Thursday, September 15, 2016

Fiction, the Author, and Publishing



Story telling is older than the hills. A good story “gathers food.” It imbeds ideas in its narrative, providing structure as a medium for its message. The “structure” is composed of images that function as anchors for our minds, anchoring our thoughts by association. For example,
She is an evil clown on meds The Hildebeast has three heads. One head has a lip-sticked, smiley face crowned with a stylized coif; from another head issues a shrill voice, rasping out a raggedy chain of hard-ass words; and a third head has eyes that look up, loopy, wide and vacant. The Hildebeast could do no wrong. It is all about her. She tells lies and does self-serving things that bear no consequences. For she is not of this world. She is infused with the negative energies of her overlords. A demon possesses her. Many are enthralled by her evil. It seems that none can stop her idiot machinations. She truly is an evil clown, and dangerous too (as long as people think she is real)!
In 23 Skiddoo the author weaves an imagistic narrative within which he peppers notions of an alternate take on consensual reality and culture trance. It is nothing short of non-fiction (a “red pill” sensibility) brought to life via fiction. The story acts as a container with disparate inner messages. And the readers’ own meaning-making, culled as it is from the writer’s interpretations, is a kind of mirroring process.

As readers get into the action and the thoughts of the narrator—even as that narration shifts from the main character, Sos, to that of Ex or Ivan, or to an omniscient over-soul entity—readers are swept into the narrative while standing in the shoes of a host of actor-narrators. Soon one is caught up in a sort of “noospheric cloud.” Gradually, the container broadens and deepens and pulls together many strands that connect up within its grand, over-arching narrative. The psychic mirror world gets unglued before reassembling itself.

During the process of reading the whole of 23 Skiddoo, the reader gets transported into the culturally mutant world of Sos and company. An empathy forms; the identification is at once stimulating and endearing, and the reader is internally egged-on to know what happens next and to figure out how the various plot strands will eventually coalesce.

In fiction we can impart truths that might otherwise be awkward or unpalatable as non-fiction. And learning where possibilities lead is tricky. Learning where fantasy ends and fact begins—when reality is simply a blurred by-way of our current consciousness anyway—leads us into a new “brave new world” way beyond all normative illusions.

The author professes no ideology or other conditioned mental reflexes. His aim is to upturn certain “givens” and to make people think about how to rise above the System’s animal farm; to question the foundations of everything and then to leave us in a languid, ponderous state. The author is a wily old coot. He just wants folks to see things via his or her own search for the truth. The “absurdity of life” is perhaps his overriding theme. But “life” is a misnomer—where false consciousness reigns, no life exists, only a constant absurdity that becomes “life”—a stupidity; sheer foolishness.

23 Skiddoo is the first of many planned novels. It strives to set the stage for what will follow. Another book is in the hopper, Plight of the Cultural Mutant. Meant as a kind of spin-off of Sos’s grand opus (The Cultural Mutant’s Guide to Consensual Reality and Culture Trance), it is actually a true life story of its author that is, in many respects, stranger than fiction. It covers about 25 years of Wyman Wicket knocking his head against Mammon’s wall, that wall of impenetrable befuddlement. Overall a humorous tale (and even profound, here and there) it’s due out in early 2017. In the meantime also planned are some special forays into social media. So stay tuned.

Reduced to living by his own guile, Wicket has no other recourse than to fall back on his love of pounding out the written word. No one will hire him for anything else, it seems, and in any case, he is less than ambivalent about participating in the corruption of the age and prefers a life of solitary confinement in his own, culturally mutant world. Join him soon as he takes us on yet another crazy-mixed-up tour of the absurd, the abyss, the fictionalized non-fiction of this, our sick age.

Friday, June 24, 2016

Subtitle Decoded

Q: It may seem obvious to most, but tell us—what does the subtitle of your book mean, “Way Back Beyond Across the Stars”—and why the long string of prepositions?

