Books, Hardboiled, Rants, short-short, Urban Legends

The Inscrutable Wheel

Kimberly mining camp in South Africa, in 1873, was a rough and tumble collection of shanty shacks, gambling “hells”, dens of iniquity and vice, prostitution, drunkenness; what one would expect, for the most part, from a boom town that had grown up overnight, its development driven by the lust for glittering riches, hidden in the form of diamonds buried beneath the earthen crust.

It was into one of these establishments that a young man entered, possessed of a small sum of money he was eager to multiply. Seeking out the roulette table like a lemming looking for a cliff, he sauntered up, laid down his bets, and began to play. And lose. And go again. And lose again. and, yet, for him, at least, losing only a part of his wealth was not enough.

The gambler’s mania had gripped him, and, soon, he found himself dispossessed of all but a single British pound. (Or, we at least assume it was a British pound. I suppose it could have been a single Rand. We’re unsure of this. Let’s compromise for now and just call the measly currency he proffered a “dollar,” shall we?)

Raymond Chandler has a story called “You Play the Black, and the Red Comes Up.” Raymond Chandler novels were full of desperate men and beautiful, deadly dames, all of whom lived in a world that was, essentially, amoral, predatory, rife with scoundrelism and, just beneath the aching, tired, weather-beaten and undeniably phony fa├žade , was corrupt deep down to the core. Life is ugly, men are predators, and dames is “no damn good.”

Of course, the young man was soon divested of this money, and beating his breast in despair (or, so we assume), dragged his sorry carcass out the door of the so-good den of gambling and vice, much to the cheers and jeers of the other assembled gamblers. It was not long after that a shot rang out in the street.

“Well, I’ll be damned. The sorry bastard has went and done himself in!” someone must have shouted.

(You’ll forgive us the literary license of putting words in the mouth of a fictional bystander. We do it only toward the establishment of a dramatic effect.)

In the dusty, rutted, dirty road lay a bleeding body, the hand still gripping the butt of the pistol, a pool of crimson wetting the earth around the rawboned, grief-addled, but undeniably handsome visage of the dead young miner. A small crowd gathered to circle, like human vultures, and spit forth exclamations, mutterings, and various imprecations to the preservative power of putative saints.

They must have dragged the body off to the morgue. I suppose it was unceremoniously deposited into a cold, lonely, paupers’ grave, to be eternally forgotten, except by the windblown trees.

Soon after, as if in a cosmic chuckle at the ill-starred fate of the so-unfortunate suicided loser, a quite similar young fellow entered a gambling establishment called Dodd’s Canteen. He had only one dollar in his pocket. His name, incidentally, was David Harris.

He sauntered over to the roulette table. Should he lay down his single, hard-earned dollar, risk the only money he had, all and everything, on a simple intuitive feeling?

He finally decided to do so. Mr. Harris left Dodd’s Canteen 1,400 dollars wealthier than when he entered it. In time, he would develop this small sum of money into a vast fortune.

So turns the inscrutable Wheel of Fortune. For one man wealth and happiness; for another rack and ruin. The completely illogical nature of this seems, to us at least, to almost smack of a kind of cosmic sadism; or perhaps, it’s all one big joke, with the final joke always being on you.

Even the Prince catches up with the Pauper, eventually; in the shallow depths of a cold, hard grave.

But, still, one must surely beat his breast, raise his fists to heaven, and damn God for the inscrutable way in which he metes out destiny in the world. C’est la vie!

Alpha Waves, automatism, Dreams and Nightmares, Holographic Universe, Krishna, Mystic, New Age, Rants, short-short, Spiritism, Uncategorized

Consciousness: 3-3-2017

Consciousness is the laser pointer, or to use an old metaphor, the needle playing the groove of the vinyl record of what you experience as “waking life.” All is just a frequency field, emanations or vibrations of lighter and denser frequencies, and this is decoded by the conscious mind as the YOU. If you can transcend or escape this prison, find enlightenment, then you return to the ALL. But God experiences Himself as YOU, and you experience God as everything and everyone else. How could it be otherwise? Every physical sensation is simply an electrical impulse decoded by the central nervous system–all just illusions. More dreams, more “vibrations.” None of it, ultimately, any more real or permanent than a dream, a soap bubble, snowflake or flickering flame.


