#I have like NEVER HEARD music that could possibly live up to the cosmic scale of Ram and Bheem’s love

[hag-lad]

RRR and the Ram/Bheem fandom have given me so much life lately, it’s actually hilarious. I’ve been feeling so happy, happier than I’ve felt in years, and I literally think it’s just because of this movie and the fandom. I feel changed by it, healed in a way I never thought a fuckin action movie could ever heal a person. I’ve been inhaling the best fic I think I’ve ever read in my life??? This fandom has some seriously talented writers, it’s unbelievable. I’ve been sleeping and eating better, just feeling a lot better about everything in my life. Idk, maybe it’s just my new meds are finally kicking in and I’m over-attributing it to my current hyperfixation. But goddam, I love RRR so much.

[buzzdixonwriter]

My Five Most Influential

Someone asked:   Who are the most influential writers in your life?

Good question.

The broad answer is that one gets influenced many different ways by many different sources.  I enjoy poetry and song lyrics because they find ways of conveying the strongest emotional content in the most concise manner, music brings a sense of dramatic rhythm and fulfillment, the visual arts suggest ways of subtly adding many insights to a single strong idea, etc., etc., and of course, etc. (and that is also an example of a creative influence in my work).

But…to boil it down to those whom I most consciously made an effort to emulate, we find ourselves facing five creators that primed the pump.

This is not to say others whom I began following after them didn’t wield a lot of influence (thanx, Ernie, Bert, Jack, Bob, and Hank!) but these are the foundation of everything I’ve done in my career.

(And to those who notice a lack of diversity, I know, I know…but to be honest I have to acknowledge the truth, and the truth is for whatever reason, by chance or by choice, by fate or by fortune, these five dominated my sensibilities.  I trust that I’ve grown and expanded my horizons since then, but they’re the hand I got dealt.)

. . . 

Carl Barks

I loved ducks as a kid and my grandmother and aunt would always bring me a passel of duck-related comics when they came to visit.

There were some Daffy Duck comics mixed in there but while I know I looked at and enjoyed them, none of them stick in my mind like the Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge stories of Carl Barks.

Typically my grandmother would read these comics to me and I’d imprint the dialog and captions in my brain, replaying them as I looked at the pictures over and over again.

Barks never wrote down to his audience, and his stories covered a vast array of genres, everything from straight domestic comedy to oddball adventures to screwy crime stories.

Donald and his nephews encountered dinosaurs more than once (another big favorite of mine), and Uncle Scrooge setting out to explore the asteroid belt in order to find a new home for his fabulous money bin was another tale I loved literally to pieces, but A Christmas For Shacktown remains my all time favorite graphic novel.

I’ll concede there are better graphic novels, but none of them warm my heart the way that Christmas story does.

Barks showed it’s possible to combine heart (not to be confused with sentimentality or =yuch!= schmaltz), vivid characters, and strong, intricate narrative.  His plots where typically filled with unexpected twists and turns but his characters were always deeply involved in them, not just along for the ride.

He’s one of the greatest storytellers in the 20th century, and his work remains timeless enough to last for several centuries to come.

. . . 

Ray Bradbury

The first Ray Bradbury story I remember encountering was “Switch On The Night” in its 1955 edition, read to my kindergarten class towards the end of the school year.

This would place the event sometime in the spring of 1959.

“Switch On The Night” captivated me because it was the first story I’d ever heard that showed what could be seen in the dark that couldn’t be seen in the day.

Even as a child, it made me realize the night wasn’t scary, but contained wonders and insights we miss in the harsh glare of day.

I don’t recall if the kindergarten teacher told us the name of the author, and if she did it didn’t stick, but boy howdy, the story sure did!  Did it open the doors of the night for me, or was I already inclined to be a night person and it simply confirmed that as a valid identity?

I dunno, but I’m typing this right now at 12:24am.

And the thoughts Bradbury planted in little Buzzy boy’s brain stayed and grew and flowered, as you can read in my poem, “The Magic Hours Of The Night”.

The next time I encountered Ray Bradbury’s writing was in grammar school, certainly no later than junior high.  I was already interested in science fiction by that point, and had read “The Pedestrian” in one of my school English books (we weren’t taught the story in class; the teacher skipped over it for whatever reason but I read it anyway then re-read it and read it again and again).

Anthony Boucher’s ubiquitous 2-volume A Treasury Of Great Science Fiction was in my grammar school library and in it was Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” (which I would later learn was one of his alternate Martian Chronicles and a crossover with Fahrenheit 451) and in that story he offered up a veritable laundry list of outré and outlandish fiction to be tracked down and read, authors to dig up and devour.

Oh, man, I was hooked.

So of course I began looking for all the stories and writers Bradbury listed in his short story but I also began looking for Bradbury’s own work and before you could say, “Mom, can I get a subscription to the Science Fiction Book Club?” I’d read The Golden Apples Of The Sun and A Medicine For Melancholy and R is For Rocket never once dreaming that at some point in the future the roadmap Ray plopped down in my lap would eventually lead to us being co-workers (separate projects, but the same studio at the same time) and friends.

There is a beautiful yet deceptive simplicity to Ray’s work, and even though he wrote his own book on writing (The Zen Of Writing) that has lots of good insights and professional tricks & tips, he himself wasn’t able to explain how he did it.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a good Ray Bradbury parody.

I’ve seen parodies that clearly are intended to evoke Ray Bradbury, but only in the same way a clumsy older relative might evoke Michael Jackson with a spasmodic movement one vaguely recognizes as a failed attempt at a moonwalk.

But, lordie, don’t think we didn’t try to emulate him, and while none of us fanboys ever came close, I think a lot of us did learn that less is more, that the right word carries more impact than a dozen paragraphs, and that there’s magic in even the most ordinary of things.

And of course I discovered the film and TV adaptations of his work, and in discovering them I also discovered that there are some things that just can’t be translated from one media to another, and that the light, effortless appeal of Ray’s work on the page (paper or pixel) can at best be recaptured with a good audio book reader but even the best dramatic adaptions -- even those by Ray himself -- are cold dead iron butterflies compared to the light and lively creatures flying about.

So eventually I stopped trying to write like him, and instead picked up the valuable lessons of mood and emotion making an impact on a story even if the plot didn’t make much logical sense.

Decades later I would become a fan of opera, and would learn the philosophy of all opera lovers:  Opera doesn’t have to make logical sense, it just has to make emotional sense.

Ray Bradbury, opera meister.

. . . 

H.P. Lovecraft

As noted above, Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” tipped me to numerous other writers, first and foremost of which turned out to be Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

Okay, before we get any further into this, let’s acknowledge the woolly mammoth in the room:  H.P. Lovecraft was a colossal asshat racist.

He was a lot of other terrible things, too, but racist is far and ahead of the rest of the pack.

It’s a disillusioning thing to find people one admired as a youngster or a teen later prove to have not just quirks and eccentricities and personal flaws, but genuinely destructive, harmful, and offensive characters.

I’ve posted on that before, too.

How I wish it were possible to retroactively scale back that hurtfulness, to make them more empathetic, less egregiously offensive (in the military sense of the word), but that ain’t so.

We have to acknowledge evil when we see it, and we have to call it out, and we have to shun it.

Which is hard when one of its practitioners provides a major influence in our creative lives.

Here’s what I liked about Lovecraft as a kid:  He was the complete opposite of Ray Bradbury.

Bradbury’s instinctive genius was in finding the right word, the simple word that conveyed great impact on the story, drawing the reader into the most fantastic situations by making them seem more familiar on a visceral level.

Lovecraft achieved the exact opposite effect by finding the most arcane, bedizened, baroque, florid, grandiloquent, overwrought, rococo verbiage possible and slapping the reader repeatedly in the face with it.

If Bradbury made the unreal real, Lovecraft made the weird even more weirder.

