FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1979 I wake up as usual and try to put all this weirdness in the back corners of my mind, so that I can get on with the normal day’s activities of getting through my high school classes. I still haven’t a clue as to how, or for that matter, a clear idea as to why, I’m destined to help Lana. But one thing I’m sure of. I’m determined to figure out some way to get back to that dream place and take care of those rats. “Forewarned is forearmed”[1] is something that I once read and is advice I’m going to take. [1]. Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 16th ed., gives the cite from The Modern Library Giant edition of Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra's Don Quixote of La Mancha as: Book III chap. 10 pg. 502. Though I cannot locate the same citation in my edition which is Signet Classic, New American Library, translated by Walter Starkie, 1964. Cervantes first published Don Quixote in 1605 CHAPTER FIVE : THE PRICE OF PASSAGE
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1979 LAMONT Throughout all my classes, while part of me was focusing on my teachers and my assignments, another part of me was bubbling over with anticipation waiting to do what had to be done next. As always, my answer to any dilemma is to go searching for a book. Someone, somewhere, has faced most problems and lived to write about them. During lunch hour, I peruse my high school’s library card catalog for some inkling of a clue. But I’m not really sure this is going to help. It’s not as if I can look up in the “How To” section and find a book entitled: “How to deal with a swarm of rats that you encounter in your dreams.” I’m flipping through the subject file cards waiting for inspiration to strike. Hmm. Sort of like waiting or prompting Jaynes’s idea of the Muses of the right brain to speak. Anyway, the Muses don’t seem very obliging today. The only thing of any interest is that I discover that my school has a copy of H. P. Lovecraft’s The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath. I had read this book three or four months ago. In the novel, Lovecraft had created a fictional setting, which is a world of dreams separate from day light reality. This is similar to what my own dream creation, the Lord of Mictlan, was describing. I retrieve the book from the shelves and I scan through it. I come upon rat-like creatures called Zoogs. They’re sort of like the giant rats that attacked me! My unconscious must have remembered this novel of Lovecraft and fabricated my own version of a Dreamland from my memory of his book. That is, unless the Lord Mictlan was telling me the truth and she was no figment of my imagination and neither were the rest of the events. Wow! It would be such an amazingly cool thing if there really were a parallel world, which you can enter through your dreams. Great stuff. But, could it really be real? Could I really have gone to a separate world, called Dreamland? That’s pretty farfetched, Lamont. But, no more farfetched than people walking off the face of the Earth in a flash of purple light which I happened to see because I’m dreaming and somehow connected to Lana. One theory is as bizarre as the other is. Who knows what is true? “Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.”[1] “The more outré’ and grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be examined.”[2] Well said, Holmes. The events of these few weeks are most definitely a three-pipe problem[3]. Presumably finding Lovecraft’s novel was what I was searching for, so now I return my thoughts to the mundane world of High School. I spend the night pushing around Camus’ book The Myth of Sisyphus a big homework assignment from Ms. Brandon, my English teacher, on existential literature. When I finish with my homework, it’s late and I go to sleep with the intention of returning to last night’s dream setting: the place that the Lord of Mictlan said was called Dreamland. I can tell where I am by the distinctive smells of the Primordial Forest. Yet, I sense both familiarity and peculiarity about this Dream setting. I immediately decide, out of preemptive caution, to hide. Damn! Here I am again without anything to protect me against those giant rats! Not even a flashlight or a flame-thrower. Oh well, I sigh. Suddenly I’m aware of that chittering sound mixed with the smacking of small mouths as they chew in delight. Fear now raises its small hungry head and takes a bite out of my gut. I cautiously peer around the tree that hides me. There are those rat things. They’re just finishing feasting on some poor soul. That weird tingling starts at the back of my neck as I look to see who they are finishing off. It’s me! They’re feasting on my body. How is this happening? How did I get back here, at this time and in this paradoxical situation? Unfortunately, surprise overcomes fear and a small cry of amazement escapes my lips. I watch as a few of the rat-things perk up their ears and listen. They try to smell my presence. Should I run? Too late. Three of them come heading my way. I’m just sitting here! I can’t move. My heart is pounding. I’m sweating and trapped by fear. They, somehow, I’m certain of this, smile when they see me behind the tree. One of them opens and closes its mouth. This goes on for a few seconds as the other two sit there staring at me. “Well? Has some nasty cat got your tongue? Answer me! What’s your name?” My eyes must have looked like they would pop out of my face. The only source of the words I heard had to have come from the rat thing before me. Impossibility? Perhaps, when I was awake, but here, I guess not. I try to stumble out something coherent in reply. “Ahhh. Could you repeat that?” I mumble in apprehension. “What’s your name and where are you going?” “My name? My name is Lamont, and I don’t have any idea where I’m going.” “Well, Lamont. We, Sumatra are...” “Hey! You’re the giant rats of Sumatra!” “That is one of our names; it is the name we have chosen for you to use. Now as I was saying, we want you to know that we all thought you were a very satisfying and tasty meal.” “Thanks.”??? The other Sumatra rats come to join the talking one, and soon I’m encircled by them. They talk amongst themselves and then the spokes-rat turns and makes eye contact and again addresses me. “We’ve decided not to eat you again. We’re all full now. However, we are debating whether to take you with us and save you for a later meal, when the craving for flesh comes upon us again. Unless...” “Unless what?” I plead. “Unless you can satisfy us in some other way right now.” I’m not sure what satisfy us means, but all sorts of bizarre and disturbing ideas go flashing through my mind. I hesitate to ask, but have to, “How could I satisfy you?” “Well. Can you dance? Can you sing? Can you tell us a story? If you can entertain us, and we like your performance, then we might let you go.” Hope! Quick, brain, do your stuff—think! “Umm, I could, tell a story.” “Good.” With that, they all seem to get more comfortable and wait for me to begin. What kind of a story do you tell rat things that want to be entertained after they have just dined on your own body? Hmm? “Once upon a time...” A loud and collective fluttering Bronx cheer comes at me. “We’ve heard all those already,” the spokes- rat says in an annoying tone. What now? How to begin? “A long time ago...” I say to stall. My next words come out by some kind of reflex, “in a galaxy far, far away.