Tuesday, October 30, 2012

I’m voting for Obama because I’d rather be tased than shot

PREVIEW: With 7 billion people in the world and counting, it’s absurd that we should all compete against each other not just for survival, but the simple pleasures of living. But such is the case in the reality of Republicans, in the me-first/you-last Social Darwinist hostility of their goddess, Bride of Moloch and Queen of Hell, Ayn Rand…

*****

I’m voting for Barack Obama.

We don’t have time for leaders whose minds need complete changing. We don’t have time for people who don’t get it.

If a house is on fire, and you know it, but people are in your way just standing there, not even paying attention to the fire, preventing you from getting to the hose, most of us would remove them as obstacles. Hurting them is better than letting the house burn down, which would not only kill us, but them, too.

There are lots of ways of removing obstacles, some better than others. I’m sure we can be more humane removing the political-economic elite who would prevent us from trying to save the planet and live the lives we deserve to live, striving for things that deserve striving after, than they have been considerate of us in extracting wealth from our existence to live in a way they don’t deserve. Maybe not, it’s likely we have to be as ruthless as they are if there’s to be any hope for the future. Some histories suggest that’s the case.

And of course, there are valid arguments against ruthlessness, regardless of its motivation. That’s why I hope we can be more humane in achieving our “lifestyles” than the capitalists have been in achieving theirs.

I wasn’t going to vote because, quite frankly, the Democrats disgust me. Their feckless idealism is nauseating. The Democratic Party has also been in the way of necessary reforms, but the Democratic psyche could be more quickly altered, relative to the Republican mind, due to its greater empathy. The more suffering they perceive, the more Democrats want to do something about it. In fact, Democrats seem to alter their way of thinking much more than Republicans do in the face of reality. Do I really need to cite evidence supporting this opinion? Really? Republicans are less rigid than Democrats?

Most of you reading this would agree Republicans are far worse in dealing with reality and making life better for most than Democrats. I knew several talented artists who committed suicide during the most recent Bush-league regime. They couldn’t take the day in, day out cynicism of it. The daily grind of a white, right-wing culture under constant attack from facts. Defeating reality with its malicious fantasies eroded whatever hope these decent, sensitive human beings had of having any hope.

Romneyites will be more of that same hopelessness until the real world starts biting them in the ass. I hope that bite takes the form of a lost election rather than a lost civilization. I’m no fan of civilization, what the civilizing process has wrought, but the falling action from such a climax would be catastrophic. Hubris inevitably begets tragedy. I would prefer to mitigate it by deflecting the hubris from its charge. Better, I would prefer to annihilate the form of hubris that is the Republican Party, and change the nature of the drama, making it a tragedy of my own making. I know that’s ridiculous, so I’ll drop it. It will never become a “program” [or pogrom]. I don’t give a fuck about my will triumphing, nor do I want someone else winning at my expense.

The most important issue, of course, is global warming. It’s teeth are big and sharp. If I were a biocentric Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell or Rev. Graham, which is to say if I were an inflexibly ignorant ass, I could claim Gaia’s naturally reacting to the pain caused by her red state regions. You think it’s just a coincidence there’s a blizzard in coal country? That Texans can’t go outside from May to October? That Wall Street’s going to be deeply inconvenienced? That the Show Me state is being illegitimately raped and mind-fucked by moneyed religious interests?

Anyone with half a brain knows that global warming’s going to kick ass [it’s only getting started folks], that the right wing in particular and capitalism in general are finished, that the people at the bottom are tired, hungry and thirsty and the people at the top have lost legitimacy. Our social positions are no longer valid, whether we’re on the top, bottom or disappearing middle. No one deserves their systemic advantage or disadvantage. Not fair really means something, whether you want it to or not. It becomes a matter of life and death when there’s not enough stuff for everybody to live [equally or not; people who are fed and watered will tolerate a lot, but once they’re exposed look out].

Anyone with three-quarters of a brain knows we ignore this situation at our own peril. Do the one billion haves want to face six billion starving have-nots driven by the survival instinct? Most with full brains understand that human civilization has evolved itself into a trap. We know, like Edward Abbey, that changing human nature means mutilating human beings. That’s the way it is when the rubber hits the road. I can smell it, can you?

Mitt Romney can’t, or at least we’ll never have any way of knowing. He contradicts himself too much for any real understanding of him on our part. His word is poisoned because of it. At least with Obama, he’s been true to his word if you’ve been listening to him carefully and not projecting your own ideals into his language. His relatively darker skin has made too many of us blind and deaf to what he actually says and does. Yes, he’s felt a need to back down on a number of things. But what are his options? Civil War? What does one do with people who can’t be reasoned with while they’re literally burning up the planet? How does someone save the village from them without destroying it?

