"Eliot Fintushel - Izzy and the Father of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fintushel Eliot)

days who hated hippies, who conned their
way into communes and shot them up, and I
am as dark-skinned and small as a Mexican,
they had picked me up.

It was dark in the tent. Flaps open, stars
filled the big triangles at either end;
feeble candlelight unsealed the night
between us, loud with cicadas and dead
souls crying. There was a votive candle in
a shot glass on the dirt floor. Rococo
shadows angled and sprawled across chairs,
long table, canvas, and ourselves.

"YouтАЩve broken me." The words jumped where
my bones should be. Something in me arched
and bristled like a frightened cat. Were
the words mine?

Shaman took them for mine. "IтАЩm you," he
said. Incomprehensible. "Relax."

I left that place. I left the Space People
sleeping. I left Shaman with his kit of
tropes that killed or cured or pricked
your mind and left you to bleed to death
or to drown in the worldтАЩs blood, bleeding
into you through a tiny hole. The last
thing I saw there was the candle flame
reflected in ShamanтАЩs eyes, two little
flames dwindling as I stumbled out into
the desert, out into stars and the cries
of cicadas and dead souls, which might
have been my tongue, my voice, my limbs,
or my self, since Shaman had pricked a
hole in my mind.



2. Talk with a Joshua Tree

I had a talk in the dark with a Joshua
tree. I said, "EverythingтАЩs okay. I have a

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mother in New York. I have brothers and a
sister. My father left us, but heтАЩs still