A: It’s a play on some lyrics from the Jimi Hendrix blues tune, Red House:

Lord I might as well
Go back over yonder
Way back beyond across the hill

I’ve just changed “hill” to “stars.” As readers should know, the book (or at least the main character, Sos) is inspired by the artistry of Jimi Hendrix. And so, a bow to his lyrics in the subtitle of the book is just another tribute to this inter-dimensionally-charged, creative being who graced the planet with his presence and left a stunning ‘60s portfolio of sound in his wake. Only Hendrix could string all those prepositions together like that. He’s jumbled the expressive moment into a grab-bag mix of space and time.

It’s not much of a stretch to see that in my book the “red house” is Project Lobster, the “ET interspecies, cross-breeding program.” The ETs that were cross-bred have come from the stars, somewhere, and, in the end they return to the stars. As can be said of any “dangerous intercourse,” there may be unintended, far-reaching consequences. (Hey, no shit!)

Now, in the context of the subtitle, when you talk about a quick, Snagglepus, “Exit, Stage Right”—viz., a “23 skiddoo”— you have a kind of “inter-cosmic jump” going on—for refuge, for safety—to re-charge, to replenish oneself—a temporary tactical retreat to allow one to re-group, reconnoiter. That can mean a jaunt to the beach, to deeply relax and enter a meditative state, to steal out of town by means of a cloak-of-invisibility, to zap out and zap in to new geo-coordinates—whatever, as long as you are self-protecting yourself and giving yourself time to get strong again so that you can remain ever-resilient in your plight, your battle to defend the righteousness of truth, goodness, beauty, love, justice—for the simple survival of your genes—for the “quality intensification” of your consciousness, of your immortal soul on its journey to its celestial source, its journey’s end. In the review of the book, this is what is meant by the statement: " ‘23 skidoo’–i.e., to get out with all due haste—is infused with new contextual life in this work…”

Way back beyond across the stars may be from whence humans originally 23 skiddood—it is where our Ragt duo 23 skiddood, for sure. It is also a direct reference to “astrotheology,” which is not simply a theology based upon the observation or knowledge of celestial bodies, but also a recognition that there are interstellar cosmic forces that shape our existence—our physical being, our actions and cultural milieu. To what degree we can trace our heritage and our future to a whole inter-cosmic web is something we perhaps still need to learn more about. That is definitely a message to be found in 23 Skiddoo.

Thursday, June 23, 2016

The Alien Interview Reconsidered

Q: What prompted you to insert a whole other book, The Alien Interview, smack dab in the middle of your book, 23 Skiddoo?


A: First of all, I liked The Alien Interview when I initially came across it a few years ago People who haven’t read it in its entirety—or who skipped over it when they read my book—have, in my opinion, missed out on something awe-inspiring. For the record, and as the story goes, what “survived” the 1947 UFO Roswell crash was not the “alien,” as such. Instead, it was Airl, the alien’s immortal soul, that retained control of its “doll body,” (unlike the others who had abandoned them and were thus considered to be “dead”). Airl is supposed to have relayed information telepathically to the U.S. Army Air Force nurse, Mathilda McElroy. She, in turn, reportedly received Airl’s thoughts, telepathically relayed her own thoughts, and then transcribed all of this immediately after each of their sessions. This is in contrast to how the information was related in my book: Athm conveyed the information verbally to Sos, who made an audio recording of it, and later transcribed it. Athm, of course, stepped into the shoes of Airl, and Mathilda’s stand-in is Sos.

My decision to include it as a kind of centerpiece in my book was prompted, first of all, by my desire to help Sos secure his identity. When Sos discovered that his own immortal soul can be traced to one of the members of the Domain Expeditionary Force, he suddenly apprehends who he is, in the sense of explaining why it was he had always felt so uncomfortable in his own skin, so “different” from those around him. He discovers that he is actually an “old soul” whose lineage can be traced to a highly advanced civilization, which means that his soul had “evolved” over eons of time through countless embodiments with innumerable “lessons learned.” It was no wonder, then, that Sos felt trapped in his own biological body and alien to this current-day world. He was, in a sense, beyond all of this. (If this sounds elitist, well, maybe it is. But what do we know about the “evolutionary trajectory” of other souls? If they are all immortal, it makes little sense to categorize them according to planetary pedigree. Instead, maybe it is the experiential quality of the soul over eons that makes it an “old soul”—but I digress.)