Dreams vs. Visions

I don’t have dreams. I have visions. That may be a polite way to say I have hallucinations, but be that as it may, the difference is: dreams are conjured from the dross of waking life, the selfish wants and desires inculcated by social norms and conventions, television and electronic media. Dreams are ideals, visualized and turned into fantasies of wealth, power, romance and control. Visions, on the other hand, are thrust upon you from parts unknown. Perhaps the subconscious mind. They offer nothing but befuddlement, are often opaque and inscrutable, and promise no ultimate reward for the visionary. Often times, I bring them up from literal, waking sleep. Other times, they just hit me, as if they are waking dreams. And then, they have to be concretized, turned into some sort of reality, whether they make rational, logical sense or not, or are even any good, as far as conventional standards or norms. And you can draw these images, or write about them, or bring them into the material world in some tangible way; matter of fact, mostly feel compelled to do so. Dreamers live in the world, and are OF the world; they want what the world wants for them, or whatever they perceive that to be, as a sure and safe route to bourgeois “happiness.” Visionaries and hallucinators realize, in some way that everything is impermanent, transitory, and all of life is like a flickering flame; everything ENDS, even your wants and desires. So they listen to an internal voice, another voice, one whose communication is often distorted, fragmented and illogical. But the only REAL, permanent true and lasting voice, finally, in the entire chorus. “In truth, who knows God, becomes God.”–The Upanisads.

Books, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Poims, Short Stories, short-short, surreal, Uncategorized, Weird

One Night in a Dutch Hostel

WE must have been stranded in Amsterdam, at the world’s oldest, ugliest youth hostel. The girl that was with me had red hair and freckles, pale skin. (Note: It is my studied observation that, at least in my dreams, I am always somehow fucking death.)

Outside the window, crossing the pavement, a swarthy man in tight shorts, with a bulging, flabby gut is walking around like the proverbial caged animal of yore, apparently the sap rising in his veins or whatever passes for virility in this day and age.

“The sonofabitch has a higher testosterone count than I,” say I, turning to the girl, whom I instruct must not only froog in the upstairs window, but must thrust her head out and let fall her long tresses Rapunzel-like, so that the potential customer milling about below might crawl up them toward paradise, heaven, Nirvana.

“It’s not working,” say I. “Fish won’t bite.”

“Maybe he’s scared it’s some sort of sting operation,” she say, licking dry, greedy lips in the waning light of an amber sunset glow. Funny I think, the walls in here collect red from the light.

Red, red, everything is red. Hair, freckles; her body, though, is translucent white.

I crawl on top of her. It is late and maybe there is some requisite appreciation of the role I am playing as the impromptu pimp/provider. She covers my mouth with her own before wiggling, jelly-like, out from under my bulk. “I can’t fuck you,” she say. “Sorry.”

I think that this is a completely understandable position for her to take. My repressed sexual drive, however, seems to have made manifest in the turbulence of the barometric drop; as night falls, vast storm clouds seem to roil and brew across the curiously desolate face of Alternate Amsterdam.

(Isn’t this the way it is in gothic hokum stories of mad families living atop reeking, stinking tarns, stories wherein the desolation and madness of the incestuous line is made manifest in the heaving, wild weather, the environment that spills out of the pages and into the desolate soul of the reader, as he [alternately she] envision a living Sheol?)

At some point in the night, I prowl the musty, too-close claustrophobic halls, beating the walls with a club as if looking for hollow spaces. I suppose I was dress-rehearsing a murder, but, as fantastic as it sounds, vast, shimmering clouds of what I could only take to be some sort of globular, mist-like lightning began to shine through the windows, seeping uncannily through the cracks in the plaster. prerecorded and clearly artificial feminine telephone operators are being loudspeakered from some distant park, sounding as if they are trying to coax a 747 out onto the runway.

The Redhead is sitting Siva amidst a glowering crowd of scruffy but undeniably blonde young men. The central figure, a young man not unknown to me, looks upward as I enter, his face a soft pillow of stupid, bovine expectancy. I suppose I could have cleaved his face in twain; or, at the very least, crushed his skull like an egg with the powerful force of my wooden cudgel.

