Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Toledo Dream

Driving along some sad section of a filthy town in the back of whoknowswhere with a British right-side wheel and my left hand can't get used to the stick-shift and now grinding repeatedly---oh man, and I'm feeling it all up and down my arm like a shock---the clutch, brakes and gas are all rearranged so that I'm totally confused and gears go on grinding and now smoke and the car starts lurching and I stall it now---restart is now just funny dance rhythm of ignition turning over---I hold key and there's an incredible set of rhythm that starts to build like a crazy hip hop beat and I'm absolutely astonished that no key in ignition now but musical break beat alive and hyper complex now coming out of the speakers and a bunch of black dudes hear it all and come over cracking up and start grooving too---I get out and British car is sort of Mini Cooper but maybe Smart Car---but older and beat up with lousy paint---Police there now and they're also tripping to my groove mobile and all feels ok.

Now in another section of the same sad redbrick funky trash strewn Nowheresville---but now I'm looking for a party---not sure if it was someone back at the British rhythmic car dance who'd told me about the fiesta or not; no matter now 'cause I'm lost! Feel in a deep fix---it's getting dark and I have no clue where I'm staying and begin feeling heart infarction gurgling in my chest---mucho desperate to find this unseen party because I'm know for certain it's my haven. But where is it? I have no idea where I'm going.

Now not the same 'ville' but in Toledo, Spain---not Ohio---still lost but now thinking better thoughts; of that great painting, called 'View of Toledo' by El Greco---Wow, I'm here! Oh man I've made it to the painting! An overwhelming gladness sweeps over me and now I'm excitedly wondering if his ancestors are still around and begin asking people ¿Donde esta la familia del Greco? But only shrugs. 'One medieval hill town dweller after another' I think to myself. Now I Meet some old schaggy hippy guy who's hanging out and plucking his 2 or 3 stringed broken-down forlorn guitar and oh man he's unbelievably blue and so I feel an ocean of sadness for him---his eyes have a ready-to-cry welling when he looks up at me and I cannot bear it, but he seems to understand my feelings and begins plunking out a slow and lyrical Mexican mariachi tune that brings back George --- the heartbreaking Equadorian mountain songs we used to play on his old Ampex and now it's all in that old man who's now really George and again I'm walking around this Toledo labyrinth and asking 'Donde esta la familia del Greco?'

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