Better Feed Your Head
I know what you’re thinking: I’m feeding you misinformation in case the Customs people who’ve no doubt cross referenced the readers of this blog and and are now readers as well are monitoring your computer records. Maybe I never left the area. Maybe I’m working an off-site secure computer back in the nettle hollows, living off the larder of snowbirds still tanning in Pahrump, Nevada, ordering pizzas and survival gear with phony names and numbers. By now the Customs Swat Teams know who Skeeter is and the net is closing faster than habitat for deer up at the clearcut by the Country Club.
Wait! How would I know that’s been cleared if I’d left the area? But why would I mention it if I hadn’t? Life on the lam is a cat and mouse, life and death 3-D chess game. The pursuers know all the moves, all the gambits, every turn and fake. You have to think like them, but you have to think differently than their usual prey. You need to be semi-insane. You need a warped reality. You need — do I need to say it? — to think like an artist, mangled synapses, broken chromosomes, mutant mentality. Take them down the rabbit hole with you and see how well they deal with a distorted reality, see what they ask Alice when they’re 10 feet tall.
Am I hiding? If I am, I’ve been hiding all my life. I’m accustomed to the funhouse mirrors. I’m comfortable with the Jabberwock, the mad tea parties under tangerine skies, the bi-polar seasons, the non-linear logistics. I’m at home with uncertainty. I’m not looking for answers. I’m not even looking for questions. Let’s see how the Authorities do when the signpost up ahead reads: SOUTH END. NO EXIT. Then we’ll see who’s hunting who ….