|
My father’s Aristotelian faith, that’s enforced at the end of a strap or the back of a hand, flung me headlong into rebellion. I wanted to understand how people like him could see the world in only black or white, ignoring all the shades of gray in between, and totally overlooking all the colors of the rainbow. I refused to believe that the Old and New Testament is the sole depository of all knowledge and wisdom. I could not accept a worldview, where there’s only “One Truth,” where there’s only one God who rules, whose name is Jesus Christ. Therefore, I had long ago concluded that my dad’s selective, literalistic Biblical worldview was not acceptable to me.
Anyway, after checking out the latest adventures of Batman, I go on to my next pilgrimage site on Judah and Ninth, The Symposium Book Store. School is just a place for me to pass time; I long ago exceeded what they could teach me. My real education takes place here in this bookstore. Here I turn to, to use Robert Pirsig’s terminology, the Classical Quality of analysis, of rationality, of science and philosophy, seeking answers to the mystery that is called reality. But, my quest has been such a lonely one. I’m different. I’ve made myself different. A need within me has always pushed me farther than my fellows. I travel paths in the world of books way beyond the grasp of my peers. Beyond my years. Which means I travel alone. To assuage my loneliness and the boredom of that solitary life, I journey into to the alternate reality of science fiction and fantasy at another bookstore on Judah and Eighth called Elsewhere Books. I shrug away the clinging cobwebs of the past and focus on the here and now. I’ve worked out with the owner of the Symposium, Mr. Herb Wells, to have some shelf space in the back of the store for my own library, it helps that I work for him. I devised and maintained a book keeping system to keep track of his incoming and outgoing inventory. When I catch up on the work, I sometimes would buy a book and just sit back there, alone in the clutter of the storage area, lost in the world of letters, the gateway to the Universe. I can leave my limited container of a life and venture into the realms of the imagination, or into the mysteries of that which we call real. I would lose myself here for hours and have to be called back to this world by Mr. Wells reminding me that it was almost dinnertime at my house. Those stores, Comics & Commix, Sheer Illusions, Elsewhere Books and the Symposium, my house, my school, the nearby branch of the public library and my parents’ church, marked the physical boundaries of my world for much of my childhood. But, now there is another. When I walk into the Symposium, Mr. Wells calls out to me as if he can barely contain himself. “There you are! Kid, you’ve been seeing ‘her’ I hear.” “Huh?” Does he know about Basha? “Don’t try to hide it,” Mr. Wells says as he leans over the counter and motions to me to come closer, “I know. I still can’t fathom it. A mind wasted on such drivel.” “What are you talking about?” “You’ve been going to ‘her’ place in the Haight. Don’t try to pretend that you haven’t.” “Who is ‘Her’?” I ask puzzled. “Miriam. Miriam’s book store.” “Oh. Yeah. I’ve been there. Hey! How do you know this?” “The city isn’t so big that word doesn’t get around amongst independents like myself. I heard talk of a ravenous kid who devours books to feed his hunger. I knew who it was. There aren’t two of you.” “Yeah. There aren’t two of me,” I sigh. “Yeah, I confess, I’ve been going to Miriam’s bookstore. But, only on occasions. She has stuff that you don’t carry and I needed to...” “She has junk. Mumbo jumbo, pseudo-science, and stuff for the foolish rabble. Not for the likes of you, kid.” “But...” “You’re young and any dark corner of mystery is too tempting even for a mind as sharp as yours. So, I forgive you, I was young once. That’s why you’ve got to read this book, before your head gets filled with her puffery and shiny illusions. It’s amazing! It’s true that all our lives we’ve been staring at the shadows on the wall of our caves.” “What book?” “This one,” Mr. Wells says as he excitedly pulls a book out from under the counter and hands it to me. The white covered paperback book I am handed reverently is Julian Jaynes’s The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. “You do know what bicameral means?” Mr. Wells asks. “Sure. Bicameral means: two chambers, like our Congress. It’s a two-chambered legislative system. So?” “So! Jaynes’s conclusion is that the two halves of the brain talking to each other has shaped human civilizations from the get go.” “Explain. I’ve read Ornstein, so I know about the dualistic patterns inherent in our mind/body, by our bicameral brain. But, you’re talking about something more, right?” “Exactly. Jaynes says that all our ancestors, the ancient Greeks, Hebrews, Assyrians, Babylonians, Egyptians, etc., all the ancient peoples the world over, were not conscious like we are now. The whole notion of a conscious mind, an inner mind space, is an invented concept, born out of the pages of philosophers.” “Their brains were different than ours?” “Not physically different, but functionally different. They experienced their mental process differently than we do now, that is until the change. In all the ancient texts, Homer, myths, legends, The