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A Brick for the Blind

A Brick for the Blind

Copyright 2017

Dean Moriarty

Published by the mystery machine

Distributed on Amazon, Kindle and loads of other places

From The Black Books Shelf

Dedicated to the alley cat outside my window that howls every night.

“I went looking for him and lost myself. The drop merged with the sea. Who can find it now?” Kabir.

Captain Morgan Jones as himself

Number 5: survivor from the engine room

Old Nick as the devil from down below

The gang: there’s always a gang somewhere

Rosemary Tuesday: who knows?

Also by Dean Moriarty from The Black Books Shelf:

Off the road

On the road

Advanced quantum metaphysics for beginners

Travelling solo

The spirit world

The dance of Zen

The dark night of the soul

God’s crazy parlour of sweet consent

Under a full moon

Bangkok, Thailand

A hole in the wind

Another book

Sleepless nights in paradise

The best of Moriarty

The daily wound

CQ calling, CQ calling


The empty pocket of perplexity was not what I wanted it to be in my escapage plan where the 4am mosquito shadow was shaping up like a bad dream I was afraid to go back to sleep with.

And then I thought, maybe it’s someone else’s bad karma that had seeped into my dreaming and had insinuated itself into the landscape of my making and I’d been taken in by it to believe it was mine.

I’d woken up trying to un-attach myself from some nameless fear, some scary darkness, and as I lay there attuning myself to my surroundings I came to myself and mastered the fear and told myself what I needed to hear in the confines of the dark room so early in the morning.

I don’t remember my dreams normally, I come out of dreaming and let them go and become whatever reality I’m thinking, and by the time I’ve found out where I am the dreams have slipped away out of mind, and no matter how rich or poor the dreaming was, nothing of it remains when I’m awake.

Except if I have a bad dream and then some vestige of it hangs around with a cord of fear clinging to me so that I feel there’s something palpably disquieting in the room with me.

It takes a good bit of self-talking to get out of bed and walk to the light-switch and turn the light on so I can search around, and under the bed to see with my eyes that there’s really nothing in the room with me but me.

I tell myself to stop, because there’s always another door it might be hiding behind. So I tell myself this, but is it just my mind playing tricks, to scare me and perpetuate something that’s not real?

I’d escaped from my dreaming to awake with some nameless fear that I had to master. If it was someone else’s dark heart intruding into my sleep then it could be banished back to where it came from and a barrier could then be set up to keep it out and I could drift off back to sleep.

But if it was a primeval fear from my own subconscious then that’s another matter and something I’d have to deal with on a whole another level, because there’s one thing I like more than anything else when my head hits the pillow and that’s a good night’s sleep.

But in these corridors of comprehension and forgetting where my soul journeys through the short stories it tells itself it seems there is more to learn, and perhaps I am not yet awake enough to remember what my dreaming would tell me.

The dreams are there even if I don’t remember them, they are never lost and they will come to me when I need them the most, at least that’s what my higher self tells me.

Here in a relationship desperately wanting, your memory some figment now, slipping into the long ago where all memories are subjective of all the times remembered and then passed on to the next time until the colour becomes a dark mixed up paste of all that’s gone where only the heart can recall true, and then even that becomes an old photograph fading.

And if one day it was to fall out from between the pages of some dusty book and someone picked it up to say: “who is this?” and no one would know.

Whatever lasts forever it is not that.

Sewing the words of your feeling into my heart, you came so close to where I was feeling too much; but the stone remains, so I stepped back out of reach, and then you were gone again, leaving me with the thoughts that whisper your name if they could but say it.

And then this becomes a memory that I carry down through the time. And as the years pass I wish for you again and again and try to find you where we last met. But the key to that door is a pain I can’t bear again, though I carry it with me.

And so half-heartedly I call to you and grow weary of ever finding you again even though I know you’re closer than anything, but the wall of thinking stands in the way and I can find no way past; such a strange dream where I am neither here nor there.

