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Hallucinations, or Music for Aging Hippies

by Gregg M. Pasterick

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His name was Hangin' Fruit Cholla. He had a reputation. He rode into town at sunset, as those of his ilk are wont to do. Some say he comes from Cincinnati. Some say that's where he's goin' to. His name was Hangin' Fruit Cholla. He rode like a man haunted. Some say he was looking for something. Some say he's running away. Some say he comes from Cincinnati. Some folks have too much to say. His name was Hangin' Fruit Cholla. He had a reputation. Some say he was a Cosmic Cowboy riding the stars across the sky. Some say it's just his imagination. Hangin' Fruit Cholla riding' by. Hangin' Fruit Cholla riding' by. Hangin' Fruit Cholla riding' by ...
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You make me wanna wear colors. You make me wanna eat canned ravioli, and peanut butter and jelly. You make me wanna wear colors. You make me wanna wear starlight. You make wanna align all my planets in an Harmonic Convergence. You make me wanna wear starlight. You make me wanna wear springtime. You make me wanna add birds to my life list, and chase wildflowers. You make me wanna wear springtime. I can say what I want to say. Nobody is listening. I maybe should have surrendered a long time ago. You make me wanna wear magic. You make me wanna believe in flying saucers, and Rincewind the wizard. You make me wanna wear magic. You make me wanna wear colors. You make me wanna eat canned ravioli, and peanut butter and jelly. You make me wanna wear colors.
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What now, after all these years, with failure piling up like bad architecture in a house falling down? A lesser man might have doubled over and collapsed in pile of abject surrender. Me? I just kept throwing myself into the fray. Chorus: Johnny Case, or Peter Pan, makes no difference who I am. I'm no stranger to the borderland. After all these years, who gives a damn? ... used to sit on the porch after dinner, while Andy played his guitar, strummin' a few of the good ol' tunes, singing' to the crockets and the stars. Chorus What now, after all these years, when the children are grown, and they think they know better? A word to the wise falls on deaf ears. A lesser man might have run for cover, played it safe, no worse for wear. Me? I'm just one more failure on the pile. ... this is where I pile on all the vocals ...
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Desert Oogie 01:36
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I still listen to "Hearts of Space," and "Music form Airports." I still burn incense. I wish I had a black light. I'm still waiting for a summer night to suddenly still and the Mothership to bathe me in light and take me away. Take me away. Take me away. Lately the evenings are full of planets, which I shamefully fail to notice. In the morning a mockingbird outside my window sings a song to start the day. Dusting off my Ouija board, and unwrapping a new deck of Tarot cards, and blowing bubbles by candlelight. The years pass by in a psychedelic blur of paisley colors and Tangarine Dream, and the scent of night-blooming jasmine takes me away. Take me away. Take me away.
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I remember my dad used to toss back a bottle of Schoenling now and then, about the time we stood on the porch scanning the stars for John Glenn. He must've have been about ten years younger than I am today, with two kids on the ledger, and a third kid on the way. Back in the days of Hi-Fidelity, Bobby Vinton, and Esquivel, all the grown-ups, they never let on. You don't grow up; you just go to hell. Back in the days of Hi-Fidelity, Sally Rogers and Buddy Sorrel all the grown-ups, they never let on. You don't grow up; you just go to hell. I remember my mother used to hang the laundry outside to dry. One August day the radio blurted, Marilyn Monroe had died. I must have been about six or seven, saving fireflies in a jar, stayin' up past my bedtime, watchin' ol' Jack Parr. Back in the days of Hi-Fidelity, Ice-blue Secret, and pearls in Prell all the grown-ups, they never let on. You don't grow up; you just go to hell.
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Keep the Lord of Light away from my door. Keep the Lord of Light away from my door. He's always sellin' something. I ain't buyin' anymore. Keep the Late in the Day Saints away from my door. Keep the Late in the Day Saints away from my door. They're always sellin' something. I ain't buyin' anymore. This is the serious part. The part where Debbie Downer brings us down. All the way down. But even as she sucks the life out of the party, she's laughing at you and me. Keep Gilderoy Lockhart away from my door. Keep Gilderoy Lockhart away from my door. He's always sellin' something. I ain't buyin' anymore. Keep Jesus away from my door. Keep Jesus away from my door. He's always sellin' something. I ain't buyin' anymore.