And let’s give this devil his due:  The Strange Case Of Charles Dexter Ward and The Dunwich Horror are two masterpieces of horror and serve as the bridge between Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King, not to mention his creation of Cthulhu and other ancient entities existing beyond the ken of human knowledge…

…oh, wait, that’s where the story simultaneously gets messy yet provides a convenient escape hatch for fans.

While Lovecraft created Cthulhu, he did not create the Cthulhu Mythos.

That was primarily the invention August Derleth, a writer / editor / agent and H.P. Lovecraft’s #1 fanboy.

Lovecraft had some loosely related ideas in his stories and several themes he revisited repeatedly (in addition to racism).

He also had a circle of fellow writers -- including such heavy hitters as Robert “Psycho” Bloch and Robert E. “Conan” Howard -- who picked up on his ideas and, as way of a tribute, incorporated them in some of their stories.

Derleth took all this and Lovecraft’s unfinished manuscripts and short ideas he jotted down and turned it into a whole post-mortem industry, linking all of Lovecraft and other writers’ tales.

And he did a damn fine job of it, too.

So much so that the Cthulhu Mythos has taken on a life of its own, and pretty much anybody can play in that cosmic sandbox now (including Big Steve King and a ton of Japanese anime) and so Lovecraft’s works have an enormous influence on pop culture…

,,,but Howard hizzowndamsef can be -- and is -- cancelled.

Derleth and various biographers downplayed Lovecraft’s virulent racism for decades, and I don’t think Ray Bradbury was ever aware of the scope and tenor of Lovecraft’s bigotry when he name checked him in “Pillar Of Fire” and other stories.

In a similar vein Bradbury didn’t know -- because thanks again to overly protective literary executors, nobody knew -- just how big a racist asshat Walt Whitman was, either.  It is one thing to call shenanigans on a Bill Cosby or a Harvey Weinstein or a Donald Trump because their egregious behaviors were noted long before they were held accountable, but quite another to do so on a creator who died while hiding their most awful behavior from thousands if not millions of fans who felt inspired and uplifted by their work.

It’s one thing to call out a contemporary bigot and not support them by not buying their work, it’s quite another when their bigotry has been shielded from view and fair minded, decent people have used their work to draw inspiration into their own creativity.

Of course, I had no way of knowing all this when I was in junior high and seriously began tracking down Lovecraft’s work.  

He possessed a flair of the horrific and unearthly that to this day is hard to match (but easier to parody).  He was a tremendous influence on my early writing (truth be told, I zigzagged between Bradbury’s stark simplicity and Lovecraft’s overarching verbosity, giving my early oeuvre a rather schizophrenic style) and the ideas he sparked still reverberate to this day.

If only he hadn’t been such a giant %#@&ing asshat racist …

. . . 

Harlan Ellison

In a way, I’m glad neither Harlan nor his widow Susan are alive to read this.

I cherished Harlan as a friend and greatly admired his qualities as a writer.

But damn, by his own admission he should have been thrown in prison for aggravated assault on numerous occasions (he was courts martialed three times while in the Army).

We’re not talking about arguments that spiraled out of control until a few wild punches were thrown, we’re talking about Harlan by his own admission stalking and ambushing people, knocking them unconscious or causing grievous bodily harm.

We’re talking about sexual abuse and humiliation.

We’re talking about incidents he admitted to which if true put people in life threatening situations.

And yet ironically, in a certain sense Harlan (a bona fide Army Ranger, BTW) was like the U.S. Marine Corps:  You’d never have a greater friend or a worse enemy.

I became dimly aware of Harlan in the late 1960s as I started diving deeper into literary sci-fi, transitioning from monster kid fandom to digests and paperbacks.  Harlan first caught my attention with his macho prose (years later a similar style also drew me to Charles Bukowski) in stories like “Along the Scenic Route” (a.k.a. “Dogfight on 101”) in which Los Angelinos engaged in Mad Max motor mayhem but soon it became apparent the macho posturing was just a patina, that the heart and soul of much of the work reflected great sensitivity and often profound melancholy (ditto Bukowski).

Harlan was a fighter, and again by his own admission, he acknowledged in his later years that he was not a fighter because his cause was just, but rather sought out just causes because he knew he would be fighting regardless of his position, yet possessed a strong enough moral compass to point himself in the direction of a worthy enemy…

…most of the time.

He hurt and offended a large number of innocent and some not-so-innocent-but-certainly-not-evil people.

He also helped and encouraged a large number of others, people who had no idea who he was, people who had no way of adequately reciprocating his kindness and generosity.

He defended a lot of defenseless people.

He also mistakenly defended a lot of terrible people.

If someone tells me Harlan was a monster, I’ll agree:  Monstre sacré.

What made his writing sacred was that no matter how outlandish the situation, Harlan dredged up from the depths emotions so strong as to be frightening in their depiction.

Skilled enough not to lose sight of humanity, outlandish enough to conjure up ideas and emotions most people would shy away from, Harlan hit adolescent Buzzy boy like an incendiary grenade.

Unlike my first three literary influences, Harlan was and remained active in the fannish circles where I was circulating at the time.  He regularly wrote letters and columns for various fanzines, including a few I subscribed to.

In a literary sense he stood, naked and unashamed, in full view of the world, and that willingness to go beyond mundane sensibilities is what made his work so compelling.

He certainly fired me up as an adolescent writer, and proved an amalgam of Bradbury and Lovecraft that got my creative juices flowing in a coherent direction.

I don’t think I ever consciously tried to imitate him in my writing, but I sure learned from him, both in how to charge a story with emotion and how to fight for what’s right regardless of the blow back.

I loved him as a friend.

But, damn, Harlan…you could act so ugly...

. . .

H. Allen Smith

Who?

Most of you have never heard of H. Allen Smith, and that’s a damn shame.

I’d never heard of him either until I stumbled across a coverless remaindered copy of Poor H. Allen Smith’s Almanac in a Dollar General Store bin in Tennessee in the late 1960s (it was a memorable shopping expedition:  I also purchased Thomas Heggen’s Mister Roberts and Let’s Kill Uncle by Rohan O'Grady [pen name of June Margaret O'Grady Skinner]).

Reading Smith’s editorial comments (in addition to his own essays and fiction he edited numerous humor anthologies) I realized I’d found a kindred soul.

Smith had a very conversational tone as a writer; his prose seemed off the cuff and unstructured, but he slyly used that style to hide the very peculiar (and often perverse) path he led readers down.

He sounded / read like a garrulous guy at the bar, one with a huge number of charming, witty (and delightfully inebriated) friends in addition to his own bottomless well of tall tales, pointed observations, and rude jokes.

Of all the writers mentioned above, that style is the one I most consciously tried to emulate, and one I seem to have been able to find my own voice in (several people have told me I write the same way I talk, a rarity among writers).

Smith was hilarious whether wearing an editor’s visor or a freelancer’s fool’s cap.  If you know who H. L. Mencken was, think of Smith as a benign, better tempered version of that infamous curmudgeon (and if you don’t know, hie thee hence to Google and find out).

Compared to my other four influences, Smith didn’t need to add the fantastic to his fiction:  The real world was weird and wacky and whimsical enough.

A newspaper man turned best selling author, Smith became among the most popular humorists of the 1940s-50s-60s…

…and then he died and everybody forgot him.

Part of the reason they forgot is that he wrote about things that no longer seem relevant (TV cowboys of the early television era, f’r instance, in Mr. Zip) or are today looked upon askance (and with justifiable reason; the ethnic humor in many of his anthologies may not have been intended as mean spirited, but it sure doesn’t read as a celebration of other cultures, viz his succinct account of an argument following a traffic accident between two native Honolulu cabbies rendered in pidgin:  “Wassamatta you?”  “’Wassmatta me’?!?!?  Wassamatta you ‘Wassamatta me’?  You wassamatta!”).