This notion that one can suddenly apprehend the core of one’s identity is apropos not only to this specific work of fiction, it is also a theme with exceptional currency in the world today. If, as the author believes, we are subject to an occult stratagem with its “twilight language” that is intent upon covering up the true nature of our world and preventing us from attaining to our optimal human potential, then we need to uncover this malicious deception and, by so doing, realize (i.e., actualize) our true selves. It is not only for Sos’s benefit that I present The Alien Interview and the work as a whole; it is for the benefit of the whole of our species, or at least my readership. Hey, we all have a duty to “wake up” from our long sleep, from the pathology of our mind control conditioning!

The reader may notice a relative confusion or “disjointedness” inherent in the first half of the book. This reflects Sos’s very own nature; his trepidation concerning what the world was all about, who he was and where he was going. Once he found out more about the nature of our planet and his own identity, he began to develop a surety of action or a more sound and sensible approach to going about things. He was still, of course, Sos—that beach-loving sub-genius trickster and serendipitous bumbler after self-knowledge. But once he knows who he is, he is able to screw his head on straighter; to get his shit together a bit better. As a result the second half of the book has a smoother flow to it.

Another reason I opted to include The Alien Interview in the book was to jog the mind of the reader by presenting an alternative view of the nature and history of our planet and its inhabitants, while feeding the imagination of what extraterrestrial civilizations may be like. If our planet’s back story has been cordoned off from us by gatekeepers of history, archeology and anthropology, then I wanted to bust that wide open. And why not? Life is full of wonder and mystery. So why not indulge ourselves? Life’s too short to live in the structured confines of the given conventions. I’d rather explore, even if I’m slightly off the mark, than accept the fraud and lies and utter nonsense that is spoon fed to us via false narratives by controlling elites, both in school and through the media. The populace needs a cathartic cleansing-out of this crap! And while we certainly do need frequent “tactical retreats” to preserve and protect ourselves—which is the meaning of the title, 23 Skiddoo—the people also need the truth, and lots of it! Putting truth (metapolitical non-fiction) in the form of a sci-fi story is one way to make it accessible and palatable—appealing, even.

But here’s the kicker: Long after I had gotten permission from its author and decided to use The Alien Interview, I discovered a back story about it and its author, Lawrence Spencer. Mr. Spencer had always maintained that this work was both “true”—as in he actually did receive the transcripts from Mrs. McElroy—but that The Alien Interview was a work of fiction; and that he, Lawrence Spencer, was only its “editor.” I knew this much already. What I did not know was that there is a debunker online who claims that The Alien Interview is pure Scientology; who cites an email that is purportedly from Spencer himself wherein he admits to having been a Scientologist for over 31 years!(See, http://projectavalon.net/forum4/showthread.php?6865-HOAX-Lawrence-Spencer-s-ALIEN-INTERVIEW; also see, http://www.freezone.org/english/News/Alien-Interview/alien-interview.html)

Upon further examining this little gem, I came across a lengthy comment from Mr. Spencer himself wherein he defends himself and his work. In the course of doing so he mentions Aleister Crowley and jet propulsion scientist, Jack Parsons, referring to them as “mystics” and “spiritualists.” In fact, according to Michael Hoffman, in his book Secret Societies and Psychological Warfare, Crowley and Parsons were dedicated Satanists. L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of Scientology, is also mentioned in Hoffman’s book as befriending Parsons in the late 1940s and falling in league with this Satanic crew. If accurate, then it casts a long Luciferian [1] shadow across Scientology.