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... ssshhh ...
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She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin' girl who speaks bear. She has a subtle supernatural flair. She gets into your heart and she makes you care. She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin' girl who speaks bear. Chorus: She's a delicate flower. She's a gathering storm. She's a supernova. She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin' girl I adore... She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin' girl with a style. She gets into your heart with her sunshine and her smile. She makes you wanna keep her and protect her for awhile. She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin' girl with a style. Chorus She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin' girl who speaks bear. She has a subtle supernatural flair. She gets into your heart and she makes you care. She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin' girl who speaks bear. She's a chain smokin', whiskey swillin', burst of sunshine, whirling dervish, spider hating, crime fighting, medicine prescribin', caffeine addicted girl who speaks bear...
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Dog walkin' neighbors got nothin' better to do than to walk their dogs every day. Those four-legged, furry, prescriptions on a leash hold the Winter Solstice at bay. Chorus: Venus disappears in a dawn osmosis of insatiable, relentless, extraordinary light. The purple desert begins to shiver with anticipation and delight. Dog walkin' neighbors got nothin' better to do than to walk their dogs every day. They lean into the wind with determination, and try not to get themselves blown away. Chorus Dog walkin' neighbors got nothin' better to do than to walk their dogs every day. They bundle themselves against the worst-case scenario and launch themselves into the fray. Chorus Dog walkin' neighbors got nothin' better to do than to walk their dogs every day. When they remember, they remind themselves, that things weren't supposed to turn lout this way. Travelin' through another dimension at the speed of thought. I put a lot of miles behind me. I never thought I'd get caught ...
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Something about a cup of coffee that puts the full moon to shame. Good to the last drop. The Eagle has landed. One man's Tarzan is another man's Jane. I's a hep cat, daddy-o. Espresso all around. That's one small step for a man, or maybe one small step for a woman. Ya never know what yer gonna find gathered 'round that cup of steaming brew, while someone strums an acoustic guitar, howlin' like a banshee at the full moon. I's a hep cat, daddy-o. Espresso all around. That's one small step for a man, or maybe one small step for a woman. I can't be responsible for clappin' every time this guy finishes a tune. Let somebody else give it up. Let somebody else bark at the moon. Juan Valdez must be a happy son of a gun, for coffee is happenin', it's hip, it's now. When the full moon rises the nuts come out, but first koffee-keep, fetch another round ...
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Conspicuous 02:40
I miss my room and porch in 29-Palms. I never thought I'd say it, but I have no qualms. I miss my room and porch in 29-Palms. I miss the Explanitorium, you know that I do. I miss the Explanitorium, you know that I do. Anything is possible, and you learn stuff, too. Am I conspicuous by my absence? I miss comet Hale-Bopp, I was famous then. The stars were my neighbors. The stars were my friends. I miss comet Hale-Bopp, I was famous then. I miss the fairy tales that were my life. I try to explain it to my wife. I miss the fairy tales that were my life. Am I conspicuous by my absence?
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about

Nobody takes me seriously. I don't take me seriously. But I keep doing whatever it is I do.

I have wanted to be a Beatle since February 9, 1964. I never was. Maybe a couple of the guys and I, back in the '80s, could have done something. We didn't. And there was Pappy and Harriet's Open Mic Night and a couple of other extraordinary folks who, only a few years back, nearly got me on stage with them. We jammed a couple times. Nice harmonies. Very acoustic, But I had no backbone. Too bad, we sounded pretty good.

So here I am, in my late-60s, just hanging out, strumming my guitar now and then, writing an occasional song. Here are a few of them.

The public has been denied my music for too long. ☮

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released June 21, 2022

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Gregg M. Pasterick New Mexico

Somewhere in southern New Mexico, trying to survive.

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