Bible itself, is there ever a word for a true equivalent of a mind? Heart, stomach, lungs, breath, all these were attributes of what we call mental phenomenon.” “Okay. I’ll buy that,” I agree, “There is no ancient word for mind. So what?” “Then how did they think? Ask yourself that? How did they plan or deal with the unexpected?” “Are you trying to tell me that just because they didn’t have a word for mind that they didn’t think?” “The fact that they didn’t have a single word for mind is significant because it demonstrates that they perceived the concept of the mind in a manner which is different from ours.” “That’s an example of the Whorf-Sapir hypothesis you keep harping on about, right?” I ask. “Correct, a variation of that.” “So, what did they have instead of our concept of the mind and how it works?” “The gods. The gods told them what to do. All ancient peoples speak of seeing and hearing the gods.” “Yeah. So, what’s the big deal? That isn’t anything new.” “You don’t get it. That talk is literally true. Jaynes says that the gods did actually speak to them. The gods are signals that come from the right brain. The gods are what our ancestors had in place of a conscious mind, and for that matter, any sense of a mind at all. You see the ancients lived in a sort of Zen space of ‘all is present’. They had no self-reflection. Jaynes believes that consciousness is a learned process of thinking. We now live with our own inner voice chatting in our heads all the time, right?” “Yeah. I’m always talking to myself.” “Well,” Mr. Wells continues, “so were they. But they had no idea of an inner space of their own mental activity. Lacking this concept of an inner space, if a voice talked to them, they presumed it must have been coming from outside them. An invisible being. A…” he lets the word linger in the air, waiting for me to take up the thread of thought. “God,” I reply, “Hmm?” (A voice talking to them…I thought I heard someone talking to me when no one was around. Could it be…? Yeah, that voice was really only in my head. It wasn’t like it really was some God or something talking to me. It was just me talking to myself, that’s all.) “Right,” Mr. Wells says emphatically, “The gods talked to them. They had God-told-to-them-certainty. Just like schizophrenics and other psycho’s like Son of Sam, etc. The Devil made me do it! God told me to do it. They were all telling the literal truth. God, the Devil, their right brain, was speaking to them. They lived with hallucinatory internal truth all the time. They had the constant comfort of absolute authority telling them what to do. Now, the real heart of Jaynes ‘thesis is what happens when the concept of inner mind space, the notion of consciousness comes along?” “You mean they start thinking like we do now, with only our own voice coming from within us. Hmmm? They would be cut off from their God’s voice. The intimate certainty of inner truth as a guide would cease. For the first time they would be faced with uncertainty.” “Exactly! We all know how easily people handle uncertainty, now don’t we?” “People hate it! They can’t take it. They would happily be a follower of any fast-talking, so-called leader, than think for themselves. They’re deathly afraid of the unknown and uncertainty,” I excitedly respond, “Give them the old time religion. Good old simplistic black-and-white thinking.” “Exactly,” Mr. Wells proclaims, “With the breakdown of the bicameral right brain god voice, our ancestors were alone for the first time in their lives.” “Oh my God. That would be devastating to them.” “That’s what Jaynes is saying. People have been trying to deal with the loss of God’s voice for a long time. That’s the breakdown. The true Fall. The getting kicked out of the Garden. Now, there had to be a reason for losing God’s voice.” “Original Sin?” “Good joke, kid. Nope. It was the very idea of an inner life. A place called the mind. Jaynes’ book explains what a Pre-Bicameral world is like. Our strict hierarchical system of civil order is a part of that Pre-Bicameral system. You can’t follow every God’s voice. So, there had to be a strict chain of command.” “A multitude of God’s. A heavenly hierarchy of God’s and angels to deal with a multitude of daily problems.” “You got it kid. So, before you go getting lost in Miriam’s world of paganism and pantheism, read Jaynes.” “I will.” “Good. Okay. Now, kid just run along. Stop bothering me. I’m not running this store just for you. I got other customers who need me.” “Yeah?” I blurt back, “Show me, where are all these hordes of customers? I don’t see them. Besides, who was pestering whom? I innocently walked into your shop and you accosted me!” “Ha! Read Jaynes, kid!” “Yeah, Yeah, old man.” My bantering with Mr. Wells leaves me with such a buzz. The ideas that we’ve been kicking around fill me with so much excitement I can hardly contain myself. I head to the back, use my key to get in back of the shop, sit down, and read. I fall into the words and become oblivious. For some reason, my eyes glance at my watch. Oh my God! I didn’t mean to spend so much time here. I need to get moving. Despite what Mr. Jaynes and Mr. Wells said, I still have to get to Miriam’s today. I leave the Symposium with Jaynes safely stored in my pack and off I go. KEYWORDS: H P LOVECRAFT, LOVECRAFT, DREAMLAND, DARK FANTASY, FANTASY NOVEL