[4]” “Yes. That’s one we haven’t heard. Go on.” So, I go on. I start telling a bunch of rats George Lucas’s Star Wars story. They are mesmerized. I really get into it. I know instinctively, as I’m telling the story, that I’ll have to follow the example of queen Scheherazade and string them along, and thus not finishing the tale. I’ll probably need to get past these rat things at some later date. I’m a hit. They agree to let me pass on the condition that I finish telling the further Star Wars adventures later when next we meet. I’m free to leave their territory in the Primordial Forest. Eventually I come to the perimeter of the Primordial Forest. I gaze up at the tree-less sky. There a huge full and pale bone white moon rests in black velvet. It’s three times as large in this Dreamland sky as in the sky I see when I’m awake. After a moments’ thought, I hypothesize that the moon must be closer to the Earth here than in the Waking World. The sky also contains a dazzling array of stars, though I can’t recognize any familiar constellations. As I walk down the road, some farm and village folk smile and wave to me in a neighborly manner. They tell me I’m in the city of Nir. They resemble some English farming village that you would expect to see in a medieval period television program done by the British Broadcasting Company. I ask them where this road goes and they tell me to “The City.” I ask what city and they laugh and tell me the city of Atlantis. Atlantis! Fantastic. I thank them and run on down the road. Which I now note is made up of yellow bricks. What wonders await me in such a place? I come to a river with a stone bridge and beyond that, I’m not surprised at all to see a dazzling gold and emerald city. Walking over the bridge, I hear a faint, muffled, but still horrible, scream. Someone somewhere cries out in fear and agony. I look all around me, but I’m alone. The back of my neck starts tingling as if I’m in an electrical storm. My mind reaches a conclusion and informs me that the muffled screams could only be coming from within one of the bridge’s support towers. As the scream continues, it melts away my will to move. “Okay Lamont, take it easy. Don’t panic. Calm down.” But the sound of another muffled scream sends more shivers down my spine. “I’ve got to get away from here.” I take a deep breath and run as fast as I can across the haunted bridge. With relief, I stop running when I feel bricks under my feet. I make it across the bridge. I’m on the road to the city of Atlantis. Maybe this is what Miriam meant when she said that beyond that wooden door I would find a way to help Lana. And, presumably, this is also where that mysterious female voice, who kept hinting at my great destiny, has a body. She must be somebody in the city of Atlantis. I just have to find her. A simple matter of the old needle in the haystack problem. [1] From the short story “A Case of Identity”, by Arthur Conan Doyle, first published in Strand magazine September 1891. [2] From Chapter 15 of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles, first published in The Strand magazine August 1901 - April 1902. [3] The phrase Holmes used to describe how long he needed to consider the facts of the case that Jabez Wilson presented in the short story “The Red Headed League”, by Arthur Conan Doyle, first published in The Strand magazine in August 1891. [4] Star Wars: A New Hope, written and directed by George Lucas, 1977
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I walk a few feet away from the entrance way and glance up, to better see the structure I’ve just left. To my amazement, I realize I’ve walked down steps carved into the hollowed out center of an immense tree. I see, in the shadowed gloom, that the treetops connect to one another, resulting in the forest having a roofed effect. The Primordial Forest is as dark and foreboding to me as J. R. R. Tolkien’s Mirkwood at the time of Sauron and the tree’s immense height recalls the forest of Stephen R. Donaldson’s Revelwood before the Sunbane. I shiver from my inability to take in everything that has happened to me since I stepped through the mirror. I can’t make up my mind whether all this is a reality separate from the imaginings of my mind. Thin beams of light stream down through cracks in the forest roof, the top of which I can barely see. The main source of illumination comes from an abundance of glowing emerald green fungus. The fungus clings to the tree’s lower trunks and to portions of their twisted roots, which protrude above the ground’s surface. There’s an odd arrhythmic chittering sound rustling in the under growth and treacherous twittering, coming from the shrouded upper tree limbs. Floating in the air is a pervasive vegetative dankness from the undergrowth, intermixed with a wide variety of spicy floral scents. Taking a few minutes to calm myself, I proceed to walk in what I designate as a westerly direction. I walk and listen to the hushed echoing forest sounds. I feel a small tingling of the hairs on my arms telling me something has changed. Either I’m being paranoid or I have that clichéd sensation that someone is watching me. Before I can dwell further on my feelings, I hear something in the distance. It’s the sound of a child crying. I listen with concern, straining to get a fix on the sound, and then set off in that direction. Huddled against a tree, a small boy with black hair and fair skin, sits curled up in a ball, sobbing to himself. He is covered in a film of sweat, scratches, dirt, and tiny leaves. He must have stopped off at the same tailor that I did before coming here. He’s decked out in a similar dull gray leotard. He’s so despondent. I want to find some way to help him. “Hello there!” I shout as I walk closer to him. I don’t want to sneak up on him and frighten him. As it is, his head jolts up and spins towards me, as he tries to figure out if what he hears is real. “Hello young man!” I speak loudly, in what I hope is a friendly and concerned tone. He sees me, and moves back against the tree while leaning towards me. “Who are you?” he sniffles. “My name’s Lamont. What’s yours?” “Howard.” I sit down beside him, putting out my hand for him to shake. He shakes it and continues to hold on. I carefully reach over and gently hold the boy and try to comfort him. He shakes as his crying subsides. We sit together for a few minutes as the fear in his body eases its grip. “I want to go home,” he says in a small pleading voice, “Please take me home.” “I will,” I need to distract him from his fears. “But first, how old are you? “I’m seven.” “How long have you been here?” “I don’t know. I ran around and got lost. After these furry-things with mean looking teeth scared me, it wasn’t fun anymore. I want to go home. Can you take me back?” “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” Hope shines through his tear-streaked face. “You will?” “Sure.” “Do you know the way back?” “Sure. Just click your ruby slippers three times and say…” “But I don’t have any slippers,” he interrupts in a very serious tone. “Hmmm,” I smile, “Well, so much for the direct route. Let’s get up and walk back together.” After a few minutes of walking with me, he regains his composure. