when I follow my line of sight through the trees to the homeless guy sat on a log with his red hoody pulled over his head. I already knew all this.
“Do we go and speak to him or not? I can’t remember that part” I say.
“Up to you. This is where the problem gets interesting. Everything is set but choice is built into the system. Choice is part of the thing that is set, so that your choices are all predetermined and what you have is just a predetermined mass with choices inside of it. So there’s both free will and determinism. It’s just a trick of the words”
“I’m not sure I can be bothered to speak with him. If I were him I’d probably want to be left alone. Maybe I’d even be embarrassed to speak with someone who just discovered that even though I’m homeless and shit in the woods that I still think wiping my ass with some paper is a good idea”
I try to turn around but I find myself shouting to him, to me, the red-hooded homeless man, sitting on a log.
“Alright mate” I’m shouting, but he doesn’t lift his head up, I don’t. I don’t want to talk to me, like I thought in the first place.
“So even when I make a decision, the universe guides the decision into the thing that is set!”
I shout to me, the red homeless chap me.
“I just thought I didn’t want to speak to you but then decided maybe I would and here I am trying to speak to you but you’re not speaking back so either I would have walked away without trying to speak to you and or I would try to speak to you and you wouldn’t speak back and . It’s six of one and half-dozen of the other!”
I’m still not looking up from my slouch on the log. I’m more or less convinced that I’m hallucinating myself over there on the log. I could just walk over and sit next to him, then he couldn’t refuse to talk. Except that he could. He could just sit there and say nothing or he could disappear in a puff of smoke and reveal himself- reveal myself as the hallucination that I most probably am.
“Do I go over or not?” I say to Stan Stones.
“I don’t know” he says, I say.
I’m crippled by the indecision. I’m faltering. I’m frozen to the spot and can’t imagine getting out. I realise I’m crying. The tears are flying out of me. I need to stop these vicious thoughts. I need to stop them, but I can’t. A dog jumps on me out of nowhere. Homeless-me has a dog. Of course I do. I crouch and he licks my face. His breath smells like his ass. There’s nothing in his belly and there’s a shit in his ass and I’m smelling it through his mouth, through his stomach, it’s on my face in his spit, all his shit and it’s marvelous. Stan Stones breaks us up.
“Enough of that” he says, “now the real business begins”
The minute he says, it I get the distinct impression we’re no longer in Amsterdam. We’re in the woods in Indonesia. I’m sure of it.
“Right you are”
He leads us into nothing but trees and fog.
“I don’t remember this part” I say.
“You’re not supposed to” he says.
He’s walking with more of a swagger than before.
“He was a young Japanese writer” he says, “He wanted to put Wabi Sabi into words. He was looking for a place surrounded by trees. He wanted to clear a patch of land and build a hut there and to be lost to all humanity. He wanted to feel the warmth of the trees that guarded him. He wanted to walk between the trees for hours and not see a single person”
Something glistens in front of us. Some orange light behind the trees.
“Okay, we all know what’s happening here. The writer found his place and we’re walking towards it” I say.
Stan stops in his tracks.
“Look, snails fucking”
He points to two snails on the path. They both have the same brown shell but one of them has some light brown patches that the other one doesn’t. The body part of it looks disgusting but has cool patterns. To me it just looks like they’re running their feet over each other.
“Is that how they fuck?” I say.
Stan ignores me and swaggers off again.
“The writer felt this guilt that he’d have to chop down some trees to achieve his goal of being with nature. His whole purpose was to be with nature but he had to kill it in order to achieve it. He was a loyal writer, stood by his principle and then he found this”
The trees disappear and the place opens up before us. A wooden block of a hotel, kind of like a ski-lodge. Some hideously crafted garden of stones stands in front of it. And there’s a pond.
“If he wanted to be with nature, why was he a writer?” I say, “A writer spends all his time with words. Doesn’t a writer necessarily have to despise nature to spend all his time writing?”
Stan covers his mouth with his hand, like he doesn’t want someone to lip-read him.
“A small lake with a royal pack of Carp in it” he says and points to this tiny pond.
I cover my mouth with my hand too.
“Looks more like a pond than a lake” I say.