I’m sure I picked up a great many faults from Smith, but Smith also had the virtue of being willing and able to learn and to make an effort to be a better person today than he was yesterday, and better still tomorrow.

I’ve certainly tried applying that to my life.

Smith’s style was also invoked -- consciously or not -- by other writers and editors, notably Richard E. Geis, the editor of the legendary sci-fi semi-prozone, Science Fiction Review (among other titles).  Smith died before I could meet him, but while I never met Dick Geis face to face we were pen pals for over 40 years.

Geis certainly sharpened specific aspects of my writing style, but the real underlying structure came from H. Allen Smith.

Smith’s work is hard to find today (in no small part because whenever I encounter one in the wild I snap it up) but I urge you to give him a try.

Just brace yourself for things we might consider incorrect today.

. . . 

So there’s my top five. 

With the exception of Carl Barks and Ray Bradbury, none of them are without serious flaw or blemish (though Smith seems like a decent enough sort despite his fondness for X-rated and ethnic humor).

In my defense as an impressionable child / teen, I was not aware of these flaws and blemishes when I first encountered their writing (primarily because in many cases efforts were made to hide or downplay those aspects).

The positive things I gleaned from them are not negated by the negative personal information that came out later.

I can, for the most part re the more problematic of them, appreciate their work while not endorsing their behavior.

Ellison can only be described in extremes, but his fire and passion -- when directed in a positive direction -- served as a torch to light new paths (his two original anthologies, Dangerous Visions and Again, Dangerous Visions, pretty much blew the doors off old school sci-fi and belatedly dragged the genre kicking and screaming into the 20th century).

Lovecraft I can effectively ignore while finding entertainment value in the Cthulhu Mythos.

But I must acknowledge this isn’t the same for everyone.

For example, as innocuous as I find H. Allen Smith, if a woman or a member of a minority group said, “I found this in particular to be offensive” I’d probably have to say, yeah, you’re right.

But I can still admire the way he did it, even if I can no longer fully support what he did.

. . . 

By the time I reached high school, I’d acquired enough savvy to regard to literary finds a bit more dispassionately, appreciating what they did without trying to literally absorb it into my own writing.

I discovered for myself the Beat generation of writers and poets, the underground cartoonists of the late 60s and 70s, Ken Kesey, Joseph Heller, Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. LeGuin, and a host of others, some already alluded to.

Some, such as the Beats and Bukowski, I could enjoy for their warts and all honest self-reflection.

Yes, they were terrible people, but they knew they were terrible people, and they also knew there had to be something better, and while they may never have found the nirvana they sought, they at least sent back accurate reports of where they were in their journeys of exploration.

By my late teens, I’d become aware enough of human foibles and weaknesses -- every human’s foibles and weaknesses, including my own -- to be very, very cautious in regarding an individual as admirable.

While I will never accept creativity as an excuse for bad behavior, if a creator is honest enough and self-introspective enough to recognize and acknowledge their own failings, it goes a long way towards my being willing to enjoy their work without feeling I’m endorsing them as individuals.

It’s not my place to pass judgment or exoneration on others bad behavior.

It is my place to see that I don’t emulate others’ bad behavior.

Every creator is connected to their art, even if it’s by-the-numbers for-hire hack work.

Every creator puts something of themselves into the final product.

And every member of the audience must decide for themselves if that renders the final product too toxic to be enjoyed. 

    © Buzz Dixon

[joemuggs]

He’s Gone

Reposted from Facebook... 

Processing this one is really difficult. Andrew Weatherall's music and cultural influence were a staple in my life from the age of 15: probably the most consistent single musical thread for the 30 years since, in fact. I was, and am, a shameless, total fanboy. All my school, Quaker and university friends know what an obsessive I was - I sat outside HMV waiting for it to open on the day of release to get my 12" of "Higher Than the Sun", and hitch hiked from South Oxfordshire to Leicester to see Primal Scream with him DJing that same year... I was unutterably envious of older kids at sixth form who managed to get to Boys Own parties. His early remixes of Galliano, Yello, Throbbing Gristle, James, The Impossibles, The Orb etc etc etc joined so many dots, but crucially he led me to incredible older music - just his remix titles ("American Spring", "Nancy & Lee") alone were a springboard for discovery. They taught us what I'm now realising that the rest of the world is only now catching up with: that you CAN be into everything, that you CAN navigate the glut of information in our culture, as long as you understand the signposts, as long as you do it with skill and finesse, but also with a devil-may-care sense of adventure and humour that punctures any over earnestness, stops it being a dry, diagrammatic exercise, and makes what you're doing part of the living culture.

And as I got more involved with music and particularly club music he was always there. He was hugely supportive of Cristian Vogel and co, when the rest of the UK techno scene wasn't giving them the props they deserved. I constantly heard stories of him supporting artists like that (and more recently he lent his keen support to to Jabru after I passed him an album)... I had the opportunity to meet him a few times - first through Emma, Cristian and co, and later when I met Elliot who was working for Rotters Golf Club, and Richie who knew him of old - but was WAY too scared and introverted to, and he did after all have a formidable reputation. I did shout "you're great!" or "this is amazing!" at him in a couple of nightclubs, mind. But I continued following his every musical move, which were always great (see the articles I've posted already). From seeing him drop the acetate of "Sugar Daddy" after the lights came up in a sweat drenched Zap club, to feeling like the entire party was underwater at a Haywire Session, so wobbly was the bass, to seeing him play The Fall and the rawest rockabilly in an Islington pub, to playing dub in a beautiful light and airy Crystal Palace studio for a Moine Dubh session, to that cosmic-ambient NTS special last month - he kept delivering. The number of references to him in Bass, Mids, Tops show clearly how his influence has echoed down the generations, and been a vital connector through the music that I'm obsessed with.

I finally met him in person about 7 years ago: I saw him standing in a sunny field at Camp Bestival in his "impressionist painter on an away day" outfit, and plucked up the courage to say hi. He was, as you'll expect from all the stories that people have posted the last 24 hours, an absolute gent. He said "oh I know who you are" - always a scary phrase - but continued it by listing off a set of my things he'd read recently in the WIRE, picking out my report from DMZ's 8th birthday that year as just the sort of thing he likes: "a bulletin from something I haven't really got a clue about but I'm glad exists," he said. Funnily enough I then bumped into him again later that day at Burger King in Winchester Services and he said hi to the kids and again chatted jovially.

After that we stayed in touch. I interviewed him a couple of times, most notably around the first Woodleigh Research Facility album, and every so often I'd stop in at the Scrutton Street studio for tea and biscuits, and to swap tunes. And even allowing for the passive weed smoke, I would always come away inspired - he always had time to talk and always had something interesting to say about whatever was in the ether: I can remember discussing poetry, pop-reggae, apocalypse cults, Ozric Tentacles, Sir Henry at Rawlinson's End, the English landscape, The Cramps' fashion sense and indeed - in very great detail - biscuits. He was always up for hearing my harebrained ideas and helped a lot with the very slow evolution of my discussion events which eventually became the Ambient Salon, which he ended up participating in (refusing even the paltry fee I could offer, insisting it go instead to "local underprivileged kids or something"). His willingness to have faith in my frankly wacky idea, just because it sounded fun, gave me the proof of concept I needed to take it further, and I'd always thought that we'd do it again on a grander scale...