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to feel that clichéd feeling again. I, trying not to be obvious, peer around us, to ascertain what is going on. “Lamont.” “Yes Howard.” “Were did my P.J.s go?” I ponder that one for a moment, unable to come up with any good explanation, I dance around the question. “Because, you didn’t take them with you,” I answer glibly. He thinks about my reply for a while. Before he can refute my logic, I ask him a question. “How did you get here, Howard?” “I’m not sure. I was asleep. Then I saw these stairs, which appeared, under my bed. I thought I saw a light and heard voices.” “Weren’t you scared?” “Nope.” he beams. “I like exploring. I went down the stairs and then I must’ve been when I lost my P.J.s. But, I can’t remember doing that. Will I find them on the way back?” “I think so.” It makes sense to me that when we leave this dream-induced realm and return to our more usual dream environment, we leave behind whatever force caused our regular clothes to transform. “If I don’t, I think my aunts will be mad. Anyway, I found met these two old bearded guys at this cool place. They had this great red sand fire pit. It was huge! There was green fire. They told me I could go down some more steps to a forest. So, I ran down the stairs and came to this place. I ran around and explored. But then I got lost.” Howard’s voice gets real low, “The sky got dark, and I saw all these little eyes watching me. They came out of the dark and they were these rats. I ran away, but they chased me. They never caught me, ‘cause I was running real fast. I was scared. I must’ve run so far and fast that they gave up. Then, I was all by myself, but I didn’t know where I was and I wanted to leave. It wasn’t fun anymore.” “That’s okay, Howard. When I got here, I was scared too.” “Really?” “It happens to the best of us sometimes.” I try not to show my anxiety brought on by feelings of paranoia. “Oh. Okay.” I get us back to the tree with the stairs. I’m glad that, so far, I can’t find any substantiation for my feelings of being watched. When Howard sees the tree entrance, he lets go of my hand and runs toward it. “That’s it! You really did get me back!” He runs up the stairs leaving me behind. I hear him stop, run back down, and come back out of the tree. “Thank you for helping me.” “No problem Howard. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.” “Yeah! Good-bye Lamont!” “Good-bye Howard. Take care.” He turns and bounds up the stairs as only someone with the seemingly inexhaustible energy of youth can do. I resume my exploration, walking back the way I came with Howard. I guess I’m making progress, although, so far, there is no end in sight to the forest. Suddenly, I feel as if I’m surrounded by an oddly familiar cold and sinister presence. Then, they come at me, from out of nowhere. In the moment, my impressions of my attackers are of large rat-like things, which have leaped from branches above me. A part of me is observing and taking notes. It jots down that the rats’ range in size, from a foot, to as large as three feet, long. They have short brown hair, ochre-ocellated eyes, four slender and flexible feet, and long bare tails. The flexibility of their feet easily enables them to climb and grasp onto me. Three of them do that. They jumped on me and knocked me to the ground. They were also equipped with viciously sharp teeth. They’re using all of this very effectively on me. I have to use both hands to pull one off my throat. Meanwhile, the other one has latched his teeth into my shoulder, and the third one hangs on to my left arm with his claws. Biting into my bare flesh is no problem for them, but it’s a big one for me. The pain distracts me and because of it, I let go of the only one of them that I had under some semblance of control. I keep trying to pull or knock them off, but they refuse to cooperate. I struggle to deal with them. They, on the other hand, seem to easily ignore all my efforts while going on with their business. They’re very successful at gnawing into my muscles and tendons. I hear more movement and peculiar chittering sounds. I presume that there are more of them in the woods around me. I’m in agony, as more of the rat things come to feast on my helpless body. Unfortunately, I’m still stupidly hanging onto consciousness; for all the good it is doing me. I can feel each bite, each piece of flesh, being worried off my body, as a whole pack of them settle in for their midday meal. I can’t even yell out, as a few of them have opened up my neck and play taffy pull with my vocal cords. Their knobby feet, with their sharp claws, dig into the flesh of my chest and thighs as they try to keep their balance, while ripping open my stomach. The smell of warm moist decomposed food from my open stomach and intestines comes up at me. In my mind, I silently scream for aid. I cry out to any deity watching over this part of the universe. Help me! Make this dream end! I didn’t do anything to deserve a death like this! I finally lapse out of consciousness when I helplessly watch two little ones fight over my genitals. My whole world goes blood red and starts to swirl. I’m floating in a pool of blood that is being sucked downward. I hear a roaring shriek and then the blood red agony is replaced by darkness. My heart pounds. My ears ring. I hear a horrible dull, groaning sound coming from all around me. I guess a second or two passes and then my subconscious mind communicates to me that I’m sitting upright on my own bed, in my own bedroom, and that I’m the source of the sound. I close my mouth and begin to activate my brain. My first thought is, I hope I didn’t wake my parents. My second thought is one of relief followed quickly by anger. Bloody Hell! What in Damnation’s name were those rat things? The one thing I’m grateful for is that I got that kid away from those rats. Where was one of those warning signs when you really needed them? “Walking in these woods can be hazardous to your health. Enter at your own risk!” Somehow, through all of this, my parents didn’t wake up. I’m not sure if I should be grateful for that fact or not. Good grief! That was one hell of a dream! It sure felt all too damn realistic. Anyway, it’s two in the morning and I’m exhausted. With trepidation, I go back to sleep. I manage to sleep without dreaming about anything munching away at me. Key Phrases: H P Lovecraft, Lovecraft Dreamland, Lovecraft Dream Cycle, Dreamland, Dream cycle, Through the Gate of Dreams THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1979