“Looks don’t always correspond to the facts. I’ve done a lot of research for this speech so you can rest assured I’ve got the definitions correct”
“Come on Stan. Let’s be frank. We’ve known each other for long enough now”
“Too long, baby”
“We don’t all have the same frames of reference, the same images, the same concept of size, so when you say lake, it’s only natural that people will imagine this huge thing, when the reality is that it’s the smallest lake you could imagine, so small that calling it a pond might be more suitable”
We’re leaning on the wooden rails of the bridge that goes over the so-called lake. A royal pack of carp are swimming around beneath us. There’s a gap in the pack, which makes them look like formula one racing car drivers on a safety lap. The carp at the front is the safety car. Suddenly he pulls off to one side and Michael Schumacher and David Coulthard and Louis Hamilton and Ayrton Senna and Niki Lauda all bolt into a frenzy to get a good angle on that first bend. The other less famous racing carps settle for just being carps. The race is on. 72 laps. Fastest carp wins. Stan is still hell-bent on calling this thing a lake.
“What you’re talking about is the fact that there is no agreed definition on what a pond is, that even today there are pretty standardly used words like lake and pond that correspond to a body of water and that we can’t decide exactly how small a lake should be before we call it a pond, because ponds typically start as a trapped body of water in the basin of some mountain crevice but they can also be man-made, so the way that the pond is formed then comes into the definition and we have people defining a pond on how it is formed instead of purely on the size of the body of water and now there are 2 mutually exclusive possibilities and we can’t decide which one to choose. Is it how the body of water is formed that should define the word pond or is it the size of the body of water that should define the word pond?”
He throws a rock into the pond, which totally disrupts the race. We’re only on the second lap after the previous safety car and here we are again, all carps in line, doing another safety lap because this jerk just threw a stone on the track and some time needs to pass before the water settles down again. We don’t want these prize carps running painfully slow lap-times because of externally generated water turbulence.
“There are precisely 50 carp inside. No less no more” Stan says.
“If it’s than 50 carp then how do all the carps reproduce and survive? The death of each and every carp would have to correspond precisely with the birth of a new carp. The very moment the old carp dies, the new one has to fly out of another carp’s pussy” I say.
I’m surprised at my own pettiness. It’s like I have to beat this guy at his own spiel here. He walks off the bridge, down the front of the hotel gardens.
“Who knows the precise definition of death?” he says, “Do ? I mean, is someone dead the minute their heart stops? That’s not when you bite the dust. People think we’re located in the brain. That’s the materialistic view of the universe, so heart-rate is out of the window as a measure of death and then how do we know when the brain stops? There’s no ground to stand upon. When do we say that the brain has stopped? You’re left with absolutely no definition of death. Zero. Nada. There’s nothing. So there’s no chance they could bang a new carp out straight from the pussy the same time some old dude carp drops his clogs” he says.
“And that’s without even having started on the notion of time. We haven’t got the foggiest. No clue at all. The captain’s out for lunch and the sailors have taken over the ship”
“The next part is The Master. That’s what we call him here- the writer that set up shop. Call him The Master, call him The Guru, call him the fairy-twirl if that’s what your culture says. It’s all the same to him. It depends on your frames of reference. It’s like the word ‘God’. Tainted it is, jam-packed with nonsense, infected by the masses. It’s a lot simpler when you boil it all down. You’ll see at the lecture later” he says.
“The lecture?” I say
“That’s why I like this job so much. I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re off to see The Master. That’s your welcome ceremony. That’s your induction to the tribe”
“What are you giving a lecture on?” I say.
“They call it buttons. Each tepee has different coloured buttons. And each tepee has the name of a planet. Guess what colour buttons Saturn has? Don’t answer. You’re not being tested. It’s yellow”
“And this, is The Masters Tepee”
He points to a big brown thing with eyes and a mouth slash two windows and a way into the joint. There are some kids playing football tennis next to us. A volleyball net and a bamboo ball that cracks when it’s kicked. Some kid with a Mohican does an over-head kick and the ball comes over to us. I flick it up, do a few kick ups and then belt the ball back. I’m pretty sure they all got impressed by my skills and started shouting for me to go and play with them but Stan was hell-bent on getting me in that tepee.
“The welcome drink” he says, “is the spit from the mouth of The Keepers here. They sit and they chew on the sika leaf. Sika is Hindu for spirit leaf”
There’s a row of five men sitting in front of the tepee on wooden chairs. They’re unloading streams of spit into buckets in front of them. They all stand up and pour their buckets into a larger bucket. One of the old dogs grabs a power tool and mixes it. Somehow I don’t hear a sound. It makes me wonder why no-one has invented a silent vacuum cleaner yet. We’ve got those silent electric cars that do a good job of making the road harder to cross, especially if you’ve got your head in a phone all the time, but we’ve still not nailed the silent vacuum cleaner?
