It was Thursday & I had just received an odd-looking package in the mail. I could tell by the stamps that it was sent from Nicaragua & this had me a tad confused – I hadn’t been down that way since the early 80s, most of the people I knew there were either dead & buried, in jail or lost in a witness program, excepting a few peyotls, who perhaps might still linger around earth, but only technically speaking – their bodies in caves, their minds in parallelograms & me up here at the farm freakin’ freely with 1000s of miles between us. Well, yeah, you can see how this actually got me kinda scared – there was a reason for me leaving ol’ Nica never to return again & I now feared that this reason might be a-knockin’ on my door.
I decided to cut the package open anyway, by sticking my knife through it like it was the heart of the beast. And what do you know – all that was to be found in there was a scratchy cdr & a note from Pet, both drenched in the foul smell of rum & jungle debris. The fact that the note was slit in half – I keep my knives sharp, buddy – didn’t make it any easier to read, but I could make out the gist of it anyway. Apparently Pet was – maybe still is – on tour in some God-forsaken part of the country & how that happened he didn’t bother telling me. But dude, Nicaragua ain’t the place to go for rock n’ roll. Anyway, a tour it was, bad vibes in the band too, drummer lost in a fishing accident, bass player trippin’ on religion & Pet himself so obviously out of it that the rum stains on the paper mixed with what I presumed to be traces of tears & the whole shebang was signed with a simple “P” written less-than-proudly in blood.
What happens in Nicaragua stays in Ecudaor, so I won’t go into great details here, but had I had a chance to listen to the cdr before Pet & buddies left, I’d perhaps have adviced against it – “Killing Time” really isn’t a feel-good song, y’know? There’s darkness in there, a mind collapsing & a guitar that’s echoing the cries of the underworld as it comes to pieces. Sounds like fun, right?
But time moves to crazy beats & in shadowy manners & now it’s Tuesday & just as I was typing this crap, the phone rang & lo & behold if it wasn’t Pet through lines straight from the other side of this life. I couldn’t make out much more than a faintly whispered ‘help… you gotta help me’ before silence shattered my brain. Hell, bro, what you up to? Try calling me again, should you see this – I’m in a pretty lousy state myself, but I’ll do my best to help you out if I can. Maybe get in touch with a church or something – bass buddy should know the way? You’re a strong dude – you’ll get out of this, just keep your eyes on the river & your head in the trees. There’s an ancient song in there, it’ll keep you movin’ till you reach the other shore. Stay half-away from the blood-stained mountains, let the summer bones dry your eyes.
Your friend,
B.C.
(B.C. Wolff drags his head behind him & moves through the clouds with grace – he sings of the valleys & paints horses that stays… behind the stable amongst the ashes of days.)