LAMONT I’m tingling all over. This is amazing! I’ve followed that alluring voice to this room and I find not a beautiful woman, but an enigmatic mirror. When I view myself in its singular surface, the image changed. It dissolved and revealed a view of a dark stone staircase leading down. Moist gray-green lichen covers the stonewalls and steps. Where this place is, I’ve no idea. The sensation of encountering the Unknown causes my mind and body, to tremble in mild ecstasy. I reach out my hand to touch the mirror, to try and get a grasp onto something solid. I’m feeling a bit of vertigo from all of these encounters with the unexpected and the unknown. The silver and black jade of the frame is warm to my touch. My fingers drift onto the surface of the mirror. To my surprise, my fingertips go beyond the mirror’s surface, like slipping into a pool of cool water; my fingers cause the image to ripple. I pull back, startled at my discovery. My curiosity takes over. I reach out and watch as my whole arm goes beyond the mirror’s surface. I feel the emptiness of warm air of some place beyond the mirror’s strange singular surface. Tingling with trepidation and wonder, I imprudently step through the mirror, making my way downward, surrounded completely by ebony and silence. Since I can’t see, the only method by which I can discern the way ahead with safety is by feeling for the staircase’s stone steps with the soles of my shoes. My shoes sink into a moist softness, which covers the stone’s surface. My feet are the only sensory reference point in my interminable black descent. Somewhere after midnight, an odd tingling sensation occurs simultaneously over every pore of my body. “Not again! What in Heaven’s name is going on now? Damn it! Why can’t they leave my dreams alone?” My own voice echoes off into the unresponsive blackness. Well Lamont, what now? Go back or...? Oh hell. I’ve come this far. Besides, I won’t be able to sleep not knowing where this is leading. Therefore, ever onward. Time slips by on unseen wings. From beyond the stairs end, a chlorotic green light pushes back the darkness. With the aid of this light source, I realize that from my neck down to my toes I am clothed in some kind of mousy gray, seamless leotard, which feels like it’s made of nylon, only tougher. Odd. I stride downwards into the light, and soon stand in wonderment within a cavern lit by a strange pillar of fire. In the cavern’s center, green marble blocks encircle a pool of scarlet sand. A ten-foot tall pillar of putrid green colored flames flickers in the pool’s center. Beside the pool and the pillar, stands an austere and frightening figure. The woman is Hispanic with a feathered headdress made from a dazzling white skull with jade green gemstones for eyes. She wears a jaguar cape and a skirt of human skin. A mane of long white hair flows down her back; her large breasts hang down on her bare chest exhausted from their battle with gravity. The style of her attire evokes a time of an ancient empire in either Mexico or Central America. Her posture and demeanor evoke an image of a parent who had been up all night waiting for an explanation of a teenager’s night exploits. She fixes her vision upon my soul. "Corazon we are Mictlantecuhtli. We are the Lord of Mictlan, the realm of the Underworld.” My mouth must have dropped to my knees from astonishment. “We are the Master and the Guardian of the realm upon whose threshold you now stand.” Her sonorous tone resonates in the air around me. “We have served here since mortal humans first came to this realm, when first they learned to form dreams, in the time of the first long winter which did not end.” Her obvious solemnity and self-importance gets to me. I can’t help but try to deflate her pontifical tone of voice. “That’s interesting.” I flippantly remark, “Can you tell me what it is you’re guarding?” “This realm was named by its human visitors as Dreamland. Beyond this brief statement, we will not say more at this time. We confront all Dreamers who manage to find the Stairs of Dreams and arrive at this Cavern of Flames. We guard this gateway leading to Dreamland.” “Do I pass inspection?” “If you had not, you would not find yourself here at all.” “Is that so?” “Lamont Corazon, you have successfully come to the threshold of the Realm of Dreams. Here in this plane of existence, everything that you experience will be a result of directed thought, desire, and the effort of one’s will. In venturing forth, you must learn to practice this art of focusing and channeling your thoughts.” “Crowley.” I mutter. “Was that comment addressed to me?” “No, I was muttering about what you said. It’s very similar to how Aleister Crowley defined ‘Magick’, spelt with a ‘k’, to distinguish it from the magic, ending with a ‘c’, the sleight of hand tricks that stage magicians do. Magick, Crowley says, is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with will[1]. Though, others have attributed the saying to Ms. Dion Fortune.” I say with genuine enthusiasm, as I’m caught up in the flow of ideas. “Who will teach me this skill that you describe?” “You must find someone to teach you in the lands beyond. Once you have been to this cavern and gone beyond, you can return to this plane of existence whenever you so choose. In this realm, you will encounter Dreamers such as yourself and - others. Beyond this cavern are the Steps of Deeper Dreams, which lead you to the Primordial Forest. This is the sum of what we will now instruct.” “That’s what you said just a moment ago. Is there anything else that you’re not going to tell me before you tell me one more time that you have finished telling me all that you will?” “You may venture on, if you so desire.” “Wow. Great speech. Very impressive. What an amazing imagination I have. This is the best lucid dream I ever had.” “Mortal human you speak with the tone of doubt. Dare you imply that we do not exist? Dare you imply that we have not spoken the truth?” “Of course you have. You’re reading from my unconscious mind’s dream script.” “You dare to suggest we are shadows of your small mind?” “What else could you be? This is my dream isn’t it?” “You are trapped within your own small sensory world. We are products of no human’s imaginings.” “This is what a well behaved dream being should say.” “The truth is all around you Lamont Corazon. You need only to accept it. You have left your tiny mind of dreams and have ventured into a new and larger world. Whether you accept this fact or not, you must now depart, unbeliever.” “Okay, I’ll leave, but before I do, has anyone recently passed