Suddenly I discovered—after 23 Skiddoo was already published—that I probably sandwiched in a Satanically influenced, Scientologist-inspired narrative! Well, as I said in my Introduction, the addition of The Alien Interview adds to the “lushness” of the book (even if its “ring of truth” may have deceived me). To those readers who now feel somehow cheated or deceived as well, I can only instruct them to take it in stride; it could be that there still exists a degree of truth in the alternative explanation of the planet, its visitors and its inhabitants; it could be that we are more indebted to Luciferian1 promptings than we realize—and maybe we are more Luciferian by our genetic makeup and conditioning than we can ever know. “Lushness defined.” You can also think of it this way: if 23 Skiddoo is about the manipulations of humankind by Satanic forces, then perhaps the book presents a manifestation of that “by exhibit,” only one that is made explicit to the intrepid reader who has stumbled upon this exposé.

This, then, begs the question: to what degree has the whole counter-narrative to the System’s conventional knowledge been influenced by the same or similar exaggeration, fraud, lies and deceit? How does one know when a narrative or certain evidence contained therein has been co-opted by some ideology, slightly skewed, and presented for its own purposes? In my way of seeing it, just asking such questions is contributive to coming to terms with this conundrum. Being aware of the pitfalls is half-way to getting to the truth—or as Plato once said, “Perplexity is the beginning of understanding.”

Always look out for the curve balls…and it seems that Mr. Spencer has thrown us all a doozy. But Jeez, I don’t want to be an unwitting stooge for the dark side—there are enough of those around already. I think we just need to do the best we can, while always reminding ourselves that we can do better. This attitude is summed up best, I think, in the following saying: “Be not content.” Be not content—stinkbugs and grass skippers all…

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[1] What is the difference between Satan, Lucifer, and the Devil? Beats me—they are all interchangeable synonyms as far as I am concerned. Neo-anthroposophy posits the following: Satan, born as a Chinese nobleman @ 2000 B.C.; Lucifer, born @ 2000 A.D.: and Ahriman, yet to be physically born on the planet. Each has its unique calling card of negative characteristics.

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Metaphor Apathy, Young Girls and the Dystopiex

Q: There are certain recurring things, phrases, qualities and names in your book, 23 Skiddoo. For example, fish metaphors abound (“herring” pops up a few times); reference is repeatedly made to “fresh, line-dried sheets” and to Hemingway’s borrowed title, “the sun also rises”; there are a few different people named “Q” and a few also named “N”; and what of the recurring colors: blue, purple and magenta—what’s going on here?

A: I don’t know. I guess I’m just partial to all of the above. But I’m sure some literary dweeb can come up with compelling and intriguing reasons via metaphor and symbol, explicated in terms of their context (with perhaps an occult overlay). Asking me this question is like asking an artist to “explain” his or her painting. That’s not my job. Oh, I could throw a few clues out—a few “red herrings”—but I won’t. I’ll only say that there are various levels to my book and that using these repetitive devices is one way to signal just that to the reader. Of course, an adroit reader might pick up on these intuitively, or just catch the “drift.” And there’s nothing wrong with drifting along with the tide, like a jellyfish with no bone in its jelly back, right?

Q: We’ve noticed there are “sexy young girls” popping up here and there in your book, e.g., as a meeter-and-greeter at Provincetown Airport (p.37); as a decoy, a harbinger of danger (p.113); as an alluring nymph, tempting you to go for a swim (p.286)—what’s with the “young girls”?

A: Uh, who doesn’t love young girls? Jeezus, the world would be awfully dull without young, sexy girls—unless of course you’re a gay boy. Are you gay?

Q: Yes…sort of. I’m a transgender. Just kidding...

A: Well, if you ask such a question—it’s like when that woman asked Louie Armstrong, “Mr. Armstrong, just what is the blues?”—and he replied, “Lady, if you have to ask you’ll never know.” What’s with all the young girls? What would life be like without young girls? It would be an arid, boring, horrid place, that’s what.