We can’t change the nature of Republicans and corporate libertarians [laissez-faire capitalists] without hurting them. If you’re a decent person, and you know they’re human, and you might actually like their company during a football game or some other sporting event…what the hell are you to do? You can’t really go about damaging their interests without inflicting damage on one’s self [as opposed merely to one’s interests]. It’s inhuman not to feel the ramifications in advance. It’s psychopathic to not even be able to imagine how it’s all going to feel…not only for yourself, but others.

Obama may be a killer, but he’s not a psychopath. This is what makes him a different president more than the mere shade of his skin. Like Jimmy Carter, he’s decent enough to try to see the decency in everyone. He struggles, usually in vain, to raise our overall dignity as a nation the same way Carter did after Vietnam and Watergate. Obama shows a respect for these conservative jerks  in a way I can’t. He sees a form of human dignity in them. Whether it’s true or not, I respect it as a way one treats others with the appropriate humility [yeah, sometimes you bow—Jesus would’ve washed their feet].

I’m voting for Obama because I’d prefer to prefer democracy, and if not democracy, at least the hope for some semblance of a republic. If Romney gets in there, I suspect the rich will be emboldened enough by their greed and selfishness to accelerate their efforts at lowering the planet’s population to a level that’s less threatening to their way of life, which isn’t negotiable. If that happens, it will be my responsibility and the responsibility of humane people everywhere to drive them into negotiations. Either way, we’ll have to find a way of herding and coralling them, keeping them out of the way and far from the levers of power. This must be done regardless of who wins the election. Obama will talk and negotiate. Romney won’t. Obama understands America more than Romney does, which makes him more American than Romney, not less. Democracy is all about compromise. Romney and Republicans are all about authority.

Fuck them. The planet can’t be saved as it is. Its existing regime is no longer tolerable. So which way will things go?

Global warming and debt are forcing civilization to adapt or perish. The former is the planet forcing all of us to evolve with it; the latter is the rich coercing the poor to adapt themselves to their conditions, and by doing so accepting death.

What Republican interests desire is inhuman and unnatural. The nature of civilization itself must change if people are going to make it in any way worth making it. This means the systems of the old civilization must evolve because they’re no longer working toward the common good. We can see corporations and their people operating in their own private interests, and the havoc that’s begetting all over the planet. The Republican leadership represents these private interests that are out to enrich themselves regardless of the suffering it causes. They represent the same old order. Mitt Romney wants to be Julius Caesar as much as Haffez al Assad does.

Philip K. Dick wrote repeatedly of how the Roman Empire—the black iron prison that descended over humanity two-and-a-half millennia ago—never went away, it’s still here, everywhere. It’s a frame of mind…a delusional definition of progress. The Roman elite and citizenry are as nasty as they are because they know their way of life is doomed and pointless, which means their psychological advantages as rich people have eroded. So they commit suicide for fun, but only after they’ve used everything up.

When tomorrow comes, would you rather be a Roman or a Hun?

This, of course, is a bizarre equation. With 7 billion people in the world and counting, it’s absurd that we should all compete against each other not just for survival, but the simple pleasures of living. But such is the case in the reality of Republicans, in the me-first/you-last Social Darwinist hostility of their dollar sign-sucking goddess, that Bride of Moloch and Queen of Hell, Ayn Rand.

I’m voting for Barack Obama because he’s at least talked about “being on the right side of history.” As all the shit goes down and we find ourselves thrown up, I prefer Obama over Romney.

History shows that when a Democrat’s President, it’s tear gas and billy clubs deployed against the hungry masses. When a Republican’s in charge, it becomes bullets and bombs [yeah, Tea Partiers, Clinton was an exception when it came to the Branch Davidians and Ruby Ridge; but when you think about it, Homeland Security’s pretty nonpartisan because it grows its job regardless of who’s elected—in other words, the national security state remains in power despite the will of the people].

So, I guess you could say I’m voting for Obama because I’d rather be tased than shot, bro. Either way, we’re in for a shit storm down here at the trailer park…
 
RELATED:
“What’s Obama Up To? Does He Get It?”
“A Mitt Romney Poem”
 
“Ron Paul, Libertarianism and Corporate Personhood"
 
“You Are What Consumes You: A Review of The Corporation”

Monday, October 1, 2012

BEYOND BEAUTY: Roberto Bolano’s The Savage Detectives and 2666

Rebels are often attracted to storied lunatics and repelled by oppressors’ intuitive designs.