And that's the real gut punch isn't it? He was going to do so many great things. I never got to Convenanza in Carcassone because I assumed it would just keep going, building into more and more of a cultural staple. I'm sure eventually Lee Brackstone would have wrung a book out of him. He could have been a radio and TV presenter up there with the best of the best. Maybe he'd have carried through his threat to become a full time painter too. There was SO much possibility there. Like I said in the Mixmag obit, not only was he not jaded, he was the OPPOSITE. He was just getting started in so many ways. And he was always, always enabling idiots like me, unsung musicians, fringe characters, and just anyone who happened to get in contact if they caught his imagination. It is really striking that everyone I met through him - Tim, Nina, Sean, Caroline, Bernie, Lizzie, Keith and the rest - have been great, great people too, who carry that same sense of generosity of spirit, constant sense of enquiry and can-do attitude. My heart is broken for all of them especially, as well of course for his old-school friends from Boys Own times Terry, Cymon and co: I can't begin to imagine what it is like. The same goes for all those who became part of the close knit community - "family" is not an exaggeration - around A Love From Outer Space and the Convenanza festival. Reading the ALFOS FB group this last week has been really, really quite something. Friendships and marriages made, lifelong passions ignited, a genuine, flesh and blood community built, all around one man's vision... And so, so, SO much incredible music and culture being shared, impossible quantities of it, in fact. It's a lot.

[flaky-skarlet]

This story for my friend, whom yesterday was B-day ^^

Three wonders

    As a child, I was familiar with a hermit Shaman living in a dense coniferous forest. I had no home and family, and I had to wander to different places, until I came across strange house, in which lived the Shaman. He took me in and taught me a lot of things. I became his disciple, if I may say so. He loved nature, loved animals and birds. He cared for them as his children: to protected, healed, comforted. He long left the place, in which was born and lived. He said he didn't like that place and he doesn't like people. They have become hateful to their; he considered them a cruel race of beings. It seems that he long ago threw the human form. You can tell by his pointy ears like an elf and horns on his head. He says they're real, not fake, but I never checked. I just took his word for it.** *** ** *** **    One night a Shaman called me to walk with him through the woods. Strangely, it is quite rare for me anywhere with you take, especially to take a walk. But I agreed — do not miss this opportunity! My question is "Where are we going?" he said that "There is a time for everything". Again says their stupid puzzles! From this response, I scowled nose and slightly puffed out cheeks. After a bit he stood, and began to mutter something under his breath. "Conjures that whether?" - thought I to myself in my head. To my surprise the hermit took the form of a beast, similar to a slightly thin dragon or lizard. Whoa! I've certainly heard that he can do that -- take the form of animals — but I've never seen it with my own eyes. This was the first time, say, debut! Dropping belly to the ground, the beast growled affectionately, inviting me to sit on the back. I, after standing for some time in shock, still sat down, carefully, as if  fearful of something. I didn't mean to hurt him.- Now hold on tight!    I did not have time to carry out his orders, as the beast spread its great wings soared high above the fir trees. I'm a little cried out in surprise and almost fell. Very soon we were flying over the forest under fluffy clouds. I gently opened his eyes, gently straightened up and was stunned by what he saw: the View of the night nature is just amazing! Under us spread dark carpets of tall and fluffy fir-trees, light carpets of small glades and lawns with soft and fragrant grass of different kind, brilliant mirrors of lakes with cool water. And above us was a beautiful night the sky is a deep blue color, dotted with many big and small stars; something where I could see the tracks of cosmic clouds, and do the usual fluffy clouds.-That's beautiful!.. A view that takes your breath away! — I said enjoying the flight and looking at the beauty of the view. I gingerly opened his arms to the side and, giggled, said loud — I'm flying!- People are deprived of this sense of freedom. Yes, they can fly planes, parachute, but..-..But this is not comparable with these sensations! — I continue the words of the Shaman quietly giggle- Precisely, my disciple! — I think the dragon chuckled. - Now hold on tight!I guessed, that a Shaman intends to in free fall, because I jumped off with him and headlong flew down. I was sure he'd catch me in time because he was falling right next to me. I looked down: we fell right into the big lake! Before his surface I was wrapped in a cocoon of big wings and I felt a dip in the cool water of the lake. I shrank back into the chest of the dragon and closed his eyes, holding his breath. But then I felt unable to breathe under water. Magic again? Well, I'm not surprised. Well, is that a little bit. We gently descended to the bottom. By the way, it was sandy like the sea, which I was a little surprised. I looked at the Shaman and saw that he was already in his usual appearance. His glance directed upward and I, too, looked there. And again saw the extraordinary beauty, but of the underwater world: over our heads expanse of water swaying slightly and is illuminated by the dim light of the full moon, and the fishes seemed to be circling over our heads for sure in the dance, theirs gleaming scales. At the bottom of the seaweed slowly swaying beautifully from weak currents.-This miracle, too, people deprived of. Their the body not feeling all around, their eyes not observe such beauty! As long as you want. It's beautiful and amazing! - quietly spoke I, admiring.-Well, let's go to the beach. And then you have a cold — after some time he called me. We Shaman went ashore and spreading fire, we sat and warmed himself.- I'd like to show you the last little miracle. I trust you, I'm attached to you, so I can trust you with this secret miracle. - quietly began my the interlocutor. - I want to show you the music of my soul. Please close your eyes.    I obediently closed my eyes and relaxed. The shaman gently touched my forehead with his fingers, and my hand to his chest. I could feel his heartbeat under the warm clothes. Then quietly sounded lovely, calm melody. She poured exactly a trickle between the rocks, barely perceptible, barely audible. I tried to get as much as possible into its stream. I enjoyed it. I felt so peaceful and truly happy that I smiled involuntarily. The music ended and I opened my eyes- Thanks for trusting me. I will keep this miracle in my heart.. — I whispered, and hugged the Shaman, and continuing to smile like a fool or like an innocent child.    And the fire quietly crackling..

[gunslingerandy]

Shadowrun Ficlet

Something I banged out tonight after talking to a really cool dude about the Sixth World.  Unedited, so expect trash.

Rain fell on the streets of Seattle.  Not even the continual march of time dared stop that one possible cosmic truth.  Tonight those droplets glittered in the light of neons and backlit pixels.  Another night, another NERPs ad.  At least the water wasn’t eating through clothes.

Argent marched up the steps exiting the tube station, bathed in the glow of the illuminated shaft of her umbrella.  At the top, she glared across the way, and sighed heavily through gritted teeth at the blue neon sign, written in cursive: Ebey’s.  After seven attempts to ping the rigger on comms, she finally tracked him down.  

Readjusting the satchel slung across her shoulder, careful to prevent any of the downpour to seep in, she approached the curb, looked both ways, and plodded through the puddles collecting in the low spots to the door of the bar.

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No crowds gathered on the street.  No posters plastered the wall to announce “Live Music Tonight.”  It was a Monday night, after all.  

Still, Argent heard something from the dimly lit interior.  A message lit up her HUD.

“Find him?”

“Yeah.  At Ebey’s just like that guy at the electronics store said.  This slippery bastard...”

“We can get someone else, I guess?  Good luck with that, though.”

“If I go in there and he’s hammered, he’s on the drek list.”

“Your call.”

Transmission ended.  Her hand grasped the tarnished brass knob of an old wooden door.   With a twist, it swung open.  Argent stepped inside.

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It was a guitar she had heard from the street.  The fellow playing it sat on a makeshift stage off the center of the back wall.  The polished black body of the instrument glowed in the dim light, the reflections bouncing off of it caught her eye, like watching flames flicker in the night.

Her heels echoed off the slats of the floor, and once at the bar she settled into a stool.  She ordered a drink.  Watching the guitarist play, her jaw slacked up a bit.  Ice clinked in the glass as she took it, licking her lips as whatever synthetic bullshit that passed for a single malt scotch slithered past her tongue.  At least the ice was real.

Argent cracked her neck and let her shoulders fall.  She took another sip of her drink and leaned back.  She couldn’t believe her eyes, and really couldn’t believe her ears.  Her rigger could kick out the blues.