0 Comments
CHAPTER TWO “I ALMOST WISH I COULD STOP DREAMING ABOUT HIM.” If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awoke -Aye! And what then? [Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834] [1] LAMONT MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1979 I awake with a lingering sense of anticipation and frustration. For the last seven days, I’ve been returning to my dream of Golden Gate Park, and watch hopelessly as that guy disappears through that flash of purple, and then I find myself back at that temple. When I get there, each and every time, I can’t go beyond that damn wooden door. Somebody, or something, told me that my destiny was waiting for me on the other side, if I’m willing to start believing my own dreams. It all doesn’t matter, since I can’t get through. Anyway, the good news: Miriam is finally back from her vacation. Maybe she’ll have some advice. The scene at the Park felt so real. Did it actually take place? Could it be only a dream? If it was real, what can I do about it? I’m a nobody, a nothing. All this crazy talk about my destiny and me, of all people, helping that girl, ha! That’s a joke. Lamont, old buddy, your dreams are getting out of control. I’m starting to imagine myself as some super-duper hero, back like when I was just a little kid. And why is that? It should be obvious. It’s because my little kid mind is probably over-compensating for my nervousness. Ahh, face it, Lamont; it’s more like stark terror, at having to confront my all too real, and all too bleak, future. Hell! You can’t escape it Lamont, today is the day you’ve been dreading. Today is my first day at Ambrose Bierce High School. Today, I’m a high school sophomore. I hate first days at a new place, a whole new set of strangers. Probably everyone there will also think I’m a bookworm and a weirdo. A whole new batch of people to make fun of me. A whole new batch of people to reject me. I shower, get dressed, and, carefully, so as not to be overheard, I reach under my bed to pry up one of the floorboards. From there I take out my “precious.” At least its current incarnation. I cling to it tenaciously, drawing strength and solace from it, like Gollum did from the One Ring when it came into his clutches. To my surprise, I find two books hidden in my secret compartment. This is really weird. I had finished the novel The Silver Skull two weeks ago. How did it get back here? I was sure I had returned it. Had it been here all this time and I didn’t notice it? Not likely, but…? The hairs on the back of my neck tingle as I re-read the blurb on the back cover. “AN INVOCATION OF EVIL: Into the fabulous realm of sixteenth-century Mexico comes Alfonso Martinez, a Spanish alchemist searching for the legendary Aztec gold. With him is the silver skull of Don Sebastian de Villanueva-wizard, vampire, explorer of earth’s dark mysteries. Then the skull falls into the hands of a virgin priestess, the sensuous leader of an Aztec cult. And in awesome scenes of occult ritual and bloody human sacrifice, Don Sebastian is brought back to life. So begins an unholy alliance as vampire and priestess join forces summoning all the dread powers of evil at their command…”[2] Why? Why is that freaking me out? Hmmm? Aztec, wizard, vampire, dark mysteries, occult ritual and bloody sacrifice, the words ring out with an eerie, echoing tone of a solitary tolling bell on a bleak and mournful midnight hour. It sets the hairs on my neck to twitch. Yet, try as I might, I can’t come up with any logical reason for me to be so spooked. Oh well, I must really be getting senile in my old age of fifteen years, I’m starting to just forget stuff and to let my imagination run away with me. I secrete the book with my current ‘precious’ Blood Games, into the hidden compartment that I had made in my backpack. I pack all the rest of the stuff one would need to help in fending off the terrors of High School: a three ring binder filled with blank ruled paper, a new box of pencils, a new eraser, some new green medium ballpoint pens, and a calculator. As I eat a bowl of cereal, I read the box as if it were the first time I ever saw it. After finishing off two bowls, I head out taking the lunch, which my mom made for me. Riding my bike, I join the flow of other kids gathering like lemmings going off to our collective fate. The school’s interior is labyrinthine in its complexity and through what must be divine intervention I manage to find my homeroom. Not having any friends I survey the room hoping to find merely a familiar face. Seeing someone familiar is better than nothing. Damn. I don’t see anyone I know. What a great omen. First day, first class, and I’m surrounded by strangers. I sigh deeply, sinking into my gray funk. I trudge into the room and take the first empty desk I come across. I listen to the teacher; he goes over the routine, explaining homeroom, class times, lunch period assignments, etc. Oh great. The lockers have combination locks. I really dread this. I always have trouble with memorizing a string of numbers. I usually forget my own telephone number, even my address, whenever I am asked to recite either of them. The numbers get blocked from my conscious mind. The same thing happens with birth dates. The only way I can remember such stuff is by writing it all down on a card, which I keep in my