There's A Bustle in My Hedgerow
the commune's Rok Finger is leasing the Stairway to Heaven, with an option to buy 

Monday, Nov. 26, 2001
I have to admit, a few years ago the sound of a bustle in my hedgerow would have left me terrified. I was naïve, to say the least, and suffer a fear of mortality like anybody else. At least that's what my new houseguest said, and that's when I became aware what there was to fear, whilst before I suspected the sound might be a bear or some kind of Jack the Ripper fan intent on re-creating the crimes in vivid detail, only with men this time instead of trollops.

Likewise when I heard the whistle of the pied piper calling through the crack'd window in my den, at the time I kept running to the kitchen to see who left tea boiling on the stove top. This was before my new friend Jimmy Page came to stay with us.

Page is an insightful limey, you have to give him that. Before he showed up to stay with us I was scared of silly things, like the possibilities of violent crime, chemical terrorism, nuclear annihilation, all of these highly unlikely possibilities. Jimmy opened my eyes to the existence of dragons, mythical knights, multi-headed beasts from fables, and dark wizards who can destroy you with a handful of powder. And I've seen the powder that he travels with so I know he's not kidding.

Laughing trees, talking spirits, and some big pushy bitch he calls "the May Queen"--Mr. Page inhabits a very scarey world, folks, and he's welcomed me into it. Hence I've decided that, as enjoyable as his company is, I have to find a way to kick him out. I simply cannot continue going to work each day like the world is a normal place when I know there's half-goat demons out there who dance before me in the street on my way to work. And I can't hit them with the Volkswagen, either, they can float and dance on my hood with their cloven hooves. There's several of them in those commune offices I work at, too. I've never noticed before now that Ted Ted fellow is even smaller than me. Makes you wonder. Wonder? I meant terrified.

I'm not sure the exact length of time Jimmy Page is planning on staying. I wouldn't feel right asking him to leave, I'm all too aware of that magic dust in his suitcase. I've asked him how long he'll be around and he assures me he is bound for an otherworld, though I'm not sure where that is or I'd buy him a ticket already. He's mentioned something about a stairway of some kind, I'm unclear as to how tall it needs to be or where he wants it built, but I figure if I buy a tall enough stepladder it might make do in a pinch.

In the end, I'll probably get rid of him the same way I got rid of Donovan during his long stay in the late '60s: I'll move to the roof for a few days. We have a spare bedroom up there, hidden away from those unfamiliar with the house, and in times of houseguests myself, Arvelyn, and our cat Makeshift can squeeze in there comfortably for a long space of time, until our houseguest goes out for food or something and we change the locks. We've thus far managed to outlast every houseguest, although I must admit there were a number of doubtful moments where we worried that guy from The Commish was going to win in the end.

Not that there won't be a down side to Mr. Page's exit; the next time there is a bustle in my hedgerow, I'll undoubtedly be alarmed then. I'll soon forget about the pied pipers and May Queens. Though I've always known all that glitters isn't gold. Most of the time it's just glitter. Glitter glitters, you know.