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Redline always entered a different realm when he played.  Encased within his bubble devoid of the world filled with shadows and noise, with every bend, hammer-on, pull-off, B7 chord, or whatever, he was a little more at peace.

The tune he played was soulful, mellow, sad.  It went well with the rain rippling in the streets.  After a few licks, he’d occasionally stare into the gleam of the chrome tuning keys adoring the head of a guitar that belonged in the hands of a King.  His hand slid down the neck, fretting here and there along the scales.  It was a dreary night, and his guitar was crying.

Guitar spent of all it’s tears, he emerged.  His chest rose and fell ponderously as a free hand reached for the glass under his chair, that same synthetic single malt scotch whiskey.  There was no applause, and that honestly didn’t bother him.  It was a Monday night, after all, and so he sat there satisfied to sip whiskey in silence.

He snapped his gaze to the bar when that silence was broken.  A woman with a familiar face sitting at the bar clapped gently.  He returned the sly grin that curled the corner of her lips upward, and made his way over to the bar.

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“What did I do wrong this time?”  He chuckled into his glass.

“Oh, only been trying to reach you for an hour and a half.  Nothing important.  Just a meet for a job.  You know, typical stuff.”

“Apologies for my absence.”

“Accepted, I suppose.  I have a copy of the agreement on Jeanne-D’arc you can review.  Pretty good take.  Five thousand each.”

“Wiz.”  

Argent stared at the gleaming guitar for a moment, allowing the last of passing viper of booze to slip past with a swallow.  Redline rested his empty glass onto polished mahogany.  With an unspoken agreement and a tiny gesture of his hand, the bartender returned with the half empty bottle, and walked away.

“You’re...pretty good, actually.  Definitely caught me off guard.  I expected you were here just to get shit-faced and be unreachable for a week.”

“Hey, I like to drink, but not that much.  Gotta work to drink, right, omae?” He filled the bottom of her glass, then his.  “Ebey let’s me come in on slow nights to practice.  She let’s me stash my gear here because my place doesn’t have room.  To reciprocate, I play a gig now and then as a storage fee and she throws in a few free drinks.”

“And you turn off your commlink?”

He shot her a glance and returned to his scotch.  “I like to keep to myself when I play.  I have my reasons.”

Argent screwed her lips into an awkward, spiraling grimace.  “Gotcha.”  Her head tilted backwards for a longer-than-average drink.  “So, how did you get into playing?  I mean, I heard that you gotta sell your soul to the devil, sign a contract written in blood, seal it with a kiss.  Any of those things true for you?”

Redline burst out laughing.  “Nah, only Robert Johnson did that, according to the legend.”  His elbow rested on the wooden surface behind him as he spun around.  “Right after...I lost my job with DocWagon, things got dicey.  Dicey enough to ruin relationships, and homes.  I decided that I just couldn’t stay anymore, and I started wandering.  First place I hit after ditching Atlanta was Memphis.  I made friends with some musicians there.”

He knocked back his drink, and poured another.  “They’d show me a few licks, and I guess I just had the hands for it.   Always liked the sound a guitar made, and pretty soon I was teaching myself how to play.  I went on the road a couple of times with some of them, kinda like a roadie.  After a bunch of shows, they’d ask me to join them on stage.”  

His shoulder’s lurched with a heavy breath.  “One night, there was a mix-up out back of one of the bars.  The man who played that guitar tried to stop it.”  He pointed to the black and chrome beauty that sat on the stage.  “He ain’t able to play it anymore.”

Another finished drink, another poured into his glass.

“Things kept getting hotter and hotter for me, so eventually I pulled out, guitar and all, came here.  The rest, as they say, is history.”

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Argent eyed the floor silently.  The seconds passing felt like an eternity.  She was so used to thinking in milli, nano, or pico seconds.  She eventually spoke.

“I’m sorry.  About your friend.”

Redline shrugged.  “More of a teacher than a friend.  But, now, I play regularly.  I don’t think I could stop now even if I wanted to.”

Argent sipped the last drop from the bottom.  Redline offered the bottle.  She took it and poured.

“Now,” he began.  “That’s on me.  Tell me one on you, Silver Woman.”

Her eye shot wide.  “How did you know?”

“I spent time in New Orleans.  I know a little French.  Le Femme D’Argent is your Matrix handle, right?  Means ‘The Silver Woman.’  Am I wrong?”

“No! No!  Spot on!  I’m impressed.”

“So, where did you learn to deck?”

“College, actually.  Spent a couple of years working on a Masters’ program.”

“You got a Masters’ degree?”

She took a drink.  “Never said that, did I?  No, there were some circumstances that changed my college career prior to completion.  Once I finally felt detached from those circumstances, I quit.  What I do now is no different than what I did then.  It all kind of works out.”

“I guess so.  So where did the name come from?”

“It’s from an old song.  Nearly a hundred years ago.”

Redline nodded and smiled.

Another long silence came, awash with the rain that continued to pelt the asphalt outside.  The bottle was nearly empty.  The two of them felt a little better for it.  Argent took another sip.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get into running?”

Redline’s demeanor shifted.  His eyes ran back and forth across the tracks of his past as his mind generated the episodes that made up his story.  He turned away to stare at the row of bottles across the bar from him.  “That,” he said finishing off one last rocks glass laden with golden synthohol, “was when I sold my soul to the devil.”

[torontohypnotherapist]

MAY 20 — GEORGE GURDJIEFF QUOTES

AS I LISTENED, I UNDERSTOOD SOMETHING ABOUT INNER EFFORT

"While I made the outer arrangements for the readings of Beelzebub's Tales, Mme. de Salzmann practiced the piano. She had played piano as a child, as all educated people play piano. Now she had to learn to play Mr. Gurdjieffs music, but not as she was accustomed to play. His music required something different. She worked at it from morning until night. Once as I came up the elevator, I heard her playing Gurdjieffs music on the piano. As I listened, I understood something about inner effort. I had translated words about effort, but I hadn't really known what it meant."

~ Louise Goepfert March “The Gurdjieff Years” ...

FOR THE MOMENT, YOUR PARENTS ARE YOUR GOD

Questioner: I notice in myself a dryness, an absence of emotions. I live either in indifference or hostility. What is to be done?

Gurdjieff: You interest me. I wish to help you. Are your parents still alive? We have not known them, but perhaps they had souls. Perhaps they suffered. They cannot do any more where they are, they have no bodies. You must do something for them. You must think of them. You must picture them to yourself, see them again, have their faces before your eyes, you must think of all that you owe them. You are a small piece of them, of their life. You must love them, express your gratitude to them. Think back on all they have done for you. You must see your mistakes toward them. Persist in this, reconstruct the scenes when you made them suffer, perhaps cry. Re-live the times when you were a bad child. You must have remorse of conscience. Remorse. One must suffer voluntarily to repair. One must pay for the past. The past must be repaired. Search in your past. Create remorse. Doctor, you also do this exercise. For the moment, your parents are your God. You cannot know God. He is too far away. There is no place for Him in you. Your parents are God, they are the future place for God in you. You owe them everything, life, everything. Work first with them; after there will be other exercises.

Questioner: I have done the work which you gave us. Really, I love my parents very much and I have discovered a very special quality of emotion; during one second perhaps, one particle of real love, also great suffering, a real suffering for my sins toward them. Of remorse. The two emotions were there at the same time, very vivid suffering and happiness given by the feeling of love. It was the remorse which brought happiness, for after that disappeared the happiness also disappeared. Sometimes when I am attending my patients I have discovered in myself for a second emotions of love of the same quality. And at that moment I could relieve their physical sufferings and bring them a feeling of happiness. Is there a connection?