wallet. My dad bought me a combination lock for my bike. I asked him to get me a key lock. Did he listen? Nope. I’m always afraid I won’t remember the combination when I go to open the lock. If I try to think of the combination, I lose it. So I think about something else, anything else, while I let my fingers do the work. It’s always a pleasant surprise when it does open. Now, I have two combinations to remember. Just great. Damn. How am I going to keep them straight? Anyway, I’m stuffing my locker when everything changes. I watch dumfounded as this gorgeous girl, no, woman, she’s got to be a Senior, comes walking down the hall in my direction. The word ‘walking’ is completely inadequate. She doesn’t walk; she strides. She’s like this jungle cat moving lightly amidst the underbrush. I can hardly breathe. When I do, I smell sweet cinnamon swirling around me. I never imagined that the scent of cinnamon could convey such a sense of sexuality. Oh, my God! I’m going to die. She has the locker next to mine. I can’t deal with this. Please God, no. How can I deal with this? “What is wrong, Kid? Cat got your tongue?” Why does she have to call me ‘Kid’? But, I shouldn’t really complain, I should feel honored that she took notice of my presence at all. Hey, you want my tongue? You can have it. At this moment, it’s useless. “Well, Kid, if we are going to be neighbors, let us not be strangers. My name is Edelman, Basha Edelman. And yours is?” Damn! There’s that ‘Kid’ stuff again! Wow, she’s overwhelming. She’s a vision of fire. Flame red wavy long hair hanging down past her shoulder blades. Cherry red lips. Fire red blouse with the top buttons undone to show off a little bit of her sun-tanned cleavage. Bronze sun earrings catch the light and shoot sparkles everywhere. Tight, very tight, red jeans and a golden belt with a sun buckle. She stands tall in her red cowboy boots. I must look like a drooling fool. I watch as she shrugs her shoulders, which causes her hair to flicker like flames. Someone tells her my name. It sounds like my voice. She smiles. She actually smiled at me! My life’s complete. She walks away from me looking provocative, sensual, and yet powerful, all at the same time. Wow. Do not give up your quest What the hell was that? I try to find the source of the voice. Who said that? No one is anywhere near me. It sounded so close, almost like a loud whisper. Keep trying to go through the door. Then seek us out. There it is again. What’s going on here? Holy auditory hallucinations, Batman. Did I really hear something or am I just imagining it? Maybe I’m still dreaming? Am I dreaming that I woke up? I don’t think so. I hear bells. I hear bells? A ringing sound? Oh God. That’s real. I’ve got to get to my next class. Where is it? Where’s my schedule? Where did I put it? Did I lose it already? Ahh, no it’s taped to the inside of my notebook. I’ve got to run I’m late! The ordeal is over. I survived. The first day is done. Maybe high school won’t be so terrible. The textbooks seem interesting. The library is bigger. I was hoping that Physical Education would not be just a fancy name for gym class. Bloody hell, I dread that stuff. I’m just a scrawny, small, self-conscious, clumsy fool in those classes! I’m probably the only kid in the history of the Universe whose grades in gym class consistently teeters between a barely presentable c minus-minus and totally socially humiliating failure. I can’t throw, kick, run, or whatever. I’m such a loser. I never get picked for any of those teams. Nobody wants me. I’m always an afterthought. Damn, it’s so bloody humiliating. Come on Lamont; try not to think about it. It’s done. For now. It’s time to get on your bike and to get going. First stop on my daily pilgrimage is Irving and Eighth, the store Comics & Commix, whose shop owner is Mr. Bob Kay. It is next door to Sheer Illusions, lingerie store, the shop manager is Mrs. Isabel Wells. My two favorite shops, both selling fantasy. I check out what’s new, starting with The Batman. I collect all the titles with him in them. I wander through the rest of the comic universe. The stuff of modern mythology. I buy the latest and place it reverently in the back room in my storage trunk that Mr. Kay lets me keep there, as I can’t take them home. My mom is so scared of my dad she just never intervenes to protect me from him. If he caught me reading any comic books, need I mention Sci-Fi or Fantasy novels, my Born Again Christian father would flip out and there would be a repeat of what happened to my prior collection. It’s obvious to me that one of the reasons he married mom is that she wasn’t Catholic. He, for whatever reason, feels ashamed of our Hispanic heritage and hits me if I ever mention our obvious actual ancestry, and poor mom is just scared of him, even though she loves him. It’s kind of amazing that he didn’t go whole hog and just legally change our name to something more Anglo. But, I think he has authority issues and the idea of going to a court would freak him out. [1] Anima Poetae: Unpublished Notebooks of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1895, edited by Ernest Hartely Coleridge, p.238. [2] Les Daniels; The Silver Skull, 1979 by Charles Scribner’s Sons publishing house, back cover. KEYWORDS: H P LOVECRAFT, LOVECRAFT, DREAMLAND, DARK FANTASY, FANTASY NOVEL LAMONT
|
RSS Feed