Instead, I compose this poem.

“Lying in bed, I turn over stare blankly as shadows roll across the wall. You bitter red pill that you are, hard to swallow in one exquisite mouthful.

“‘I suppose,’ you say, ‘I taste hot and rank.’
“I dunno, but, for one moment, an entire world lived and died on the tip of my tongue, rolling one bead of sweat down to die…”

Books, Experimental, Fiction, Humor, Short Stories, short-short, surreal, Weird, Young Adult

Verbal Flatulence; Or, What You’ve Told Me Really, Really Stinks! (A Puerile Piece.)

The Space Beetle had sent one of his hired goons:

“It’s a new weapon,” he waxed mysteriously. “Developed by our researchers on Triton. Scrambles the molecular field holding together the human sphincter. Discombobulation of the oral and anal cavities. Breath replaced with divine flatulent wind. Reeking odor of falsities and perfidious nonsense, made manifest in a turgid, thick, burbling rotten egg stench.”

We can set the stage–a medium-sized auditorium; hustle bustle of milling throngs. people holding signs and placards. “Tatty, short-haired women, and long-haired men.,” to quote someone who was quoted in Russell Miller’s book on L. Ron Hubbard. The lights ared immed, the music swells; an underwhelming onrush of applause.

S/he took the podium. An immense yawn was covered, like the arched back of a serpentine sin, cowering below the surface of a sewer stream, by the clip-clap of assorted hands. A few rumble-bumbles of roiling stomach competed with the announcer’s announcement that Madame Secretary was taking the stage. Willowy Le Pugh, the future President of the United Islamo-Soviet States of Americo. Or, presumably the future president.

S/he, began, opening salmon colored lips, pale, iridescent gums shining in the click-clack-clackety-click of whirring old-fashioned flashbulb cameras what constitute an anachronism already.

(The Space Beetle, we might remind our comic book readers, is a super-secret master villain of cosmic and intergalactic proportions, hiding behind an ever-shifting succession of aliases and disguises, forms both extraordinary and mundane. You might encounter him as a waiter, a busboy, a dry cleaner on Mars, scrubbing furiously at custard stains on the collar of an overpriced satin jacket; alternately, he could be the state executioner on a backwaters moon circling a forgotten world in the lower crotch of the Crab Nebula. His ministrations and scoundrelisms are matters of legendry; his name and even the mere mention of it have been known to freeze the human colon. C’est la vie!)

“Friends, neighbors, comrades, brothers of unity, workers of the world united! Hands and handmaidens of the One True Prophet! I come to deliver you from the fetters and bonds of your great and magnificent oppression! Behold, I stand at the door and knock!”

A swell of applause erupted throughout the audience, and not a few murmurs and shouts of “Power to THE PEOPLE!” and “Right on, Sistah!” and “Everyone is my gender-neutral brother!,” etc. etc. etc.

The Agent crawled through the seats, holding his piece in his hands. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand…he counted to himself. The particular item in his possession was thick, long, cylindrical; it shined with heavy metal profundity. He checked the dials and diodes.

Professor Croyd, a beetling browed man with strange stertorous breathing and crossed eyes, had instructed him as to the use of this particular hand cannon; he had snuck it into the concert hall disguised as on over-sized iron dildo, a coy statuette presented to the visiting dignitary by the Junior Anti-fascist Sex League, on the anniversary of their great victory desegregating Eurasian-only golf courses.

He dialed. He waited. He adjusted. He sighted. He smiled. He aimed. This was a moment that would go down in the historical records, right next to the first man who saw an orgasm in t he flashbulb of Uranus.

“My Godless opponent, that leering, gesticulating Minister of Snark, would have you believe the pernicious LIES proffered about me by the malicious hacks of the dirty, dirty subversive press, those Joo bankers and power-broker pawnshawp dealers who trade in lies, innuendo, half-truths, gossip, legend, myth, fantasy and sweet Nectar of Ambrosia, for all I know. Well, I’ll have you know, that these people have thrust in their sickle, and what they sow, THEY SHALL SURELY REAP!”