Gurdjieff: Real love is the basis of all, the foundations, the Source. The religions have perverted and deformed love. It was by love that Jesus performed miracles. Real love joined with magnetism. All accumulated vibrations create a current. This current brings the force of love. Real love is a cosmic force which goes through us. If we crystallize it, it becomes a power—the greatest power in the world. Later you will study magnetism in books, no matter which, it will give you material. And with love as a basis, you will be able to cure paralytics and make the blind see.

~ George Gurdjieff “Paris/Wartime Meetings” ...

THERE IS THE LAW OF EVOLUTION AND INVOLUTION.

"I will explain about development. There is the law of evolution and involution. Everything is in motion, both organic life and inorganic, either up or down. But evolution has its limits, as well as involution. As an example, let us take the musical scale of seven notes. From one do to the other there is one place where there is a stop. When you touch the keys, you start a 'do'—a vibration which has a certain momentum in it. With its vibration it can go a certain distance till it starts another note vibrating, namely 're', then 'mi'. Up to that point the notes have an inner possibility of going on, but here, if there is no outside push, the octave goes back. If it gets this outside help, it can go on by itself for a long way. Man is also constructed in accordance with this law.

"Man serves as an apparatus in the development of this law. I eat, but Nature has made me for a certain purpose, I must evolve. I do not eat for myself but for some outside purpose. I eat because this thing cannot evolve by itself without my help. I eat some bread, I also take in air and impressions. These come in from outside and then work by law. It is the law of the octave. If we take any note, it can become a 'do'. 'Do' contains both possibility and momentum; it can rise to 're' and 'mi' without help. Bread can evolve, but if not mixed with air it cannot become 'fa': this energy helps it to pass a difficult place. After that it needs no help until 'si', but it can go no further than this by itself. Our aim is to help the octave to completion. 'Si' is the highest point in ordinary animal life, and it is the matter from which a new body can be built."

~ George Gurdjieff “Views from the Real World” ...

IT IS THE CHIEF CONCERN OF MAN TO ‘WORK ON’ THE MOON.

It is the chief concern of man to ‘work on’ the moon.

All waste energy of our three centers goes to the moon by gravity without intention.

Was the snake in the garden personality tempting man to serve the Moon?

All our deaths go to serve the Moon.

Find out about the moon. Create in yourselves a moon.

What is the moon? A split off particle of our planet earth.

Why is the moon without reality but with influence? We never think of the moon as a reality - yet it pulls oceans.

Every outside manifestation has its psychological replica.

Why do we feel that way about the moon? Because there is something like that psychologically in us.

Some part of our psychology bears the same relation to us as the moon bears to our psychical life.

~ Kathryn Hulme "Conversations With Gurdjieff"

[how2to18]

1.

DURING MY JUNIOR YEAR of high school, I took piano lessons from a woman named Frances Thompson, who lived in a well-kept but fading ranch house on Grand Avenue, alone with her dying father. My lessons took place at night. I don’t remember why that was — possibly I’d asked for a late hour, to keep from cutting into my all-important regimen of time-wasting after school — but I remember the slight feeling of eeriness it created, the oddness of being in a place long familiar in the daytime but subtly transformed in the dark. Mrs. Thompson sat beside the bench, in her spindle-backed chair, wearing the big hexagonal glasses with their slender, drooping chain, and I sat on the bench, trying to coax my fingers into decoding the music I had once again failed to practice, and the brass lamp shone under its green shade on the upright, and in the windows stood a darkness that seemed to cut us off from the rest of creation, as if the studio were a kind of spaceship in which we were traveling.

That fall we worked on Bach — the French Suites, because they would teach me to play gracefully, she said. Playing gracefully wasn’t my strong suit. What I liked was to improvise, preferably at ear-bursting volume, in a mode inspired by the exquisite but agonizing passions of the tragic lovers in Merchant-Ivory movies I’d seen, and also in Merchant-Ivory movies I hadn’t seen, Merchant-Ivory movies that existed only in my imagination, where trembling hands were forever pouring glasses of brandy from cut-crystal decanters in front of hotel windows looking out across Constantinople, while the curtains blew in, filmily. I thought of this mode as “romantic.” I was good at dreaming up melodies Helena Bonham Carter might freeze to death in Australia to, somewhat less good at scales. Certainly Mrs. Thompson deserved better. She herself had studied with famous musicians, had lived in Chicago, had known something of the world beyond our barren patch of north-central Oklahoma. Probably every dried-up oil town in the United States has one music teacher whose pedagogical lineage traces back to Liszt; she was ours. She was elderly now, but there were moments when she talked about music with an expression at once so hard and so far away that even I understood she was looking into a realm I had never conceived of, much less visited.

She had standards, in other words. She wasn’t someone you could impress with little virtuosic tricks. Yet with me she was patient. She frowned but never criticized. She’d raise a hand to stop my sight-reading, give me small lectures on fingerings and voicings. We slide the thumb under the palm to keep the slurred passage even. We bring out the dissonances — see? — to register a harmonic shift. In Mozart we play allegretto lightly, lightly; and there were her hands on the keyboard, knobbed and spotted as if they’d spent a century or so under the sea, playing allegretto with a lightness that seemed simple, seemed like nothing at all, except that I couldn’t mimic it.

I wasn’t too thrilled about the French Suites. Not because I had anything against Bach. In fact it had been while playing Bach that I realized I loved classical music, one day when our seventh-grade orchestra was rehearsing the Little Fugue in G minor and I suddenly felt (I think the trombones had just come in) as though my brain were a cloud of fine golden particles through which sunlight was streaming. It was just that the pieces were so measured. To play them well took poise I hadn’t begun to develop. You had to be able to sustain multiple ideas, multiple processes, and develop them simultaneously, in all their complexity. Which meant you had to be able to get above yourself, to listen not just in the emotional thrall of the moment but with a kind of cosmic detachment. That was what Mrs. Thompson meant by grace; she meant you had to be the astronomer, and not, or not only, the supernova. I was 17. My ideal of pianism was that when you finished playing, your hair should be sticking up, because of passion. I had no frame of reference for Bach’s superb contemplativeness. Mrs. Thompson might as well have asked me to learn a different instrument. In a way, that is what she was doing.

“I figured it out,” I announced. “It just has to sound logical. Everything builds toward this weird major chord at the end.”

“Well,” she said. “Yes, but also no. Remember that an allemande is a dance. This is a suite of dances. So we’re thinking, but the thinking is dancing — dan-cing, dan-cing, dan-cing. Dancing, not banging, please.”

It was confounding to think she had a living father. Students never saw him. We entered the studio through a separate door, around back, and were never invited beyond, into the mysterious interior, where he was understood to dwell. Mrs. Thompson herself rarely mentioned him. Yet in a way his very implicitness intensified the weirdness of his being there. Coming into the studio already felt like stepping out of time. You had the little bust of Brahms, the rounds of lace. The antique metronome, like something that might have fallen back to Earth after Sputnik launched. Mrs. Thompson and I were from the same small town, but I knew it only in its current form, with its miles of strip malls on 14th Street and its three Sonic drive-ins and the constant quiet stress over how many jobs the refinery would shed next year. When she was a girl, the oil mansions were still being built. Where did her experience open onto mine? I had heard stories about our great tycoon, the scion of an ancient English family from the village of Ashton-under-Lyne, near Manchester; he had built a vast oil empire in the early 20th century, when Oklahoma was practically the Wild West. Mrs. Thompson remembered him from life. To me, she was ancient.

So the idea that, invisibly near, there was someone so much older; and that he was on the threshold between life and death, frozen there, somehow, for the old man had lain dying for years … It struck a note not at all like a Mozart allegretto. Now, from a distance of time, I think of what the duty of caring for him must have meant for Mrs. Thompson — the challenge of it, at her age, the expense, the waiting, possibly the grief. How it must have reordered her life. None of that occurred to me then. Or it did, but as something not wholly real, like the weather in another city. What was real was the feeling of being in a ghost story. I thought of the word “macabre,” which made me think of Poe, and the word “eldritch,” which I knew from Lovecraft (“the eldritch scurrying of those fiend-born rats”), and also from Dungeons & Dragons.