There’s a story about Ibn al Arabi circumambulating the Kaaba when, all of a sudden, he came upon a fair young maiden and he found God in that young girl's face. Why, that lithe, pheromone-infused loveliness that a fair maiden brings to life is the essence of creation, young fellah. Do I have to spell it out for ya? And it’s not a matter of being a lecherous old fool—quite the opposite, in fact. Recognizing the insouciant beauty of the feminine, the utter “flooring” it causes to the male of our species, is, without a doubt, something every real man appreciates—a universal solvent for degreasing our ratio-centered brains, an archetype beyond the mind of reason. And women like to be admired, acknowledged, appreciated. I’m not talking “lust” here, as in the deadly sin. I’m talking about the red hot thunderbolt of eros, an unadulterated love and affection that overwhelms. My God—I can fall in love multiple times each day should I happen upon young girls during the course of going about my everyday business—I mean the kind of young girls who entrance with the enchanting purity of their beauty.

So if I put a few young girls in 23 Skiddoo it’s only natural that they inhabit the scenery, doing what they do best: making the world much more interesting, alluring and lovely—and sometimes—more dangerous! But there is a negative aspect to be wary of: in these degenerate days, a man can be conditioned to sexualize all females so that each “sexy young thing” becomes an object of fantasy; the dirty desire to abuse, e.g., fantasize by mentally undressing them, can become a bad habit and a hard habit to break. It is a vice that I think is prevalent now in Western society. It demeans the man as much as it demeans the woman. And there is sometimes a thin line between being a “dirty man” and being an admiring connoisseur and ardent devotee of femininity. This has to be said. When honor, chivalry, and the noble arts in general have been so deracinated by a mongrelized, Post-Modernist culture, then all need to be on guard against the devastation and havoc wreaked on society. But just because we are now shamefully entrained to admire transsexuals and homosexuals, gender-bending beta-males and crass, classless femi-boobs, does not do away with the enduring admiration for eternal notions of traditional female beauty. “Non merci!” (as Gerard Depardieu cries out as Cyrano De Bergerac.)

Q: Tell us about this Dystopiex device and how you conceived it.

A: Ah, Dystopiex...this device is at the heart of my book, really. The name translates as “getting rid of our dystopia” (a “dystopia” being a utopia gone dreadfully wrong—as in this cultural Marxist hell that has come to replace traditional society). In a literal sense, these devices are the “thought bombs” referred to in describing or categorizing 23 Skiddoo as a “thought bomb sci-fi thriller.” And of course Dystopiex acts as a conspiratorial cleanser that—who knows?—might be a future viable invention to rid us of the harmful mental effects of those meddlesome electromagnetic frequencies (EFs) that pollute our current environment. We live in an atmosphere that is permeated with these invisible microwaves from innumerable sources. If you’ve ever seen Resonance: Beings of Frequency, then you get a real sense for how saturated the air actually is with these toxic, EF waves. It’s quite shocking, really.

I don’t recall how the idea came to me. Maybe it was implanted in my mind by an ET—maybe it was already floating around in the noosphere and my mind just latched onto it. Shucks! Who knows? But it fits the bill nicely, don’t you think? Imagine being put in charge of a factory that produces these Dystopiex devices—it is a dream come true for any creative loafing slackmaster “dot-connector.” There’s no doubt about that.

It’s horrendous thinking about the immense mind control wielded by today’s media propagandists. Thanks to those ubiquitous hi-tech gadgets, they have managed to insinuate themselves and their lies into every nook and cranny of our lives. It began innocently enough with radio, intensified with TV, and now chipped gadgetry rules people’s lives. I think I’ve read studies that there is some sort of harmful, conditioning something-or-other coming from all this stuff. So introducing Dystopiex sure seems like a good idea, doesn’t it? I thought so. Still, notice one thing: these devices do not eliminate these EF waves from our environment; they only ameliorate some of their damaging effects. And so Dystopiex is a lot like allopathic medicine—it doesn’t exactly cure anything, just ameliorates symptoms.

