Sunday, October 18, 2009



At particularly dark times in my life I've noticed that, all too often, I will walk past a radio, a TV, a CD player, etc. and the song "Paint it, Black" by the Stones is following me like an aural wraith.

Either the Stones version, or the cover, it doesn't matter, it's damn creepy either way.

Saturday morning, the entire 35 minute drive to work was consumed by my incessant mulling over of a particularly distressing nightmare I had the previous night.

Once I got to work, I shook off the cold, went inside, strode stiffly to my locker, kicked off my shoes and put my work boots on. Once I emerged from the changing room and took the corner to my press, there it was.

Those fucking all too familiar opening sitar strains from "Paint it,Black" coming from the press' radio.

I was shaking.


Robert Johnson and I are strolling through a dank, dirty area of Mississippi, circa 1920's. Just minding our own business, we encounter an approximately 4 ft. wide by 8 ft. long structure, constructed of two by fours. It stood about 3 feet high and was topped by a slight shingled roof.

This wooden "box", as it were, was acting as the top level of a fairly deep hole in the dusty soil that was filled with blood, mud, and other viscera which I do not wish to know the specifics of.

And there were about 5 or 6 people standing in it.

Robert Johnson tells me that to "get where we need to be", we have to climb in there.
For some reason I oblige him.

As we're standing waist deep in this muck with these complete strangers, out of nowhere Johnson is pulled under, not to return. I mutter to myself, "Fuck this" and begin climbing out in some kind of hurry.

Until Robert Johnson's hand re-emerges, latches onto my ankle and pulls me down with him.
I can't breathe, I'm submerged in blood, guts, and God knows what else, being dragged who knows where.

Until I come through a filthy hotel room's wall. A room inhabited by 70's style stereotypical mobsters wearing polyester and white belts.

Then something tried to follow me through. I slammed myself back up against what now appears to be a heavy oak door, pushing with everything I have to keep whatever that is from coming through. Claws, blood, and the screams of children ooze through the spaces between the door and the frame as it slams further and further open.

Then I wake up.

Come on, man.

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