through here? Say a white young man, about 18, maybe, wearing a denim jacket, denim pants, sneakers, black hoodie? I don’t think he came here intentionally. I think he was abducted. Have you seen him?” “No other young being has passed through to here of late. What mean you by not intentionally?” “There was a strange light and he fell through it and then was gone. It would be nice if he ended up here?” “Gates such as you are describing can open up to many worlds. Only great beings of power and might can do such a thing. Their affairs should be of no concern of yours. This is as much as we can tell you. You must venture on.” She motions to an opening behind the pool of scarlet sands and the pillar of strange green fire. Dream or not, I mind my manners and bow to the stuffy old priestess-guardian, deciding to politely take my leave of her. I descend the polished wooden step, which curves around and goes ever downward. Time passes with an odd quickness and subjectively speaking, within a few minutes; I step onto the floor of the Primordial Forest. [1]. From Aleister Crowley’s book Magix in Theory and Practice, published in 1929. [Drury’s Dictionary of Mysticism and The Occult gives this citation as the source, no page number is provided. This phrase has also been attributed to Dion Fortune by Starhawk in her book The Spiral Dance, pg. 7 of the 1989 edition. She does not provide any bibliographic citation as the source of this attribution. KEYWORDS: Lovecraft, Lovecraft Dreamland, Lovecraft Dream Cycle, Through the Gate of Dreams TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1979
I’m clueless. I can’t get beyond the door and I have no idea how it could possibly have anything to do with helping Lana. I’m still only half convinced that this weird dream means anything besides my own self-delusions of comic book heroism. The school day is a normal one. I try to focus on my teachers but I’m anxious to return to my dreams. At lunchtime, I decide to search the local papers for any mention of the missing Jon or of the strange storm, Lana and I saw. I didn’t really expect to find anything and I wasn’t disappointed. Then, when I leave the library, there she is. There’s Lana. She’s with a couple of her friends. She still appears awfully sad. Maybe I should go to her and tell her…tell her what, Lamont? Tell her I’ve been hearing voices when I dream and when I’m awake voices tell me I’ve been chosen to help you? Yeah, right. I’m sure that will go over like some lead balloon. She’ll laugh at me and call me some kind of a loony. No way am I going to do something that stupid. Which means all I’m going to do is just stand here and do nothing as she walks away. Damn. The rest of school goes by without note. Well, almost. Basha smiles at me when we meet at our lockers. She’s talking with a friend of hers, but she takes the time to smile at me! Ahh. Sweet bliss. Now I really have a hard time focusing. I go home and deal with my homework, eat dinner with my folks, read and go to sleep. This night it’s a little different. I don’t even catch a glimpse of the temple. I come out of the dream mists and find myself in the icy fog, in the middle of that familiar damp cold jungle. I hear that seductive and sinister laughter. My female adversary, or confidant, I don’t know which, whispers in threatening, yet seductive, sibilant tones. Corazon, you must learn that you cannot defy us. You will in the end, come to us. We are your fate. I plead back, “Please leave me alone.” I hear the jaguars as they appear out of the fog. I turn to run. I run on and on. The jungle goes on and on. The jaguars don’t seem to tire, but I do. I can’t keep this up. I collapse in exhaustion. I watch as the leader leaps through the air at me. His black fur glistens from the moisture of the fog. White wisps of hot air stream out of his open mouth. His sharp white teeth seem huge. His eyes glow with the thought of feasting on my flesh. I can smell his foul breath, when only the lengths of his whiskers separate us. Then... WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1979 ...I’m sitting up in my own night-darkened bedroom with my heart in my throat, gagging on fear. It takes at least an hour before I can get the image of the jaguar out of my mind and calm myself enough to return to sleep. Rather than dream of returning to the jungle temple, I choose to dream an old, safe familiar dream of a palace of shells beneath the sea. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1979 I have regained my courage and my anger. I refuse to be driven out of my own dreams! Besides, I have to find out what’s behind that door. So, I return with determination, mixed with a heavy dose of trepidation, to the obsidian temple dream. The dream fades into view. I stand within the threshold of the temple. The full moon nestles like a pearl in its shell, in this clear, cloudless star-filled evening sky. I catch the scent of blooming exotic wild flowers from the temple’s courtyard. Tonight the halls are lit by torches, which cast playful shadows everywhere. From deep within the temple’s interior, I hear the faint, familiar, distant, and incredible feminine voice, singing. I follow her melodious tones through the torch lit corridors of stone, toward the source of the singing. I’m led to the carved wooden door. The honey and vanilla scent wafts around me. The door now opens wider than before, seeming to invite my hands to slide into the space between. From beyond the door, I can clearly hear the divine songstress. I reach out and with gentle, but firm pressure, I spread open the entrance to the mysterious chamber. Finally, whatever barrier was there I’ve torn through it. I take in the scent of a wood fire. The circular room contains only a bizarre full length-dressing mirror. Rather than silvery glass, in its place is polished obsidian in a frame of silver and black jade. The frame has the same mysterious geometric design as the door, with images of bones and skulls woven intricately together. The eyes of the skulls are set with black onyx. The scent of the smoldering fire comes from the wisps of serpentine smoke drifting off the dark surface of the mirror. With the opening of the door, the songstress has ceased her singing. I step before the mirror and gaze upon my reflection. Slowly my image dissolves like the morning mist. In its place are stone steps leading down into depths beyond light. Keywords: Lovecraft, H P Lovecraft, Dreamland, Dream quest, Dream cycle, Dark Fantasy, H. P. Lovecraft, Dreamquest of the Unknown Kadath CHAPTER THREE