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Creatures Featured

If you please, a word on the creatures spawned by Project Lobster, the ET interspecies cross-breeding project in 23 Skiddoo:

The At and the Rg are the ET races quietly working among us on planet Earth. They are here pursuant to a “deep state” memo of understanding whose legal authority derives from an interstellar Compact between “us’ and “them.”

But Project Lobster is only semi-legal; it has come about largely through the efforts of renegade factions from each race. Selectees were seduced, in turn, by a renegade faction within Ultra, the cryptocracy’s ruthless ET intelligence and control agency. Ultra, however, is most active in the Western Hemisphere.

A whole other black ops system is in place in the East, namely in North Korea. And readers of 23 Skiddoo do not find out until they are well along in the book that North Korea has developed its own parallel “Project Lobster.” The abomination of their unholy union goes by the name “K-Ragt.” Obviously, the “K” stands for “Korean.” But it also imparts a discount chain sensibility that is easily associated with big box store “K-Mart” (similar to the Korean-American chain of food stores dubbed “H-Mart”). “K-Ragt” implies a cheap, knock-off of Ragt. There is reason to believe that this is the case because readers discover that the North Koreans have a mole ensconced in Project Lobster. Readers can assume that the North Korean project has gained the momentum it has due in large part because of information fed back to its mother country by this mole.

In any event, the creatures, Ragt and K-Ragt, have come into our world not by their own initiative but by the scientific know-how of these deep state projects. They are thus innocents, albeit highly intelligent and dangerous innocents. They are described on page 422 as being an endangered species—and they are! There are only two creatures like them in the entire universe and they are being closely scrutinized. Their continued existence is tenuous at best. Their seeming loss of innocence occurs when they start on their “killing sprees.” But who can fault them? They are intelligent cross-bred ETs who have been subjected to degrading conditions, and their drive for self-preservation is only natural.

Soon they are considered for termination and targeted for extinction. And so, these body-and-soul-slurping ethero-carnivores begin to take evasive action. As they mature they start to shed their predatory instincts and begin to develop “higher selves.” But alas, it is too late for them—or is it? On the physical plane, they perish; but on an etheric level they survive. Their spirits—consciousness or life force—escape the planet.

The two set their sights on the stars. There were so many choices! Their favored plan was to search out and settle on a planet whose nascent organic life consisted only of the elemental prokaryotes. Here they would park their etheric bodies. Here they would reign. This would be their world from the ground up. These simple slime would organize themselves, slowly but surely, through eons of time. The primal life would adapt to the contours of their Ragt-like selves—the templates, the basin attractors of a cosmic auto-genesis that is the source of all life, all development, all creation.

They soon went on their way, leaving the Earth to its own confusion and immorality, its false reality, its evil, its petty squabbles, its anti-life impulses. It surely was no place they wanted to call “home,” not when there were so many better alternatives. For them, it was Arrivederci Roma!—now and forever more. And they transited inter-dimensionally, through their customary wormhole, leaving memories of themselves way back behind them, memories that would soon morph into a myth-like legacy—not unlike that of the fabled dragon of yore. (p. 456-457)
And suddenly the monsters are not these hideous creatures anymore—the monsters are us humans (and our ET allies). Suddenly we see our own world, once-upon-a-time begotten by similar creatures, having done whatever was necessary to survive and to regenerate the species, even if that means despoiling the ecosphere of the planet in a million different ways. Suddenly readers might feel some empathy for these “abominations.” They may see their ancient roots in these creatures—a facsimile of their primordial selves are perhaps staring them in the face.

And as Ragt and K-Ragt settle-in to their new home on a planet far, far away from the boom, boom, boom of this place, they become progenitors of life; templates for how all life emerges, perhaps—roiling, heaving, surviving, only in a refuge wherein they can calm themselves in blissful thoughts of autogenesis. Maybe life works exactly this way; the incarnate involution of creation tries and tries and tries again to get it right, even though such self-initiated experiments give rise to a jumbled chaos of all sorts of possible permutations, the “human” one being only one in a long string of horrendously beautiful outcomes.