In the huge sorrow of this missing you I find nothing matters and I can find no heart to go on, and yet go on I must along the stepping road stone of separation.

What hurt is this that calls from the centre out and listens not to the words of comfort, that no drug, no philosophy or any healing hand can cure?

When the heart can bear no more of this world it shuts down, and until it is come home to there can be no peace; but when the heart calls so loud the pain of separation the very universe pays heed, and that which listens must grant audience to such a call; but that which has gone cannot be brought back.

All is a dream without you.

I shall listen to the wind then that calls me to come home, but home is nowhere to be found in the searching. I have gone this way and that to find it but have now lost my appetite to search anymore and I wonder why I ever tried so hard.

So the dreaming comes and goes and I am left in the day to wander as I will until I can come to sleep again to find some release, and who knows but maybe in the dream it is where we find each other, if only I could remember which side of the veil is the dream and if any of it is of my making.

But maybe this is all just some backyard of the spirit where only the broken go with their love-lost pieces of haunting that forever hold them in the circles of their doom.

But sometimes you bring something interesting back that gives you a clue.


Number 5 and her gang were milling around and waiting for Rosemary Tuesday to show them the way out of the pit that the lopsided optimist had got them into; but their wait was going to be a long one for Rosemary Tuesday had scarpered over the wall of a sudden opportunity and wouldn’t be coming back any time soon, or ever if it could be helped.

The walls of the pit were covered in gouges made by ones who had fallen there from before but had found no way out and had by now rotted away into the ground, taking all their dreams with them.

“If we die here that’ll be it for us,” said one of the gang staring around in the gloom.

The others too were staring, and not seeing any way out, were beginning to lose hope. Before long, all eyes had turned upwards to the sky far above them that was rapidly darkening as the sun went down and the light hardly reaching into the pit.

As it grew dark, curses went up, but even these could not escape and fell back on their heads until all that could be heard were the grumbles of the damned in their doom.

Out on the far edges of this where the insane had built their mansions and the monsters were always screaming, a scratching was growing louder and louder until everyone began to notice it.

An overly large hole appeared that grew larger and larger in the rock under their feet. Three prisoners from down below had finally chewed their way out. Pulling themselves out of their escape tunnel they brushed themselves off and joined number 5 and the gang hoping it was dinner time.

As they stood in line to wait, a rope ladder fell down from the opening of the pit far above and Rosemary Tuesday poked her head in. She’d had a change of heart at the last moment of something unexpected and so had come back to fulfil her promise to show the gang a way out of the pit.

“Hello down there,” she called.

Many calls came to answer her, and soon the first of the gang began climbing out of the pit, with the three prisoners and ex stokers from down below bringing up the rear.

After some discussion and no argument, Rosemary Tuesday was condemned to the pit and the rope ladder was pulled out.

“See how you like that,” they said and trudged off without a backward glance in the dark.

Down in the pit, Rosemary Tuesday wished she hadn’t come back for the gang, but the thought disappeared when she walked into the escape tunnel and with a whoosh was gone sliding down and down through the rock to the fires that awaited her thousands of miles below.


When George Washington woke up in his grave and found himself dead and buried he wailed, but his body was all rotted away and nothing happened.

In this silent wailing his ethereal body detached itself from the corpse, and rising into the graveyard began to glow in the dark.

Number 5 and the gang were trudging through the graveyard just then and came across the apparition glowing in the dark.

“Whoo,” said the glowing form, not yet able to speak.

The gang were taken aback by this and didn’t know what to make of it, but their subconscious fear did and as one they turned about and ran like hell back through the graveyard and over the wall straight into the arms of the grim reaper who took them all off down below on his boat for their sins, leaving George Washington glowing in the dark of the graveyard where he would remain until the second coming came to gather him up.


When Old Nick came back from his vacation in the outer reaches he found the escape tunnel, and after a roll-call discovered who was missing.