SPREADING WIDE THE ENTRANCEWAY INTO MYSTERIOUS CHAMBERS MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1979 LAMONT Night cannot have come soon enough for me. I rush into sleep and dreams. I focus my concentration. I try to recall the prior night’s dreamscape. At first, darkness swirls unfocused. I stop the swirling motion and force the darkness to disperse. The prior image of the rain forest jungle coalesces into solidity. Suddenly, I’m blasted by cold air. I sense a powerful malevolent presence watching over me. The malevolent presence then whispers in my ear with a sultry and seductive feminine voice. Corazon, dear Corazon. “Damnation! It’s that voice again. Why do you have to sneak up on me like that? You almost scared me half to death.” Scare you? No. Challenge you. Do you not remember? We are the way to your destiny. You must try to help that girl. This is part of your destiny. And why you must come to us. If you dare. The laughter slithering into my mind is like serpent’s tongues. The ravenous dark night suddenly swallows up the sun. The sky is dark with clouds and is bereft of the moon. Off in the distance I hear the calling of hungry jaguars getting closer. I see on the top of the ridge ahead of me a road. I approach its hopeful safety. I run down the road, terror, frustration, and anger give impetus to my feet. I fear that the jaguars have my scent and they’re coming after me. I run in desperation, not knowing what else to do. After a while, I have to stop to catch my breath. I get up the courage and check out what’s behind me. Off in the distance I see their glowing yellow eyes. There are at least four of them. They have stopped their pursuit, and they are simply sitting and watching me. I can feel their hunger and their hunter’s confidence that, I, their chosen prey, cannot elude them. Each of my fear-filled breaths takes in icy cold air that burns my throat and lungs. If I stand still much longer, I won’t be able to do anything except shiver, either from the cold or from the sensation of dread. I must move to keep warm and to keep the hope of survival alive. Over the haggard sound of my own breathing, and the pounding of both my pumping heart and my adrenaline-filled legs, I hear from behind the pursuing rhythmic sounds of approaching doom. I slip, stumble, and fall. I scramble to get up. I hear the jaguars closing in on me. I try to increase my pace. The dirt road I’m running on, goes on and on, to nowhere. A voice inside me tells me that I’ve slowed down. It tells me I must go faster, but I can’t. I don’t have the energy. I plod forward as fast as I’m able. Hmm. As my speed lessens, so have the jaguars. They’re allowing me to set the pace. They’ve been keeping the same distance from me for all this time. They must know that I can’t out run them, and they have no interest in ending the hunt so soon. I go on with them relentless in their pursuit, waiting for me to simply drop from exhaustion. Then there’s a remarkable new sound. The magic of the sound soothes my fears and lifts the feelings of doom. It’s a women’s voice singing softly. She calls to me. Beckoning and enticing me. She sounds like a sultry angelic siren. Her voice causes my heart to pound, in ways very different from moments earlier. I want to follow that alluring voice, wherever it leads me. Hopefully away from all this, and quickly, to safety. I follow her voice back into the darkness of the jungle, realizing that I’m traveling a circuitous route, into the hills behind the temple. I have to keep my arms up in front of my face, to protect it from the low hanging branches, while I mechanically trudge onward, following the voice’s lead. Ahead of me is a very high hill. I don’t know if I can make it up and over. This could be the end. I’m certain that I haven’t the strength to get up that incline. I should just collapse and let the jaguars have me. In response to my despair the siren’s voice comes from somewhere behind the dense and curling growth of vines and vegetation that covers the hillside, urging me on to greater efforts. While the jaguars start to close in, I consider my options. The voice is coming from inside the hill, which means, there must be a cave entrance somewhere! I must find it, soon - or all will be over. I frantically probe amongst the berry laden and thorn covered vines. My hands get stained and cut up, but I ignore that irritation. Its minor compared to the fate that awaits me from the hungry hunters that are getting ever closer. Then I see it! I see a thin vertical opening. The voice echoes outwards from within the interior of a cave! How will I be able to get through that narrow cavity? I slide my hands between the moist sides of the opening, which surprisingly yields, to my touch. I carefully, and gently, spread the entrance wider. There’s a momentary resistance and then it’s gone. As if, there was some barrier that I tore through. I slip into this dark and mysterious passage. I turn and expect the jaguars to leap through the vines and be at my throat. But, it doesn’t happen. I hear their muffled roaring of frustration as they pace in front of the cave’s covered entrance. Their howling once terrifying, now only adds to the dream’s ambiance. They know I’m here, yet they can’t get through. I don’t bother to even consider why or what has happened; I’m simply glad to have gotten to safety. I try to catch my breath and wait for my body to stop shaking from fear and exhaustion. The cave is surprisingly warm and both the walls and floor are soft and moist. I hear the enticing voice softly calling to me and, leaving behind my thwarted hunters, I follow it into the darkness. I realize I’ve arrived. I’ve managed to make my way back into the obsidian temple. The dark stones of the temple have a blood-red tinge. I hope this disconcerting coloration is only the effect of the setting sun’s scarlet twilight. Eventually I come upon a spiral stairway carved into the rock. As I go up, I feel a warm breeze coming from some secret source ahead of me and once again, I smell that honey and vanilla orchids. I arrive at the hallway where I’ve been so many times before, outside of the strangely carved wooden door. This time, the door is open a crack. Yet, when I go to open it wider, my efforts are frustrated by a strong counter force. It prevents me from going beyond. I definitely feel that someone is taunting me. The warmth and the trail of perfume led me on, and yet I’m refused entry. I wonder once more if the secret to the way in is to be found in the cryptic carvings. If I can decipher them, maybe I will discover the way beyond. The image of the burning letters on the door seems to be familiar now, but the haze of heat still keeps me from seeing clearly. The secret of the carvings teases my mind. Somehow, she, who led me here, allows me to catch only quick fleeting glimpses of understanding, but then the knowledge is coyly covered up. The rising dawn’s light finds me angry and burning with curiosity still pondering the door’s secrets. I’m exhausted and frustrated from all the thinking, which has not brought me any closer to opening the entranceway. Then shafts of daylight carry me out of my sleep. KEYWORDS: H P LOVECRAFT, LOVECRAFT, DREAMLAND, DARK FANTASY, FANTASY NOVEL “Great. Well, I got to be going. I have to check in with some of the other places he hung out at,” Lana says.