Once, only, I saw him. Mrs. Thompson collected sheet music. She’d been stockpiling it for decades. It overfilled her filing cabinets; stacks of it slouched on chairs and in the spaces under end tables. She needed this private library, she said, because she liked to consult alternate fingerings. In fact the impulse went deeper. I never had a music teacher who was more distrustful of memory. I, who memorized pieces faster than I could learn to play them, who couldn’t properly practice a measure until I knew it by heart, found this baffling. But to her way of thinking, it was dangerous to spend too much time away from the objective record of the printed page. Things slip. It was better to have a lot of music, even too much music, even an absurd amount of music, than too little. Too little and you risked becoming like Sviatoslav Richter, the great Russian pianist, who discovered near the end of his career that he’d spent 40 years playing a single wrong note in Bach’s Italian Concerto. He’d memorized the piece in his youth, but one tiny error had crept in, an f-sharp instead of an f-natural in the 47th measure of the second movement, the andante. And then, because his memory was prodigious, he’d replicated the mistake for decades, including on at least two recordings, without ever going back to check the score.

Mrs. Thompson wanted to look, that night, at a different edition of the French Suites, specifically the allemande that opens the second, in C minor. There was some question about what finger to use for the pivotal note in a run. I’d been playing it with my ring finger, as my yellow Schirmer’s Classics Library edition recommended, but she thought the pinkie might make more sense. We couldn’t find the book she wanted in the studio, and Mrs. Thompson didn’t quite feel like getting up from her chair, so she sent me into the house to continue the search.

I’d never been beyond the studio before. I walked down a dark hallway, toward what I supposed was the dining room, where the file cabinet she’d told me about was kept. The air was warm and had a stale-apricot, old-potpourri smell. Every so often thin lights would stretch along the wall and I’d hear the long sigh of a car sliding past on Grand; otherwise it was ticking-clock quiet.

Here was the file cabinet. I found the book, turned around to go back, and stopped, because the old man was in the room with me.

He was lying in a hospital bed. He’d been there all along; I hadn’t seen him because his bed was angled to face into the room, and so was partly hidden from the doorway. Now he was facing me. This was his sickroom, evidently. A metal stand with some sort of dangling clear sack stood beside the bed and was connected to it — to him — by tubes. The bed was raised so that he could partly sit up. A white sheet covered him to the chest. Over the foot of the bed someone had folded a patchwork quilt. His face was so thin it was as if it had been whittled down from a different person’s face.

I wondered if he was dead. I wasn’t sure how to tell. The summer before, I had gone with my father to the funeral of a distant relation, a huge man who lay in an open casket in a pair of dark blue farmer’s overalls, and I remembered how fragile he had looked, how strangely chastised, with his big hands folded over his work shirt, nose pointing up toward the lights. Maybe you can tell when someone is dead, I thought, because of the peculiar way in which they look alive.

After a hesitation, I said hello and gave him an awkward little wave. I heard him rustle in bed. He lifted his thin arm above his face, the elbow bent as if he were warding off a bright light. Then he straightened his elbow and I realized what he was doing. He was waving back at me. Arm raised above his head, he gave me a slow, exaggerated salute, as if he were hailing shore from a ship that was about to depart.

  2.

A few months ago, in a friend’s back garden in Los Angeles, I found myself paging through a book about the English Catholic poet Francis Thompson, who lived from 1859 to 1907. Thompson isn’t much talked about these days, but he wrote some of the most beloved religious poetry of the late Victorian era, work that for decades featured on Catholic-school reading lists, that was anthologized and memorized and admired by critics. (G. K. Chesterton called him “the greatest poetic energy since Browning.”) He also — this was the thesis of the book I was reading — might have been Jack the Ripper.

I know how that sounds, and you’re right to be skeptical. The case against Thompson is purely circumstantial. There’s no hard evidence. And at first glance Thompson is one of the least likely suspects imaginable. In photos, he looks like a fragile mystic. He stares out of a gaunt face with large, haunted eyes. He’s serious and celestial. At 47 he wasted away from tuberculosis. Before that he spent years semi-sequestered in monasteries, writing verses about God’s love. One of his poems, “The Kingdom of God,” contains the first use of the expression “a many-splendoured thing.” A person of strange intensities, clearly; an unsettling, even otherworldly person, but not someone you’d peg as a murderer.

Yet that very celestial quality, the sense, which Thompson strongly conveyed, that he could see into the world beyond our own, concealed a darkness — perhaps better to say it was a darkness, transmuted in his poems only through a keen effort of spirit. There’s a line Chesterton singles out in his essay on Thompson. Thompson is talking about the gulf between our world and what’s beyond it, and he says this gulf — he calls it a “crevasse” — is spanned by “Pontifical Death.” In two words, Thompson imagines death both as a bridge (a pont is a bridge, a pontifex is a bridge-builder) and as a high priest supervising the crossing over it. Which is a beautiful notion, until you look at it from a certain angle, at which point it becomes completely terrifying.

I didn’t know much about Thompson’s life, and I had to admit, as I slowly turned the pages, that some strange synchronicities emerged when you laid his biography over the timeline of the Ripper murders. Nothing definitive; just uncanny parallels, in a Dark Side of the Moon-played-over­-The Wizard of Oz sort of way. Not that I believed everything in the book, exactly. The author, an Australian schoolteacher named Richard Patterson, was an amateur sleuth who was pretty clearly excited by the thought of solving one of history’s greatest mysteries, and he was willing to indulge in a lot of irresponsible speculation to make his case. On the question of Thompson’s fire-starting and doll-mutilation, for example. Patterson had some evidence to suggest that during childhood, Thompson demonstrated a pattern of lighting fires and cutting open dolls, behavior that could be taken as an early indicator of psychopathic tendencies. However, most of this evidence was ambiguous — Thompson made a joke, say, about how cutting open a doll as a child had taught him never to look for a beautiful woman’s brains. Which is ugly and misogynistic, but not necessarily serial-killer talk. But instead of treating it as suggestive but ultimately uncertain, Patterson charged ahead with the intensity of a prosecuting attorney, brushing aside all doubt.

Before long I was reading the book on two levels. On the first level, I responded only to the facts about Thompson’s life. This had the effect of awakening in me an intense pity toward the poet, who suffered terribly in his time. On the second level, I responded to the alternate reality conjured up by Patterson, in which Thompson was in fact Jack the Ripper. This had the effect of completely freaking me out. Often this split consciousness meant that a single piece of information registered with me in two directly opposed ways. That was the case, for instance, with the issue of Thompson’s education. He grew up near Manchester, in the village of Ashton-under-Lyne, where he was known as a frail, taciturn, bookish boy, unpopular with other children. In his youth he trained to enter the priesthood. Then one day he returned home with a letter from the seminary college informing his father that it was God’s will that he should look for a different career. He entered a medical college and studied to be a surgeon, but he failed his exams repeatedly, again disappointing his family.

And here’s what I mean about my two levels of reading. On the first level, the level of fact, I found this story sad. It was clear that Thompson had been under extreme pressure to pursue a career for which he was temperamentally unsuited, and I could easily imagine the anxiety, the lying to his father, the rising panic as he realized he was again bound to come up short, would again be revealed as inadequate. (In fact he seems to have had a nervous breakdown at around the time he left medical school.) On the second level, though, the story helped build the case that Thompson was a murderer. Dr. Phillips, the police surgeon who attended three of the Ripper’s murder scenes and four of the subsequent autopsies, thought the killer must have had medical training, due to the precision with which the victims’ organs were removed. Thompson, who could be placed in the vicinity of the murders at the time of the murders, had had such training. He had spent hours in the college basement cutting up corpses. He had in fact, according to Patterson, begged his father for more money so he could afford more bodies to dissect. He was known to carry a surgical scalpel on his person. He said he used it to shave.