“The Keepers are trusted with the most important task of the whole tribe here: they make the cavity for our new family members. That’s you Fin. From this day forward you’ll be our…”
He pulls out a document from his pocket and reads:
“Fin-Lad of Nodfa”
He puts the document back in his pocket, shakes his index fingers to the sky and hisses like a cat.
“And you’ll be locked in this tribe with us, dimension-wise. Are you ready for the test?”
The old dog turns off the silent-mixer and dunks a glass into the bucket. He walks over to us.
“You’ll walk through the cavity and join us in the new dimension. Fin-Lad of Nodfa, we welcome you”
The old dog passes me the glass of gozz. It looks like plaster mix.
“Si Ka Ka Kah ademah Si Ka Ka Ka ademah Si Ka Ka Ka” he says, turns around and walks back with this infectious song at a low hum.
“The sika is released in the mouth when we chew it. It’s broken down by amylase into its constituent parts Si and Ka, Hindu for spirit and leaf, so it’s a Si Ka Ka, if we’re going to pick up any Hindu here along the way. Broken down into Si and Ka, you can now drink it and get it through the stomach-blood barrier. Sika can’t pass through without being broken down, you see, that’s just all part of the process. This is why their chewing is so important-“
It’s starting to sound too much like science and it’s boring me so I interrupt him.
“What’s the other part?” I say.
“I have to spit some dried roots into your nose with a bamboo shoot”
He holds up a bamboo shoot.
“The dried roots are all ready. So here it is, the acid test”
I open my gullet and neck the spit. Stan looks like he’s shat himself. He comes at me like a missile, knocks my head back and spits that root in my face with his stick. The air turns into liquid and all of it washes over me.
“You need to tell him why you’re here. That’s the point of it” Stan says, “I’ll wait here for you here. I’ll sleep in the clothes for the lecture. See you in another life Brother”
He leaves and I’m inside what must be the tepee. It’s like the cavern of a cave lined with wood. My eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness. It looks like it’s snowing. I’m in the cavity all right. I feel the cold of it. Boss man is sitting on the floor in front of me.
“The money” he says and holds out his hand.
“Put it on the slate” I say, testing his humour. What is the currency here? Could be those buttons that Stan was talking about?
“He forgot to tell you about the buttons. He forgets to tell everyone!”
He borderline screams and his voice reverberates in the cave.
“If I’ve told him once I’ve told him ‘til I’m blue in the muscle spout. Blue in the nose, you know. We’re all blue in the nose, you know. The entrance fee. You forget to tell the entrance fee and it all goes arse over tit, on your bike, you know. No bother. I’ll stop saying you know, you know. That’s just a screen for you. I’ll make the exception in this case you little Fin-Lad of Nodfa. We’ve all missed you!”
He’s rubbing my head and maybe licking my arm. I’m hoping things will settle down in a minute or two.
“I see that you’ve come through The Trial to get here”
He feels vaguely familiar, a black shadow sat in front of me.
“You have to tell me why you’re here!” he says and then runs to what I presume is the corner of the tepee. I can’t see him through the snow and the darkness. I hear him laughing though and then he starts talking again.
“God comes in many strange forms”
I start to feel a bit sick. I think it’s his voice.
“Do I know you?” I say.
It feels like a trauma to wrangle the words out.
“Depends on what you define as ‘you’” he says.
It tears down my insides and mixes it up. I feel sick to the point of vomiting and then it comes up and lands back down inside of me.
“Listen Boss man”
I’m burping as I speak. It’s bubbling the vomit inside of me.
“This is not what I planned with this trip”
“Who is talking to me?” he says, “To help you I need to know who is doing the looking. I need to see you!”
My eyes have glazed over. I’m swimming in tears and vomit. He sits back down, his shadow through the snow. I try to get up but I feel locked in.
“I wouldn’t recommend that” he says.
“This is an awakening. Not to let the cat out of the bag too easily. I once had a guy who came here for a whole year. He only had a year. He wanted to attain some higher level of thinking. At the end of it he said that he feels no better than before. He said his life before he came was better than it is now. My job is done, I told him. Are you already there now our Fin-Lad of Nodfa?”
“You have to tell me what you are looking for!”
“I think there’s been some kind of mix-up” I say.