Once she’s gone, Miriam focuses on me. I must look like I got ants in my pants, from how I’m dying to tell her about my dream. Our dream. “Oy, such tsuris, Nu, Lamont? So tell me already what it is that has you acting like a dab of schmaltz on a hot frying pan?” Miriam asks. “I was there.” “There? There where?” “I saw Jon disappear.” “She didn’t mention seeing anyone else.” “I wasn’t actually there,” I try to explain, “but I saw it all.” “Stop with the riddles and speak straight.” ”I had a fever-induced dream. Maybe, it was exactly at the time Lana was describing. In my dream, I saw everything. Only it wasn’t as she described it. I had forgotten that part of the dream, which is odd. I don’t usually forget to jot down any really unusual dreams in my journal. Hmmm? Anyway, I saw it all. It was as if I were her.” “Nu? How was your dream different than how she told it?” “She got it all jumbled up. Jon didn’t walk away from her, he just faded away.” “You’re talking nonsense again.” “This is exactly why she doesn’t recall it clearly. She is trying to cope with an event outside of the ordinary. You see first, there were these strange storm clouds gathering overhead. Then there was this foreboding funnel of light coming down from the sky. Jon walked up to it and he was sort of trapped like a bug in amber. Lana tried to go to him. He was only a few feet away but she couldn’t move. All around us there was a feeling of malevolence. Jon was taken up in this purple pulsating cone of energy. Then poof, instant normality. Jon, the clouds, the purple funnel, all gone. Way too weird to believe! This is presumably why Lana can’t describe clearly what happened.” “Oh but, you Mr. Hot Shot, can.” “Yeah. Maybe, my mind has already been warped by all the science fiction and fantasy stuff I’ve read. I’m already attuned to weird stuff.” “So, in your dream you saw Jon being taken up in this funnel of light.” “Yeah, and what goes up must come down. The question is where? And possibly, when? He theoretically could be anywhere.” “If what you’re saying is true, you only have this dream of yours as proof of your version of the story. Whatever the case, this is a dream of significance. Of what, I’m not sure. But, it is clear as steamed glass. It means something, mark my words, the least of which is that you must help her.” “Me?” “Is there someone else in this store that I’m talking to? You had the dream. You have been chosen. You must now do what you can to right this ill.” “Chosen? Hey, I remember now, another part of my dream. Somebody told me I was chosen to help Lana and Jon. I was chosen for greatness. But, how?” “Am I you? No, so, I cannot say what you can do. You must decide. Just remember to come back and tell me all about it.” “Hmmm? Miriam, I recall you having a few books by Charles Fort. Have you sold them yet?” “Fort? No, I don’t think so.” “Good. I recall that he mentions vanishing people. Maybe he has a theory. Somebody must.” “Good. You search in books, but later. As for now, since you said that you had not remembered her dream, what dream was it that brought you in such a state to Miriam?” As I tell her my dream about the temple and the flaming-door-that-does-not burn, her eyes widens and she smiles. “This is good. Very good,” Miriam mutters, “You remember that I told you about that saint named Denny and the guiding of dreams?” “Of course. You had me read Hervey de Saint-Deny’s old book, Dreams, and How to Guide Them. Saint-Deny wrote of how he had the experience of being aware that he was dreaming, while he was dreaming. He wrote that anyone could acquire this skill. You told me I should learn to apply his techniques. To deal with my nightmares. If I could do it, maybe I could guide my dreams away from and out of the nightmarish situation. I tried and tried for a long time to become an awake dreamer. Then I found and read other books on this type of dreaming. They called it Lucid Dreaming. After reading them, I was able to become a lucid dreamer.” “This door in your dream is more than an ordinary door.” “That’s obvious. Ordinary doors burn.” “Stop with the Mr. Smart Mouth. The door is perhaps the gateway finally appearing to you.” “What are you talking about?” “There are dreaming beyond the lucid. To get to them you need to come upon the doorway. It will lead down deep. I can’t tell you much more. But, I can offer some advice, take that path.” “Why?” “It will change your life,” Miriam wistfully replies. “If you think you’re dealing with that which is weird now, beyond that door is a wyrdness you have not yet conceived. I also believe that the way to help Lana is to be found beyond that door.” “My, aren’t we being eloquent and mysterious? No further hints or advice? Just open and go forth?” “That’s all I will, say. To say more may misdirect you.” “Okay. Hmmm? I think I hear the call of unruffled sheets of paper. Books are calling me. Since that’s all you’re going to tell me about my dream, I shall investigate the world according to Fort.” KEYWORDS: H P LOVECRAFT, LOVECRAFT, DREAMLAND, DARK FANTASY, FANTASY NOVEL My last stop takes me up Judah Street, which undergoes its daily conversion, from Judaism to Greek Orthodox Christianity, when it becomes Parnassus Street. I bike farther still, up Stanyon to the Haight. I travel up the Haight to the bookstore The Gifts of the Goddess. I feel and appear out of place; I am a stranger in a strange land. I’m way too normal compared to the Druggies, the street walkers, burnt out dreamers, revolutionaries, the nevus-Hippies in their tattered jeans, sandals and tee shirts, or the safety-pinned, leather clad and green, or purple-dyed hair of the Punks. The Haight collects all kinds, even the likes of me. Hmm? Maybe as a dreamer of a literal kind, coming to this street does mean I fit in. It’s only my outward appearance that sets me apart.
It was my dreams that first brought me to the Haight. I’ve always had vivid and colorful dreams. I thought everyone did. Since I had no one to confide in, how was I supposed to know differently? Anyway, it was after my dad burnt my books that I had this dream, which drove me to the Haight. * WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1973 The dream was a frightening and horribly real experience of me being captured by the Inquisition and being tortured. All day long, the horror of it stayed with me. I couldn’t escape it. My response to any problem, big or small, is to go off in search of a book for an answer. Someone, somewhere, or some-when, must have faced a similar situation and lived to write about it. The school library and the nearby branch of the public library were no help. For the first time, Mr. Wells’ collection didn’t offer any satisfaction. He had books on dreams, but they were like Some Must Watch While Some Must Sleep by Dr. William C. Dement, books about the physiology of sleep and dreams. This was the first time that science, the Classical Quality approach to a problem, was not satisfactory. As for the “science” of Psychology, Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams and his follower’s writings were thick, heavy, presumptuous, and useless academic mud. It hurt my head to struggle to read the stuff. But for all the effort, it didn’t ring with the familiar sound of truth that I was accustomed to hearing when I read other works of science and philosophy. Mr. Wells mentioned the works of Carl Jung, but he didn’t carry such stuff. I asked him why not, and I ran into Mr. Wells’ own philosophical blind spot. Mr. Wells dismissed the work of Jung as religious nonsense and superstition. I yearned for answers. So, I had left the store for the first time still feeling the hunger for knowledge and understanding. I allowed myself to roam the streets blindly in search of another bookstore. Meandering, as I would do occasionally, amongst the book stacks. I realized I had traveled far, when I came to the otherworldly Haight district. I stopped and walked this exotic place in culture shock. I was surrounded by the irrational. I wandered in what I thought was aimlessness. I came upon a display window with a gray calico cat sleeping in it. When I took my gaze off the cat, I saw these mysterious picture cards and exotic statues of women. They were images of the Goddess from around the world. The