This weird doubling of response continued, in fact compounded, as I read, so that before I was halfway through the book I almost seemed to be reading two stories, two parallel but unconnected narratives, at the same time. The outward action was the same in each, but the meanings were different. You can guess, then, how disorienting it was to read about Thompson’s time in Whitechapel at the time of the five Ripper murders, in the late summer and fall of 1888.

Whitechapel, in London’s East End, was then one of the city’s poorest districts. Thompson was in his late 20s. He’d had little success as a poet. In medical school he’d gotten addicted to opium, and he was now living as a homeless vagrant in Whitechapel’s warren of narrow streets. He slept in shelters within walking distance of where the murders took place. Many nights he spent walking up and down Mile End Road, often in the grip of delirium. Some time before, he had fallen in love with a young prostitute, whom he credited with saving his life. She left him shortly before the Ripper began murdering prostitutes.

Thompson wrote poems on dirty scraps of paper and kept them in his pockets. Those that survive show a mind not exactly planted on firm rock. The hallucinatory violence and barely controlled mania of some of his drafts from this period are startling:

And its paunch was rent Like a brasten drum; And the blubbered fat From its belly doth come With a sickening ooze — Hell made it so! Two witch-babies, ho! ho! ho!

Even in the Christian masterworks, you find disturbing overtones. “The Hound of Heaven,” Thompson’s most celebrated poem, depicts a wayward sinner’s flight from, and eventual surrender to, God’s love. Read in a certain light, its monomaniacal focus on God’s relentless pursuit of the speaker might even seem to frame the relationship between deity and human as that between a murderer and his prey:

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days, I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears […]

From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.

It was a sunny afternoon in Los Angeles. Clusters of red and purple flowers swayed in the breeze as I turned the pages of Patterson’s book, drinking endless cans of the lime-flavored seltzer that Holly brought out from her kitchen. Without quite knowing why, I’d been listening for days to Bach’s Italian Concerto, repeating again and again the slow second movement, with the dirge of its left-hand part and the clear, cold aria of the right hand. I’d become mildly obsessed with Sviatoslav Richter’s recordings, as many people do with Sviatoslav Richter’s recordings, finding in them an intensity of focus that sets them apart from other musicians’. You feel, when Richter is playing, as if this music will be heard once, and then dissolve forever. In the garden, I played through my headphones a file I’d dug up online. It was a recording from the 1950s that preserved the mistake Richter had made when he memorized the piece — that one wrong note, almost unnoticeable, a 20th of a second where he’d shown a rare fallibility.

He’d have hated me for it. Richter was a perfectionist, not inclined to self-forgiveness, and he believed that the purpose of his playing was to serve the composer’s intention absolutely. That self-annihilating quality, never quite at ease with the obvious immensity of his talent, is part of what makes his playing so riveting. When Richter realized what he’d done, he didn’t find it “humanizing”; he was devastated. The very littleness of the imperfection galled. It was nothing, but at the same time it was everything, and it was irreversible. He issued an apology in the liner notes of a CD he released on the Italian label Stradivarius in 1991 — an astonishing thing for a pianist of his stature to do, to flagellate himself publicly over a slip Bach himself might not have worried about. From then on he played the piece as it was written.

To me, though, there was something irresistible in that false note sustained over decades, the f-sharp played instead of f-natural, the tiny broken stitch between Bach’s unchanging reality and the fluid world of an artist’s mind in performance. “Perfect” recordings of the Italian Concerto existed by the dozens, I reasoned; only this one offered that strange, fleeting glimpse into Richter’s mental experience. Where else could you hear a literal act of forgetting? It was magical.

That afternoon, as I sat reading and listening in Holly’s backyard, the music and the images from the Thompson story seemed to blend together, so that in my mind’s theater, Richter’s playing became a soundtrack for the perverse costume drama of Patterson’s book. I saw Thompson as a boy, swinging from a golden chain the thurible he used (so Patterson said) to start a fire in the seminary. I saw him slicing into the pale abdomen of a corpse at the medical college. I saw his eyes go out of focus as the first dose of laudanum kicked in. I saw him praying till his hands shook. In London, where he fled after his mother died and he could no longer hide his failure at school, he read De Quincey and the encyclopedia. He took opium to sleep. Poverty ground him hard: soon he was sleeping on sidewalks. At the British Museum Library he was turned away for being unclean. Cold, dark London: fog and gas lamps, horses’ breath, shadows on stone. Verses beating in his head. He submitted a crushed and barely legible manuscript to a Catholic magazine, Merry England, edited by Wilfrid and Alice Meynell, but he had no return address; he asked the editors to send his rejection to the post office. They accepted his poems, came to Whitechapel to find him, tried to get him off the streets. He refused to go. On the night of August 30, 1888, a warehouse fire went up in the West India docks along the Thames. Massive buildings burned. Flames visible for miles. The horizon a red glow. In Whitechapel the atmosphere was festive. Such a spectacle! Look what a jolly new bonnet I’ve got, Mary Ann Nichols sang when she was kicked out of her lodging house. She didn’t have fourpence for the bed. Alright, but there were plenty of men around after the fire — she’d earn it on the street.

She went by Polly. She was 43 years old. She’d been married and had five children, but that had all fallen apart. She was an alcoholic, herself intermittently homeless; she’d lived in and out of workhouses. A few months earlier she’d found a job as a servant in Wandsworth, but she hated the work and fled to Spitalfields with a bundle of stolen clothing. It was after one o’clock when she left the boarding house. Thompson was somewhere in the area. It’s not known precisely where, though he surely would have seen the fire. At 32, Polly Nichols’s roommate, Ellen Holland, ran into her at the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborne Street. Polly laughed that she’d earned the money she needed three times over but kept drinking it away. (And there it was, in the recording — the misplaced note, the false f.) That was the last time a witness saw her alive, though strangely, when her body was discovered an hour later, at 3:40 a.m., in the doorway of a stable, the carters who found her were unsure whether she was dead. I felt something move in her chest, one of them said. What happened during the previous hour no one knows, except that her throat was cut.

The threshold between life and death was a place Thompson visited again and again in his poems. “We unwinking see / Through the smoked glass of Death,” he wrote in one, and in another:

O world invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

It’s when I think about this threshold that I’m most strongly reminded of a passage written about Thompson many years later. By then he’d long since been rescued from poverty. Wilfrid and Alice Meynell eventually succeeded in getting him out of Whitechapel. They sent him to a priory in Sussex to recover from his laudanum dependency. (It was at this time, Patterson notes, that the Ripper murders ceased.) Soon, with the Meynells’ help, he began to win fame as a poet. The editors’ son, Everard Meynell, wrote a book about him. It’s somewhere between a biography and a memoir. The passage I’m thinking of is one where Meynell describes the poet’s love of music, which expressed itself particularly in an adoration of the piano. Standing at the piano, Meynell says, “he would gaze at the performer, his body waving to and fro in tremulous pleasure.” As a young man, he had shirked his studies at the medical college to attend musical performances. He would tell his father that a professor had kept him back to offer him extra instruction when in fact he had gone to the home of a pianist to hear music. When he was supposed to be studying anatomy, he listened to piano music. He could not play himself, but he knew a sequence of chords, and “he struck them,” Meynell says, “with such earnestness that I, as a child, was impressed by his performance.” He held down the keys as the notes, briefly suspended, decayed, crossing as they did so the uncertain bridge between what exists and what is gone forever.

¤

Brian Phillips is the author of the essay collection Impossible Owls, forthcoming in 2018 from Farrar, Straus & Giroux. He lives in Los Angeles.

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