And then there was hell to pay: Jimmy the bucket who was in charge of the furnace detail was fired on the spot and was made to go hide in a corner for the duration. Danny the mouth was told to shut up. And Lilly Bad-moon was promoted to chief fire-breather and told to get on with it, which she did with relish that got on everyone’s nerves as she singed them all into cinders.

Suddenly with a “Geronimo,” Rosemary Tuesday popped out of the escape tunnel going over a hundred miles an hour and surprised everyone into silence momentarily.

But the square dragon of exception crept back in to express a melancholy twinkle in the eye of some that was quickly stoned by the others and then everyone ran in a stampede for the escape tunnel ignoring Rosemary Tuesday’s warnings that it wouldn’t do any good to go up the tunnel because there was no way to get out at the other end.


Number 5 was warming her behind by one of the boilers and whistling an old sea tune when the mailman handed her a postcard.

“You’ve got mail,” he said as he handed it to her.

Number 5 stopped humming the tune and looked at the postcard.

“Have a nice day,” said the mailman as he marched off.

‘The dreams have expired’ said the postcard and expired in the heat.

After reading the postcard she dropped it on the ground and then, taking out her blues harp began a tune for no one, and soon the rafters were full of ex-pats listening.


Over 50 prisoners escaped up the tunnel before Old Nick could plug it; and then an afterthought came to him to give a heads-up to the grim reaper up above to watch out for them.

“Allo, allo,” he said into his wireless contraption after dialling up the number.

“Who’s that?” said the tinny voice of the grim reaper on the other end.

“It’s me, Old Nick,” said Old Nick into the mouth-piece.

“What do you want?” asked the grim reaper.

“A pizza would be nice,” said Old Nick.

“Wrong number, call the pizza place, we don’t do that here,” said the grim reaper terminating the connection.

“Damn,” said Old Nick, “he gets me the same every time; just not the talkative type I guess.”

Grumbling to himself, Old Nick went off to breathe fumes on the new recruits and forgot all about the escapees climbing up the tunnel to the surface. Images of pizza slices sailed in and out of his thoughts.


As the escapees climbed all the way to the surface hand over foot, they dreamed of all the things they were going to have when they got there and it was this that kept them going a thousand miles after another.


Over in a place undefined yet by the turpitudes of a hot sweltering June the masked hero was counting his stack of unspent pennies to the tune of a rock and roll song on the radio when the phone rang.

“Masked heroes incorporated, and here to help?” he said into the receiver.

“Is that the pizza place?” said the voice in the receiver.

“Sorry, we don’t do pizzas,” said the masked hero and put the receiver down and went back to counting his pennies.

“Damn and drat,” said Old Nick down below, wondering how he was ever going to get a pizza delivered.

But such is the day to day of the hot place far below the feet of the mortals who inhabit the surface of the planet and think so little of where they could all end up one day stoking the boilers and dreaming of finding a way back up to where they once were.


The chicky chip shop chick was a real chip chick chicky girl and never went blue on Monday if she could help it; that was reserved for the privileged tops seats.

So she found happiness in her chips and was saving up to go stay on a deserted island near Burma maybe…but news had just come in over the holy grapevine that her cut-throat deal on the Vindaloo Curry was sunk with the boat.

So now she needed another dream to keep her going, and as she turned over possibilities in her mind she served chips to all and sundry, and no one knew by looking at her that she was a dreamer…

“We are all dead here,” said the raven….

The chippy girl looked to see who was talking as a hot midnight came by walking along the empty pathway that had no more to say than that it doesn’t pay dividends in the graveyard shift to cry in the dust over long, so align me this where the stars shine so bright.

Belly-House Joe was full of beans and out with his girlfriend, Sherryanne Giggles to the tune of an old accomplishment that went with them wherever they went and that said he was once something so you better watch out if you mess with me.

