Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

And they all made a big deal of Phase II.

I looked down at that grass and grass looked up at me. And we both, in our way, came to terms with one another. And we were both, in our separate ways, good with one another. I stepped lightly over that grass. And then I beheld the sky.

And almost passed immediately into Phase IIa, which is defined as an ‘overwhelming and all-encompassing mind-shock trauma, terminating in complete mental shutdown, followed by death’.

So not one of the better ones, that.

But I didn’t die and I didn’t go into shock. What I did was soar in the summer sky. I rose within myself and I soared. And I was at one with that sky.

And then I saw Woman. And that nearly had me over the edge. There was so much to Woman that I had never before been aware of. How could I not have seen Woman for what Woman truly was? How could I have been so totally blind, so wantonly ignorant, so completely lacking in perception?

Woman smiled at me and golden rivulets of cosmic ether bathed my cheeks. I could see the aura of Woman, her feelings and passions, loves and longings. I knew just what Woman was. And then once more I was filled with terror. Because I knew that if I could understand what Woman was, then I could also understand what Man was. And to do that might not be a pleasant thing. In fact, it might be a hideous thing. A thing too terrible to take in.

And so I looked down once more at the grass. The comforting grass that I was getting along with just fine. And I took off my shoes and my socks and I cast them away. And then I padded about on grass. Dear grass. My friend, the grass.

And I lay down upon that grass and rolled about on and in it. And I was a pretty good match, in my green baize jumpsuit. I was rather grass-like to behold.

And then I encountered Man.

And Man scared the baby Jesus out of me. He was big and rough and tough, was Man, and spiky at the edges. 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).