More applause. A few guffaws. A stifled laugh, and not a few bawling moans of worshipful adulation. General murmur of good tidings. But then, something strange happened–
Someone thought she must have belched. No belch ever let forth that sort of effluvial, reek though; a general murmur of nauseous disgust began to filter up from the throngs at the foot of the stage. Vile retching volcanod forth, as little by little, people fighting to hold their gorges lost it in a multicultural rainbow shower of vomit streams that soaked the backs of folks in the front row, ruined the theater seats, made the floor and isles into a sopping, miasmic stew of swirling, biologically hazardous stinkery.

It was her vocal farting, the rearrangement of her mouth and anus, so that flatulence issued forth with every proclamation and lie, while exclamations of piety, shock and outrage squeezed themselves out from between the pendulous cheeks of her pale, porcine derriere. The spell had worked, the molecular biology realigned; the prank a thing of resounding success. Mission accomplished.

Willowy Le Pugh suddenly threw her notes into the air. She farted, “Oh, oh my, why it’s just like a scene from a Stephen King thriller! Really, everyone, I’m sure we can get this cleaned up and resume the festivities in no time! Everyone, everyone–back to your seats!”

But everyone was not listening, and, in a panicked huff, she turned like a top, apologies still blurping and blarting out from between her ass cheeks, and retreated into the shadows backstage.

The Agent, covered in puke, but, nonetheless, dry for the invisible skinsuit he was wearing, like a veritable shield, all over his sweating, satisfied form, signaled the Madrigal to turn on the teleporto beam and GET HIM THE HELL OUT OF THERE.

Two gentleman, one a withered man with a great, broad flank of a noise, and the cool, pitiless gaze of some deep-sea creature cast, by the caprices of Poseidon, upon the rocky surface of the damned earth, turned to his neighbor, and said with cold, metallic inflection:

“I ever tell you about the asshole that taught his man to talk?”

Books, Rants, Uncategorized

Stimulus Response

Generally, anything seen on television is coldly-calculated, cynical propaganda, designed to elicit a Pavlovian response in the masses. This will often be done in a surreptitious manner, using covert or stealthy imagery, vague “scare” phrases, Madison Ave. sales techniques, and other forms of social programming and/or social control so that the media masters and THEIR bosses can keep a tighter lid or reign on the shuffling throngs; better to police the “herd.” When they are trying to bring in a new phase of social engineering or control, you will begin to see their agenda reflected in advertising, television situation comedies, news broadcasts that “affirm” the new orthodoxy, school curriculum, comic books, music videos, ad infinitum. A century ago, there was no instantaneous, mass electronic media hypnotizing 24/7; hence, the world was quite a different place then.

Fortean, Ghosts, Hauntings, Holographic Universe, Murder, Mystic, New Age, Spiritism, Uncategorized, Weird

The Erdington Murders (Revised)

(Note: I have nervous little fingers and an impetuous personality. I always revise when I catch the typos.)

Two individuals can agree on a phenomena, and be at complete variance as to its ultimate cause and interpretation.

(This rather pathetic observation troubled me all day yesterday, from the moment I awoke until I finally relented and wrote it down. As to what it was referring to, and why it was implanted in my psyche, who can say?)

The Wheel of Time

Life can be seen to have its eddies and currents, time its waves and ripples. Sometimes events leave their resonances in the greater stream of existence, echoing down through the years like some sort of macabre curse, playing out in the Here and Now lives of ordinary people.

(We recently have re-read the story of Poe called “William Wilson,” which concerns the seeming doppleganger of an unfortunate, or dissolute young man–a being that seems to haunt his steps through life from school until, finally, he succumbs to the fury of his terror and stabs out at the phantasm, only to find he HAS KILLED HIMSELF IN THE PROCESS. In other words, he was his own worst enemy all along.

Of course, stories of such dopplegangers exist in reality. Or, at the very least, are said to exist, or have so existed. Goethe is said to have met his doppleganger or even future self while traveling a country road. Even more perplexing is the story of a Victorian teacher who is said to have exhibited a doppleganger while occupied in the classroom. The mysterious figure appeared before astounded students, who testified that this double imitated every action and mannerism of their teacher before disappearing. Apparently, the weird manifestation happened more than once.)