picture cards were Tarot decks. That first day I barely noticed the nearly naked or completely naked statues. I was instead mesmerized by the cards. I had no idea that cards like that really existed. I had only read about such stuff in the sci-fi novel by Samuel R. Delany: Nova. I thought Delany had made the whole Tarot card thing up. I had no idea that they really existed. The store was called: The Gifts of the Goddess. The owner, Miriam, greeted me in such a warm manner when I first stepped into her store. I had a feeling of déjà vu. She was a large curvaceous bountiful woman, like an ethnic version of Dolly Parton and Mae West, in one body. She filled the store with her physical being and joyful presence. She had red and gray wavy hair, which cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her hair had wildness about it. A daring sense of freedom, as if the displaying of her hair was the flaunting of some taboo. Her long autumn leaf-patterned dress had a wide neckline, which displayed her ripe melon-sized bosom. She had cleavage for which the phrase Grand Canyon seemed the only fitting description. They were such an amazing feature of Mother Nature. Her bare arms jiggled, as did the many bracelets she wore, as she gestured whenever she was speaking. Miriam’s open demeanor encouraged and overcame my usual reluctance to approach strangers. After asking her about the cards in the window, and being told and shown the dozens of differently designed decks, I saw all the shelves of books and asked if she had any books on dreams. She asked me why? For some reason, I found myself telling her my dream. This was not to be the last time either that I would recount the description of a dream of mine with her. * MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1979 I came back to her store many times in trying to understand my dreams. Here I discovered the realm of shadows, a world of ancient Gods and Goddesses, shamans, magicians, witches, the occult, ghosts, and other things left outside the searching lights of science. Now, once again I travel to Miriam’s bookstore, seeking to share my concern with her about my strange jungle-temple dream. I walk into the store and sense anguish and agitation. The emotions emanate from the store’s only other customer. Odd? The sight of a lithe Filipino young woman causes the hairs on the back of my neck to tingle. I have that déjà vu feeling. Hmm? The Filipina is probably 17 or 18 years old, a simple deduction, given that she has my high school emblem on one of her notebooks, which juts, out of her backpack. She’s very pretty, with straight ebony hair falling below the shoulder. She wears tiny black and white cow earrings, an oversized gray sweater, designer jeans, and black running shoes. A gray-blue backpack slings jauntily over her shoulder. She has the poise of a dancer. She’s crying and Miriam is comforting her. I go up to the gray calico. According to her, he owns the store. I start to play with him, trying not to be obvious as I eavesdrop on her conversation with Miriam. “Jon is missing. Gone,” she says with complete despair. “Oy. Do you mind telling me how this happened?” Miriam asks. “I don’t know. I mean...” she starts to cry again. “Now,” Miriam says in a soothing voice says, “Take this advice: ‘Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’[1]” The young woman takes a deep breath and settles down onto the stool next to the counter. I feel that she has told this story many times hoping that it would do some good and, so far, it hasn’t. “It all started out so wonderfully. I remember how on that day the air was filled with the moist cool scent of the trees. We were in the Park, checking out the top of Strawberry Hill. Jon was a little upset because of an argument we’d had. He must’ve gotten up and walked down the hill. I was watching him start to walk away when suddenly I noticed something was not right. The air became still, like how it gets before a lightning storm. I also remember the air smelled different.” The hairs on the back of my arms are signaling a four-alarm fire! Oh, my God, I know this. That’s her. That’s the girl! Holy déjà vu! I saw this in my own weird dream! I can’t believe this. She’s real. I need to figure this out. Need more data to make this make sense. “What was this smell? Describe it to me, Lana,” Miriam asked. “It was a strong, vanilla sweet scent. Besides the smell, there was a cold breeze, icy cold. I stopped. I was very confused. Jon was ahead of me, I think. Maybe just behind some trees. I’m not sure. It’s sort of fuzzy. Then I heard him call my name. He sounded worried and very distant, like he was calling to me from the end of a long tunnel. I ran to catch up with him, but...” her voice starts to well up with emotion. The hairs on the back of my neck feel like they are standing straight up. “But what, Lana?” Miriam asks. “He was gone.” “Gone? Where?” I blurt out. “I don’t know!” she whispers, sounding lost. “I searched around. I called out to him. He had been only ten-maybe twenty feet, away from me. He was in a clearing, I thought. But I didn’t see where he went. I spent the rest of the day wandering around the whole Park calling frantically for him. It was no good. I went to his apartment and he wasn’t there.” She’s worn out. Miriam and I wait. “There were some cops I met,” Lana regains her strength and continues, “They said he couldn’t have just vanished. They said he must have hid from me, met up with someone, and got a ride out of the park. I yelled at them. I wouldn’t believe them. Jon loved me. But I can’t explain it. Why would he leave me and not tell me where he was going? I thought he loved me. I don’t know what to do.” “Lana,” Miriam asks, “have you ever dreamed about Jon after the disappearance?” What an odd question for Miriam to ask. “Yes! I can’t stop dreaming about him. Every night I fall asleep and dream about being with him. We are doing little things, shopping, doing laundry together, and getting the groceries. For a moment, everything feels right. Then it happens. I stretch out to him in my sleep and find nothing. I touch an empty pillow. The shock of it rouses me out of me sleep, frantic and disoriented. I expect him to be there and he’s not! Then it comes back to me. He’s gone. He left me! I try to go back to sleep. But I can’t stop thinking about him. Dreaming about him.” She stops for a moment to wipe away a tear. She’s frustrated, fighting with herself to keep despair in check. “The worst dream is the one when I do relive it all. I can see everything as it was on that day. I remember every leaf, every smell. I see him walk ahead of me, all in slow motion. I call out to him! I try to get to him. I try to stop him from walking toward something. I hear him call my name. Then it starts again. Those last few moments repeat. I’m with him. Then, all I’ve left is his voice calling to me. Why did he leave me? What did I do to make him so upset? I wake up crying. Exhaustion is the only reason I get any sleep. I almost wish I could stop dreaming about him.” We silently try to take it in. Much earlier in her recounting I gave up the pretension of not listening, openly pulled up a stool, and sat down. Lana wipes away the remaining tears. Lana’s story gives me the shivers. How can this be? What does it mean? I dreamed I was she; now I am certain of it. Lana is embarrassed by her display of emotion and tries to make light of it. “Well, I came here to ask if you’d seen or heard anything about him. If you could ask around for me, I’d appreciate it. Everyone comes here. So, maybe somebody has seen him or heard something about where he is.” Lana asks. “Of course, Lana. As soon as I hear something I’ll give you a call,” Miriam replies. “Great. Well, I got to be going. I have to check in with some of the other places he hung out at,” Lana says. [1] Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson a.k.a. Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, pg. 106, Oxford University Press, World's Classic Paperback Series, 1865, 1982 KEYWORDS: H P LOVECRAFT, LOVECRAFT, DREAMLAND, DARK FANTASY, FANTASY NOVEL 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 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
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