It also appears [anecdotally] that rebels throughout history [Diogenes, Thersites] have felt bourgeois methodologies irritated their sensibilities.[i]

Such radicals, being human, usually prefer running in their own circles, hoping to avoid the imaginary yet actual herd, which simultaneously defies the center while clinging to it. Everyone believes themselves a radical. Few see they’re in the herd, fewer still know the etymology of radical.

Among those who do see are some who linger open-eyed, squatting on the margins in Roberto Bolano’s The SavageDetectives and 2666, inspecting the fringes, discovering a numbing cruelty and complacency that becomes, in scope, a semblance of the whole species…a metaphysical super-organism existing for its own ends.

The reader reads the drip-drop-drip of a lunacy running amok in the imagined world[s] affected by particular cruelties and a generalized ennui, holograms that no longer coalesce over the old mythologies, re-imagining the emptiness of old rituals overturned by the arrival of maquilladoras, narcos and NAFTA, a post-communist unraveling of a previous order that reveals a mind trying to make sense of all the disintegrating contradictions—the cruelties of self fighting to exist in a multi-polar world—before being overwhelmed by the entropy of its own open-ended demise or conclusion [note: Bolano was dying while writing 2666, succumbing to liver disease shortly after finishing it].

The term “savage detectives,” like 2666, suggests more of a riddle than something concrete. Who or what are they? What’s savage about them? What are they trying to detect?

Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima, semi-fictional leaders of Mexico City’s self-proclaimed “visceral realists” of the 1990s, flee with a whore from her enraged pimp into the Sonoran desert of northern Mexico hoping to find their poetic mother, Cesarea Tinajero.

These savage detectives are described as “sovereigns of sadness,” exploring the postmodern world’s slow-motion, metaphysical collapse. Belano [who’s also the alleged narrator of 2666] and Lima and those who follow them, read them, know or feel there’s no point to anything, nothing worthwhile, really, beyond rebellion for the sake of doing something visceral, something from the gut, something real that goes beyond mere semblance…to prove to one’s self that one’s really alive, to do something that asserts one’s existence in an irreversibly brutal mode that totally fucks with the man’s head while allowing the transgressor to spot something, anything, that might be construed as meaningful.

Over the course of the two novels, an amoral aesthetic based on youthful desperation and hunger [see “Mexicans Lost in Mexico”] gradually evolves into a magical fatalism as Lotte, Archimboldi’s elderly sister, informs the aging giant his nephew’s an accused serial killer in a Mexican prison, and though Archimboldi’s just a man, he’s done some amazing things, and may still do something amazing. The first novel begins with romantic writers in their youth searching for something real and the second ends with the greatest visceral realist of them all—Benno von Archimboldi—boarding a plane for Santa Teresa [Juarez] and a mysterious legacy, a magical fatalism where something is done when nothing’s possible anyway.

Abel Romero, a character in Detectives, says “…the heart of the matter is knowing whether evil (or sin or crime or whatever you want to call it) is random or purposeful. If it’s purposeful, we can fight it …If it’s random…we’re fucked.” [420]

Bolano, however, knows it’s more complicated, that it’s not good or evil if it’s random, it simply is. Good or evil requires purpose or intent, and he shows the divergent ambiguities of such aims in perhaps the most amazing part of either novel, when, in Detectives, Jaume Planells speaks of Arturo’s duel with literary critic Inaki Echevarne:

“…this scene was the logical outcome of our ridiculous lives. It wasn’t a punishment but a new wrinkle. It gave us a glimpse of ourselves in our common humanity. It wasn’t proof of our idle guilt but a sign of our miraculous and pointless innocence.” [510-11]

Both novels embody Eros’ struggle over Thanatos, where life tries to “abolish death” [2666, 710] even though “No one pays attention [to the carnage, even though] the secret of the world is hidden in [it]” [SD, 348]…even though neither artist or critic, producer or consumer, can ever win the duel if humans are to exist.

The man who rents Archimboldi his first typewriter tells him that “Jesus is the masterpiece. The thieves are minor works. Why are they there? Not to frame the crucifixion, as some innocent souls believe, but to hide it.” [790]

Which is another way of saying everything we innocently perceive is symbolic, a crucifixion of the truth, a “semblance” of the apocalypse, where “…it was all real… in appearance.…a tapestry burned by the fire of seeming.” [Ansky in 2666, 722-3]

It’s while fleeing from Stalinists that Ansky, a Soviet Jew whose journal the youthful Prussian, Archimboldi, had discovered while recuperating from his wounds on the Eastern Front in WWII, writes: “Only in chaos are we conceivable…something secret, horrible, and cosmic [is] afoot." [736]

Indeed. And Bolano’s fictions plumb this secret, giving voice to the ultimate mysteries of being human…a way of going beyond mere beauty with all the ugliness going on.