As they passed the chippy girl, a Russian hacker that was hiding in the bushes jumped out: “Hello darlings, come to spy have we?” said the Russian hacker looking all garrulous and out of place in her black tights up to her neck.

A red herring, also in the bushes was taking notes to show to President Trump later in a security meeting.

A momentary fragment of panic set in and began banging the drum of defeat until the chippy girl let it go. It sailed off somewhere to hide and wailing it would be back again to catch her unawares.

“I’m not broken I’m just waiting for my life to start…and until it does I shall serve chips,” said the chippy girl as she carried on serving chips and knew that one day she would escape.

The Russian hacker on seeing the size of Belly-House Joe gave an “eek” and ran off.

Pop-stars anonymous was once a great beauty and top of her game but was now hiding in the bushes and would maybe stay there forever after supporting Hillary and then dying of shame when she lost.

Some say the bushes have a lot to answer for, while others say it is where enlightenment is hiding.


The falling down man had a grin on the one hand and an empty space in the other and was looked upon as a dirty mask from a broken book brought about probably from some divine prejudice that had happened long ago; but anyway, certainly not an acceptable companion by any stretch of the imagination for anyone in their right mind.

Quite how he’d made it to his current position no one can say, but there he was filling the space.

He was tolerated up to a point, albeit with a certain disdain, and was left to his own devices mostly. And then one day he disappeared completely, just wasn’t there anymore.

So of course, he had to be removed; can’t have bodies about the place, getting in the way and looking unsightly.

The thing is, once a lord always a lord, and because he was still breathing he was relegated to the back benches out of harm’s way. He’s there now, snoring, but don’t let that fool you, the best you’ll get from him these days is a drool on pay day and that’s just an autonomous response brought about from body memory learnt over the years.

I dare say though that he’s an acceptable companion to those others he shares a bench with, and perhaps, who knows but that one day he’ll find his way home again somehow, but I wouldn’t hold your breath if I was you.

So work like the devil to get more and die like a slave in the machine so that one day you too can have one of the dreams they show you, and all you have to do is listen to them as they buy you into it all heart and soul with the promise it is what you need to be fulfilled; guaranteed.

But it is all an illusion that sucks you in until you are spent; and in the end you will still be where you began with the unanswered question on your lips of what your heart really wants.


A big moon shines in the star filled night too much, and my strength lets me down; I cannot talk all at once; how can I let go and surrender to it all this lonely place upon a life that strives to know more but knows so little; and am filled with the circumstances of the thoughts that come from below; I strive to be more, but am dragged down into something I would walk away from, and many times I have, but yet, here I am, still, striving to escape. There are too many doors to make sense of it all…


Was I going to escape or not, it was too hard to say as the horizontal disposition of an almost hero was biting the dust one more time to become more, or not, whatever on some another border crossing where the ‘revolutionary thunder’ they say, is what we need.

Further to this and not to be confused with anything less than incendiary so long as it has a doctor’s note the hungry machine, that killing beast of confusion was not partly in decline as some would have us believe but was acting normal, which is to say something was going on that was not being dealt with and causing a disparity among the pundits of talkative chatter, etc, etc. But all I really wanted to know was: where was the wherewithal going to come from so that I could escape.



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A Brick for the Blind

The empty pocket of perplexity was not what I wanted it to be in my escapage plan where the 4 am mosquito shadow was shaping up like a bad dream I was afraid to go back to sleep with. And then I thought, maybe it’s someone else’s bad karma that had seeped into my dreaming and had insinuated itself into the landscape of my making and I’d been taken in by it to believe it was mine. I’d woken up trying to un-attach myself from some nameless fear, some scary darkness, and as I lay there attuning myself to my surroundings I came to myself and mastered the fear and told myself what I needed to hear in the confines of the dark room so early in the morning.

  • ISBN: 9781370639441
  • Author: Dean Moriarty
  • Published: 2017-07-29 12:35:08
  • Words: 19317
A Brick for the Blind A Brick for the Blind