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Mosaic vol. 1 1993_013.jpg

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A MORE THAN NERVOUS TURKEY
BY IMRE A. LAGLEO
Darn it all," he thought as he once again found himself perplexed at the paradox of human existence: "man, the most intelligent animal, is the most in disarray with nature as well as with himself."
E pluribus Unun." So read the poster of the arrogant eagle adanantly clutching the flagging epigram which hung on his bedroon wall. In English, it means, from many is one. "This is a nation of diversity," he thought, as well misconception and inconsideration. E pluribus Unum, an illusion based upon an illusion," he deducted; if only people would just try to understand each other before making a presumption based on mere impression, society would be in much less discord. People, generally, just want to be understood, at least it not accepted. Everyone should read John Locke's 'Essay on Human Understanding."
As the Devo tape on his cassette player stopped, another thought pervaded his head. To himit seemed as if for every step or SO forward in the name of progress, there's at least one or more step backward in the name of humanity or regression, or vice versa. Through parody. Devo ridicules evolution as being devolution.
It was at the hospital, where he worked as a transport, that made him realize that some people can perceive some things in life in certain realms and from certain perspectives, which other people cannot detect and will never be able to, due to their situation, their heredity, and of course their conditioning.
Now, he realized that the adage of understanding and acceptance could not be applied to nature, for nature just had to be accepted, whether understood or not. His conclusion of his post work that, "too much reasoning about nature could induce one to dance in the void with their sanity."
He was glad to be at the apartment now, just he and his dog, Daniel Webster. He had named his dog after the New England statesman who had said, "There is nothing so powerful as truth." His roommate had already gone home for the arriving holiday. Thanksgiving. At the hospital, he was indeed a transport: transporting the body from one state to another. For when he dropped them oft at their designated rooms in a narcotized state, they were quite manipulative; afterwards however, he would see them trying to maintain themselves in a ludicrous manner, and he would have a rib cracking laugh later, for they appeared to be agitated, belligerent, and somewhat bent out of shape.
"Hargh, harumph, ha, ha,...,he would laugh. "Looks like the operation and the rough awakenings from the arms of Morpheus got the better of their moods, This place is indeed a world of worlds."
Again, he reflected in retrospect of his thoughts while at work on these specific occasions. He could vividly recall one of these inner surges or resurgences of the ugly truth of the aging process. Earlier tonight, as he was scraping the remains of the pre-celebration turkey into the trash disposal, he began to allegorize how these people were victims of their own circumstances, surviving the years of struggle and frustration, hoping to obtain tranquility in their years of wisdom.
He came back from the kitchen with a bottle of wine, his favorite, Egri Bikaver. A fellow transport, whom he worked with, had introduced him to the bull's blood. In Hungarian, Egri Bikaver means that. So his colleague told him he was a first generation Hungamerican and also a Taurus.
He placed the wine and a glass on the coffee table, poured himself a healthy amount, took a gurgle to wash down some sedatives and then slouched down onto the couch with a prestupor sick on his emerging distant face. Thoughts of submission would soon be changed on his cranial cinematic screen.
The man saw himself in an illusionary foresight, going berserk with his scalpel crazed, latex clad, hand expressing himself to Sarg, the floor head nurse. Just knowing that she was present made him feel like a bubbling concoction about to overflow out of a scalding kettle and ooze over her. Then, he envisioned her as he had seen her at the beginning of every shift, Khrushchev, former secretary of the U.S.S.R.in drag with head nurse regalia. She had some kind of male complex problem, he believed. She titillated the authoritarian, male side of her ego by talking to his sternly. Her eyebrows knitted as she did. this. She did this in a way which made him suspect that she was trying to figure him out. In reality, he belleved that he should be trying to figure her out. However, he had already realized that he couldn't reason beyond nature.
The scalpel, crazed, hand illusion made the man's face gleam more radiantly, appearing somewhat jovial and shiny. For him, life in the world's greatest nation was a queer set of circumstances, an antithesis, so to speak in a mild manner, Ying and Yang. Sometimes, he envisioned his life as a cesspool of trials and tribulations, where he barely kept afloat. Other times, he envisioned it as being stuck in a Louisiana quagmire inside a big, heavy, sinking, nineteen seventy Ford L.T.D.
He smiled and chuckled to himself, causing Daniel Webster to stare at his inquisitively. It seemed as there could be no way to coerceMcWebster into submitting himself to recognizing. nonetheless responding to his master's beckoning for attention. Mr. Webster then got up of the other end of the couch where he was sitting and walked toward the door. He then scratched the door to be let out. Mr. Webster hated these moments of animalmale bonding
Moments later while the music from Ten Years After, "Space In Time" was taking him olsewhere, waves of Serenity lowed upon him as the music droned elsewhere. He now stared at the ever void floor. Me Webster was waiting for him to drool in his usual dumbfounded daze. Sheer feelings of simplicity and pastoral sweetness permeated throughout his being, like never before. Me Webster barked loudly with an exit requisition.
What seemed like moments later, brought everything into surreal perception. It seemed, by aroma, that he was in his father's stench that he'd never visualized before. Maybe, the weird sensation is due to the fact, that now he feels as if he were twelve years old, he thought. "Of course, everything would be spatially different at age twelve," he said to himself.
His dad was smiling with his lover for now his upper) lip protruding with chewing tobacco. He could see the dribble on his already grungy teeth. He could hear the gobbling and clucking gossip among the poultry in the adjacent coop. "Oh, yeah, turkey day on the farm" he thought to himself intuitively with warm sentiment.
Suddenly, with the blinding glint from the axe in his dad's hand, the revelation dawned upon him as if he were being enlightened by the comprehension of Dante's "Inferno" that he was exclusive. Ile was an especially gifted, more than nervous turkey being held upside down by dear ole dad. This was furthermore confirmed by the glimpse of his dad (looking more like a Norseman by the split second) wielding that glistening hand of doom, evet so gallantly.
Bad dream or reality in another realm, he couldn't decipher between either with all his hipdom of cosmie consciousness. It was dack; he felt short of breath and restricted.