The Psychedelic Symphony
An Historical Novel 1968
by
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I
Somewhere, perhaps far as the horizon, perhaps near as inside your head, a minor chord is struck upon organ keys.
Struck and sustained in trembling glissando, the chord resounds across the sky, one gentle horizontal wave of sound, stirring the marshmallow clouds that float above Hastings Plain.
Hastings Plain, in midday of midsummer 1968--upon that very plain, in fact, for which the town was named.
The air is warm, but not too warm, and all is still.
There is barely a breeze.
Birds fly, their wings brush the glissading tones of the organ as they circle the summer-golden plain.
Upon the plain, near its very heart (also: the nexus of four ley lines), two tents have been pitched, two large tents, one on either side of a century-old oak tree.
A thin spiral of smoke trickles into the midday air: the entrance flap on one of the tents has been flung open.
*
Because the air lay so unusually still on the plain that midsummer’s day, with only the gentlest of breezes stirring, barely a ripple ruffled the sides of the tent.
Borne upon the slightest of breezes, a combination of aromas curled from the mouth of the tent: the fragrant blue of lotus incense, the pungent green of marijuana … and something else … an effulgent smell: wet leaves … some kind of steaming, wet leaves …
The aromas mingled perfectly with the minor chord.
Pour five cups--wait--six cups (one for Mr Dildo).
Terrance Coughlin was seated within the tent, on a paisley shawl which had been spread for that purpose. He was speaking to an invisible companion:
“Certain, nearly certain, Richard, Albert and Steve will be bringing somebody with them today. Who? Don’t know. When? Soon. Hopefully soon.”
He glanced down, for corroboration, at the Tarot lying face-up on the ground: The Five of Cups.
The card had fallen--most auspiciously, it seemed to Terrance--when he had dislodged the cigar box on which the cards had rested, from the Waite-Ryder deck atop a pile of books which even now balanced precariously against one side of the tent.
Terrance leaned over to gently balance upon a leafy weed the roach smoldering between his thumb and forefinger. Don’t forget: That’s there, he commanded. He then, immediately, forgot.
He slowly rose.
Green tendrils of Mu shot into his mouth and up his nose. They filled his head, unloosing inner earplugs to the sound of the chord, which he now heard for the first time that day.
“Here we go!” Terrance exclaimed. The interior of the tent spun ‘round and ‘round as he fell to the ground, hands clutching the paisley scarf. His lips stretched into a grotesque grin.
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About the Book
A novel in four movements, The Psychedelic Symphony describes the changing lives of the inhabitants of Hastings Plain in the summer of 1968. The effects of Sixties counter-culture upon American society are witnessed through a cast of characters that includes Siegfried Underground—an acid-rock band—Cecil Hoffmann, a chronicler of adventures in realms accessed by psychedelic drugs, Angel, a Gypsy runaway/failed suicide, and young Jacob Rankovich, for whom the counter-culture represents nothing less than the promise of a new life. Although all elements of human life—natural and supernatural—are detailed in a style of magic realism, The Symphony achieves an authenticity quite rare in fiction dealing with Sixties culture. Revisionist histories of the Sixties (via novels, contemporary films and TV) have all too often exploited, misrepresented and distorted that decade, reducing its people and events to stereotypes and cliches. The Psychedelic Symphony avoids such superficiality, and in so doing depicts a Sixties that truly was.
About the Author
Somewhere in the Northlands of Kansas City does James Marinovich live and breathe, in the near vicinity of family, pets and other assorted entities. He would like one day to publish On Strawberry Hill, a collection of Croatian-American fantasies.