“Listen Fin-Lad, you’re here because you’re looking for something. Maybe you didn’t know that, but that’s what this is all about. What we have to do now is work out what you are looking for”
“I came her for some alone time, or to stimulate memories of Sarah, or just for the mushrooms, I guess”
“Internal peace. Good. Let’s call it that then. The problem is that what you’re looking for doesn’t want to be found. Internal peace left us years ago. And this where the problem gets interesting. When you know you can’t find it, you’ll stop looking and then you will find her, you see, a miracle and that’s not the end of it. Your looking for her you from finding her. That’s all fine and dandy. That’s all what we’ve heard before, you’ll say, and up to now that’s about the best we can do, but the trick of it is that you had her when you were looking for her. The looking for her that prevented you from finding her was just in the same way how you had her all along. You had her all along Fin, you had her all along!”
He laughs again. He’s getting some sort of sadistic pleasure from this. I still feel like we’ve got our wires tangled. I’m really not all that interested in whatever this spiel is. I want to spew up and have done with this sickness.
“It’s quite confusing for the elementary mind of yours. You’re all alone there in the other place. We don’t blame you for that. We just have to show you the ropes now here”
I open my mouth and nothing comes out. I’m screaming and no-one can hear me. Where on earth am I? The rules seem to have changed.
“Look at the veins of an old ladies’ hand and you evoke the entire light of the universe, stronger than the sun, stronger than the stars. It’s everything in mundane life because are the universe making the light. It is the eyes, the optic nerves, the brain making light. You haven’t digested it yet. Fin-Lad of Nodfa, you need to eat sick”
I’ve sicked. I realised that I’ve spewed up all over the floors. I’m lay on my side. I’m covered in sick and a group has formed around me. One by one they’re trying to spoon the sick back into my mouth but I can’t swallow it like they want me to.
“If you make it, you’ve made it. Do you get it yet? You it. Fin-Lad of Nodfa, to , from the Oxford Worlds Dictionary, is to construct, is to build, is to your own universe. It has to be an illusion: you’re it. That’s all fine. It’s why we came here. Boredom. That’s the thing we’re straying from. Boredom. That’s the way to spice things up. Boredom. How to avoid Boredom? Boredom, boredom, boredom. Should we say it ‘til the cows come home? This is the works. This is the cosmos shining its lights and vibrations. A trick we’re performing with just bits of information, the ones and the nones. A jazz now, a waltz now, some FLAMENCO, LET’S GO! The works is performing a tune out of you. The colour of the sky is back there in your head, the colour of the autumn leaves. The external world is back there in your head and then also you’re inside the world and it’s inside and you’re inside of so it’s inside and outside and what are you going to do to flee that open worm-hole?”
“It’s all a peach. We all know the stone is in the peach and it grows a tree. The tree is inside of the peach. The peach is there hanging from the tree so it’s inside the peach tree and it’s outside the peach tree and you can sing along with me or kill yourself Fin-Lad of Nodfa and we’ll plant you somewhere else if that’s what you want? Do you want to be a new peach tree? Is that what you’re telling us Finbarr Saunders and his double entendres? That’s what he’s named after right Stan?”
“Don’t actually us! There’s no way to decide. We’re all just waiting. We’re all just peaches. Come on Fin, you know how to sing this one. You’re not in the mood, we get it”
“You don’t die Fin! You don’t die! The tree keeps on making more peaches! You’re a peach. I’m a peach. We’re all the peaches. Do you want to fall off the tree now Fin-Lad of Nodfa, is that what you’re telling us? Don’t answer. You can’t answer. I’m only playing the teasy game. I’m here to sing all the songs you don’t like. Did you really think I didn’t know? The tree isn’t dying any time soon. Your sack of skin is just one piece of fruit. Wake up now Fin!”
“Sing with us Fin-Lad! Come sing with us!”
“I once knew a doctor. Miracles he made and he told me his secret. I’m not telling it you Fin, I’m not telling you! That’s just play-time as well. I to tell you. It’s all in the script. How do you get a fat person thin again? It’s not a joke. It’s the question to solve all your problems. It’s Nelsons big question. How do you get a fat person thin again? Think about it. It’s so easy. It’s staring you in the face! You feed them more, then they wake up. It’s like shock therapy. It’s like rubbing the face of a dog in its turd. Here’s the turd Fin. Here’s the turd so you wake up, wake up, wake up!”
The Blood Pudding – August 23, 2020