Finally we come to the subversive crossroads: If we detect a metaphor in the tale of Ragt and K-Ragt, then we might ask ourselves—how many other “outsiders” in our world are “targeted for extinction”? And just how might the souls, the consciousness, the life force of such tenacious, cultural mutant outsiders continue on, in spite of the odds against them? Considering the odyssey of our anti-heroes, the reader is certainly left in a “strangely ponderous state.”

Saturday, June 11, 2016

"Slurp" Defined

We found Sos, lounging in languid self-oblivion at Dewey Beach, his Janus-faced jindo dogs on either side of him. The waves were lapping, as low tide was ebbing away from his encampment. Somewhere the paint was peeling and the light bulbs were burning out, while he watched the dune grass grow…

We took the opportunity to interrogate him on an issue that had baffled us. Sos not only had the answer to our question, he pulled out a wrinkled page he had written and read us his response! (Obviously he had anticipated this concern of ours.)


Q: What is that “slurping” noise mentioned throughout 23 Skiddoo and what does it mean?

A: That “slurping” noise, like the results from the saliva tests that were conducted after the grisly murders, is never really explained to the reader. “Slurping” is also used to describe how Ragt and K-Ragt devour their prey. (pgs. 415, 451-452)

The sound itself is produced by the action of sucking excess saliva or other liquid in combination with air. Thus, in the book, “slurping” is related to “labored breathing” (p.67) or “heavy breathing” (p.296). In these two instances the sound emanates from behind a door, viz., when Sos is dealing with the bellboy Quint at his hotel in Providence, and before Vatina admits her financial adviser, Gerd, into her fortified home in Rhine.

Besides creating images, i.e., “sights” for the reader, the author seeks by his writing to titillate the auditory senses by conjuring up sounds. (Why not smells and tastes and tactile sensations too, to engage and enrapture the reader’s total sensorium?)

Consciousness theorist Jean Gebser associates Magic Consciousness with its “organ emphasis”: the viscera and listening ear. (By “viscera” we mean the internal organs in the main cavities of the body, especially those in the abdomen, e.g., the intestines.) In its efficient and deficient forms, the Magic manifests, respectively, as “spell-casting” and “witchcraft.” And so we might imagine “spooky” sounds entering the auditory canal and reverberating within and throughout the whole of our organic being—not an unknown phenomenon to “viscerally feel,” e.g., the loud crash of a motor vehicle or some other frightfully shocking noise. (Or, as in the case of this “slurping” sound, it is its unexpectedness and the puzzlement as to its origin that bedevils the listener; the viscera are slightly frozen and tingly, while one listens intently, giving rapt attention to the source and its possible meaning.)

We sometimes hear things that cannot be definitively traced to a source. This nurtures a sense of magic all the more, as befuddlement trumps our rational ability to figure out and explain something our senses tell us is there none-the-less. Such phenomena can instill fear—fear of the unknown—and this, in turn, might pry open our souls, our consciousness, our life force, enough for a malevolent force to gain entry; at least this is a premise to be found in 23 Skiddoo.

One can think of “slurping” and “hissing” (p.79) as attributes of reptiles. The Rg are referred to, either directly or obliquely, as “reptilian,” and the epithet is often used to imply a relationship to the corrupt state leviathan or to something otherwise demonic. With regard to our cross-breed abominations, this begs the question, “Just how reptilian (Rg) are these Rg/At combos?” Given their propensity to “slurp” I believe the answer is that, at least with respect to this attribute, the Rg gene is dominant during its formative, developmental stages.

And so, what of the “slurp”? Like the unknown results of the saliva tests, it is left up to the readers’ imaginations to make sense of this auditory phantom—to piece together the science that might explain the phenomenon. And if science fails us, then perhaps there are tools of science as yet undiscovered to help us make sense of “reality.” I would venture to say that this slurping noise might represent the gathering of negative energies that build like a swarm-cloud of negative ions before a diabolical act is actually committed. At least there’s one speculation.