All arguments to the contrary, there is nothing new under the sun. Life sends forth its echoes, the Law of Averages dictates that certain outcomes are a given, taking into account certain correlates that, failing any great deviation, will manifest themselves, scientifically, as thus-and-thus, so on and so forth…

But over a century and a half? Can great and painful incidents, we must ask, repeat themselves in the lives of subjects separated by great gulfs of history, as if the same occurrences, widely separated by time, are still, nonetheless, fated to play on in a sort of sick autopilot of the world of real and tangible events? What are we to make of the uncanny coincidences and odd twists of fate that bespeak a larger intelligence? (Albeit, it is an intelligence that, because of the vast distances of time involved, must remain to us wholey inscrutable.)

So it must be with an obscure subset of happenings known as the Erdingtom Murders.

The facts as they stand.

On May 27th, 1817, the day after Whit Monday, the body of popular, pretty local girl named Mary Ashford was found in a flooded sandpit in Erdington, a small town outside of Birmingham, England. The girl had apparently been raped and strangled before being unceremoniously deposited, sometime after four in the morning, which was the last time she had been seen. She had apparently been in the company of young Abraham Thornton, a local bricklayer who had accompanied her from the dance to the house of a friend, so she could change her dress at the ungodly hour of three in the morning. According to Thornton, she had not emerged no matter how long he waited; exhausted, he decided to return home chastened.

(He also later claimed the couple had had sexual intercourse, although it had not been rape.)

Several witnesses attested to having seen the girl walking country lanes in the wee hours of the morning. She was last seen, alone, in Bell Lane, about 4:15 AM, by a Mr. Broadhurst. Another witness confirmed this.

It was at 6:30 that a local laborer discovered a set of bloody clothing, and alerted the police. Following the footprints of a man and woman, the police soon found the body–the girl had been sxually violated, then strangled.

Of course, the immediate suspect was Abraham Thornton, who in no wise did not initially suspect he was the main suspect. He willingly confessed his shock and outrage at the news of the death, confessed readily to having accompanied her to her friend’s house to change the dress. Then claimed to have simply gone home.

(The confession ot sexual congress did not come about until later, we are given to understand.)

Quickly arrested, Mr. Thornton was just as quickly tried. his version of events must seem idyllic and tragic in light of the later murder. (His stirring statement, “I cannot believe she is murdered, I was with her until four am.” is rather perplexing in light of later revelations.)

The couple walked, hand in hand, to the top of Bell Lane stile, crossing an open field under the stars. Their passionate ardor apparently spent, perhaps there was regret or shame, or deeply naive love, of a sort. Whatever the case, after four that morning, the life of Mary Ashford would end in brutal, ugly tragedy, at the age of twenty.

Mr. Thornton spoke briefly that morning with a gamekeeper of his acquaintance. He was alone. Within the house of Hannah Cox, Mary Ashford was trying on a dress, telling her friend with a mounting trepidation that she felt this week, especially, held some terrible tragedy for her.

Outside, her errant beau began to feel that his new love was jilting him. Perhaps he waited for the vanished star amidst the bushes and shrubs, a tear falling from the corner of his eye as his heart sank within his breast. But could he wait out there all night? Hardly.

Finally, shivering, he headed home. Independent witnesses, such as the gamekeeper, confirmed this account later.

It took six minutes for a jury to acquit Mr. Thornton. Which should have been t he end of the matter. However, the legal wrangling of 1817 permitted Miss Ashford’s brother William to appeal the acquittal (!), thus ensuring that a new trial would be held at the Court of the King’s Bench that 17th of November. Making an unprecedented move, Mr. Thornton quite literally stood, and casting down a leather gauntlet, proclaimed, “I am not guilty. And I am ready to defend the same with my life.”

In effect, Thornton had invoked the ancient English law of “Trial by Battel.” Which Lord Ellenborough declared to still be binding.

Thus, William Ashford and Abraham Thornton would duel. If Mr. Ashford won, Mr. Thornton would face summary execution. However, if Mr. Thornton won, he would, indeed, go free with no strings attached. If this challenge was not met by April 21st of 1818, Mr. Thornton would go free, no questions asked.

