Chapter 3

3

     Clover Muscatel opened his eyes to the cynical laughter of pigeons and a warm sunbeam peeking in his open window. He could smell the spring dewdrops on the beechnut tree outside, a woody fragrance. Musket's attention was routed to his window for the pigeon's diatribe, and he imitated the bird's booing almost exactly. The pink and black pigeon ceased with its head cocked askew and wings folding down to its side. Musket grinned at the crumbled jumble of muffin mess on his nightstand, and got up feeling thankful for the gift of another day. His dream lingered in the cobwebs of his deeper self, but at this moment routine kicked in and the ephemeral was replaced by the practical.

     The wisest thoughts are forgotten in the morning, when we realize we have lives to live and sweat to give. Just as the most creative thoughts of all enter our heads at instances when we could not possibly record them. Engaging in his hygienic ritual, Musket held profound appreciation for simple things. Almost before he had finished his rites of passage something grabbed him. This mystical presence held his attention like no other thing could, with all of the hope and expectancy one could imagine.

     Musket floundered into the kitchen and considered the antique telephone as it rang once more with an actual bell. "Too early for a telemarketer..." He picked it up and already could hear the nasally analog voice of Otto Von Clumpson rapidly firing into the phone. Musket's best friend Otto seemed to be in one lifelong brainstorm. He had not yet suffered, so was generally a congenial fellow. "Musket, are you there? I had this idea last night, man. It's really got me in a spin. I mean, what is it we're doing here? Not just in this town, this state, this country. Why are we who we are? I see myself in the mirror and it's clear I'm not an accident. So was I put, or was I put away? I mean, you and I have been looking for Truth for awhile now, eh Musket? But that's easy to say, easy to play. When are we gonna find the answer to all these questions?" Otto was notorious for his one sided conversations.

     "Otto, I just got up. I can meet you in a little while at the Wincing Moon for breakfast. What do you say?" ... "Sounds good, man. I just wanted to say that you're a real good soul, always willing to go on a tangent of a tangent on a tangent." Otto was also good at accidentally insulting people while attempting to complement them, "I been up most of the night thinking about this stuff, but the more I think, Musket, the hazier it gets. Like my brain is just in vain." All at once last night's vivid dream returned to the forefront of Clover Muscatel's psyche, "I think I can relate to that. I had a fairly fantastic dream last night. I was climbing," ... "Hey, Musket, I gotta go, man. Someone's at my door." CLICK...

     Strange, but refreshing. Otto Von Clumpson was one of the more difficult people to disengage the telephone with. When solicitors called too often, they found themselves the victim of his ranting creativity. Now Musket could organize his thoughts a bit before breakfast. The raging whistle of the kettle reminded Clover that he had begun making tea while listening to Otto. He sipped smugly, churning the events of his dream over and over again. He felt much more comfortable chewing on life before he swallowed, as opposed to Von Clumpson, who just tore into it. But surely these methods kept them both very occupied.