Now, how about making a run to the nearest 7-11 to fetch me a Slurpee? It’s hot out here!

And we agreed, as payment in-kind, to run that weird errand, leaving the sub-genius in the complete oblivion of the “slack” that enveloped and bathed him in its multi-layered calm, staving off the erratic, electro-magnetic energy fields that sought to sap his optimism and impose its false consciousness upon him.

All Hail BOB![1]


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1 Official Website of The Church of the SubGenius,™ Maintained by The SubGenius™ Foundation, Inc. in the name of J.R. “Bob” Dobbs–High Epopt & Living Slack Master. (n.d.). http://www.subgenius.com

The Author Responds

May 17, 2016

Dear Kirkus:

It appears that the reviewer is a person who falls into the second category, "the absolute skeptic," as outlined on page viii of my Introduction. As such, I question whether he or she has read the entire work. One has to read the work through until the end, not only to figure out where it is going and the points and meaning it makes, but, more importantly perhaps, to know where it's been. This work uses a common literary device to take the reader back in time to explain or "fill out" actions that at first appear to the reader as puzzling, inexplicable or mysterious.

Tags such as "New Age philosophy" and "conspiracy theorist" reflect the reviewer's own biased, editorial judgments, that ultimately morph into condemnation:

"readers who aren’t “true believers” will likely find this rambling combination of space opera and conspiracy theory unengaging."

Once I have been tagged as a "New Age conspiracy theorist," the following, otherwise accurate, observation conveys the intended, subtextual taint:

"Citations and footnotes sprinkled throughout the text indicate that this book is located within a nexus of conspiratorial research"

While it is true that 23 Skiddoo asks a lot of its readers -- the subject matter is unorthodox and its inter-weaving plot lines are somewhat complex -- this reviewer appears to have gotten overcome by the effort it requires.

"So many different characters juggle so many different plotlines, often with inscrutable motives, that it’s sometimes hard to tell what’s going on."

The words "paranoia," "inscrutable," "unengaging," and "diatribes" are used repeatedly in this review. In other words, this reviewer is both the author's and the main character's worst nightmare, representing as he or she does, the exact wrong type of person to have reviewed this work. The result is a complete inability to plumb its ontological depths, and a failure to connect up motivations or to apprehend its overarching meanings (culled as they are from characters' "philosophies and beliefs," and the multi-layered symbols and metaphor and the dream-like landscapes that permeate this thought bomb sci-fi thriller.) For example, the reviewer mentions that Mr. Moth, the ghost writer in the attic, is addicted to "Little Debbie Snack Cakes" -- Sos "sees" these in his attic. Further on in the story, Sos's wife, Ki-Rook, instead "sees" chewed up cardboard and animal droppings up in the attic. So the reviewer latches onto only one layer of something that changes according to the eye of the beholder -- an apt metaphor for this reviewer's own limitations perhaps?

Kirkus may indeed have a variety of reader/reviewers out there, but given the "not-so-subtle viciousness" of this review, I wonder how many Kirkus reviewers have the where-with-all to comprehend and appreciate subversive, metapolitical works of this sort.

One of the purposes of the book, as I mention in the final paragraph of my Introduction, is to paint a vivid portrait of researchers such as Sos; to stand in his shoes by use of a "heuristic technique of immersion in the context" of such "overwhelm" and "tail-chasing" commonly encountered when the "dissociated self" attempts to "come to grips with the machinations of control systems." And so I tried to prepare the reader for what was to come, but this preparative signpost was ignored or otherwise apparently lost on the reviewer.

Though I am disappointed, this sort of thing was not totally unexpected. Minion gatekeepers of reality (as more fully described in the very first paragraph of my Introduction) tend to be hard on cultural mutants.

Yours truly,

Wyman Wicket