Mr. William Ashford, for whatever reason, declined the challenge. Mr. Thornton, ruined by the huge publicity and the hundreds itching to see him hang, immigrated to America, and leaves history forever.

Flash forward to 1975. May 27th. A young woman, Barbara Forrest, was found dead in a ditch in Erdington–around 300 yards from where the body of Mary Ashford had been found, in 1817. One hundred and fifty-eight years before, Btw. keep that in mind.

Both women had been raped, then strangled.

Both shared the same birthday.

Both had an eerie resemblance to each other.

Both had been to a dance on the eve of Whit Monday the day they were killed. Both had been to a friend’s house to try on a new dress.

Both had expressed deep, premonition-like misgivings about the coming week. Mary Ashford old Hannah Cox she had “bad feelings about the week to come,” although she could not specify why. Barbara Forrest was quoted as saying “This is going to be my unlucky month. Don’t ask me why. I just feel it.”

Death waited for them, like a mysterious kiss from a lover in the dark, down the long winding trail of their fast-disappearing dreams.

But (and this is the real kicker) BOTH women were twenty years old, and BOTH women were, allegedly, killed by men with that last name: THORNTON.

Abraham Thornton allegedly killed Mary Ashford by strangulation before depositing her body in a flooded sand pit, in 1817. MICHAEL Thornton allegedly killed Barbara Forrest, also age 20, by strangulation before depositing her body in a ditch only three hundred years from where the body of Mary Ashford had been found, over a century earlier.

(And, of course, Lincoln had a secretary named Kennedy, Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln. Booth shot Lincoln in a theater, ran to a barn; Oswald shot Kennedy from a warehouse, and ran to a theater–if, in fact, you believe Oswald shot anyone at all that fateful November of 1963. But we think you rather get the point of this little aside.)

Echoes, Ripples, and Oz the Great and Terrible

What can be said for the nature of reality, based on such coincidences When a car with a man named Ted Gershuftyegg runs into another car with a man named Ted Gershuftyegg…what are the odds? How do we explain the ripples on the still, placid surface of the seemingly otherwise logical lake of our reasonings? perhaps God could be likened to Narcisse, who becomes entranced staring at an image of himself int he rippling water, until, finally, he transforms into a flower.

The opening petals of the flower…so many variant pieces of reality, all reflecting eachother perfectly. The same, yet different. each, in its own way, a part of the greater whole, yet each individuated piece unique and solitary.

New Age philosopher David Icke reminds us that every hologram is made up of smaller holograms, each a perfect representation of the larger whole. DNA encodes the patterns of the human form, so that even a mammal can be cloned like a common toad. Patterns of life and force reflect the larger whole.

As Above, So Below…

Icke claims that, after tripping on ayhauasca in the Amazon, he received a vision of the “Time Loop”: the vast Wheel of Eternal return, in which history, like the Ouroborous snake eating its own tail, repeats and reloops in an endless cycle, merely updating itself as an illusion, but fundamentally, always reflecting the same pattern back at the laser-point of consciousness.

(We’ve traveled far afield of our original story, I suppose.)

Is Oz the Great and Terrible manipulating events behind the smoking curtain of another reality? Are we merely stick-figure suppositions, experiencing our uniqueness only inasmuch as we are simply window dressing for events fated to happen, again and again, like a sort of macabre clockwork of the spirit? How much of Free Will exists, and what is fated, determined, predestination? And why?

And what does this mean in regards to the larger framework of our lives?

Why is so much coincidence merely absurd and eerie?

When, for instance, they were making the original 1933 version of The Wizard of Oz, the costume designers, when looking for a coat for their Professor Marvell character, purchased one from a thrift store that had been previously owned. When they looked in the collar of the coat, they found a tag of the former owner. The tag read: “L. Frank Baum.”

The wardrobe person, thinking it an unsettling coincidence, took some photographs of the coat and sent them to Baum’s widow. She confirmed the coat as one that had formerly belonged to her husband. Who, of course, was the author of…The Wizard of Oz.

We suppose we can finish there.

Addendum: We finished this piece yesterday. Unbeknownst to us, yesterday, coincidentally, happened to be the birthday of L. Frank Baum. Coincidentally.