[i] I think of what’s happened re: the exploitation of Che Guevara. The Bolano myth’s on a par with “The Motorcycle Diaries” in the way the mainstream spectacle has sought to co-opt and invert energy antithetical to its existence for a profit, but that’s another subject…

Friday, September 7, 2012

Dylan at Artpark: It’s Dark

The only other time besides Thursday night that Bob Dylan ever played Artpark in Lewiston was back in the mid-90s. Deadheads broke through security during the encore and danced on stage all around him. At first, he was tentative, then relaxed and motioned for security to let the rest up. The show ended in an orgy of dance and happy music on stage and throughout the amphitheatre. At least a hundred babies had to have been conceived that night. It was another time…and not dark yet.

Our seats to Thursday’s show added to our excitement over seeing Dylan again. Only single tickets had been available hours after they went on sale, but man, great single seat they were. My friend and I sat 10 and 12 rows from center stage. We thought we’d be able to see Dylan very well for the first out of six times we’d attended his shows together. This was going to be up close and personal with the man himself.

The show was sold out, but it was slow filling thanks to Lewiston’s poor traffic control and lack of consideration for concert goers, but that’s another issue. At 8:15 p.m. the lights dimmed and we saw shadowy figures stroll onto the stage and assume their positions to thunderous applause. It was as if someone had been watching and the second the place was full they cut the lights. Dylan was in a hurry. They were playing in Massachusetts the next night. That’s a long bus ride. Guitar chords were struck in a muscular fashion as George Recile began what would be a steady, concert-long heavy thumping of the bass drum in something that seemed a bit faster than 4/4, a 100 bpm pulse rate that had the band throwing a tachycardic tantrum throughout much of the concert, yet something of a musical experiment developed and worked its way out, looking for answers it couldn’t quite find but rubbed against at different points throughout the show.

The lights dimly rose illuminating everyone but Dylan, who sat at the keyboards, hidden under a flat, wide-brimmed hat, stage right. The lighting made it appear as if the band were a holograph rocking before a huge cement wall in some large, subterranean structure [at least this is how it appeared from where we were most fortunately sitting]. The sound was garbled from the start. Artpark is perhaps the best venue, sound-wise, in the region [aside from Kleinhan’s Music Hall in Buffalo]. So the sound was a construct, or deconstruct, of the venue’s capabilities. The band was playing in the basement, as if it were a shrunken down dream strumming on the table next to your washer and dryer. And it’s a huge basement with lots of echo, so when the band plays it projects the sensation of singing the national anthem in a stadium, where you’re hearing a line come back at you as you start singing the next line, garbling the hopes for any sonic clarity. It was confusion…a tempest…the name of Dylan’s next album set for release on “Patriot’s Day,” September 11, five days hence…

The thumping bass drum and speed with which Tony Garnier’s bass guitar collaborated, with Dylan trying to fit something in on the keyboards while finding his way word-wise through Watching the River Flow [the opening song], left the crowd confused yet entertained, as no one who’s ever been to more than one Dylan show can tell you what to expect except the unexpected. Even the oddest dishes and courses of the meal leave unexpected aftertastes that leave one feeling strangely sated.

Next thing we know the music stops. Thunderous applause as Dylan stumbles up from the piano stool, raising his arms like Nixon at a rally, and gingerly works his way around the back of the keyboards and around his bandmates, gesturing instructions, light on his feet, seeming a bit drunk, maybe more than a bit, and then finally making his way back to the keyboards for an unintelligible It Ain’t Me, Babe, completely re-arranged to accommodate Dylan’s beyond-the-grave gurgle and growl that was, nonetheless, poorly executed. Throughout the night the band seemed to be standing as far away from Dylan as it could get, as if he were in exile or quarantine, while constantly keeping an eye on him, ready to jump in and cover up his apparently numerous mistakes, especially in the transitions between verses and whatnot. But everyone in the audience loved Bob and whenever he displayed a vibrant Dylanesque flourish either vocally or on the harmonica, the crowd went wild.

That said, however, there were some good performances. The third song, Things Have Changed, seemed especially poignant in light of what was going on on the stage and the world at large. Early in the concert, either just before this song or after, a couple of girls began dancing in the aisle the way they used to at Dead shows [and Dylan’s only other Artpark appearance]. An elderly usher asked them to take their seats. They promptly obeyed. The crowd had that kind of compliant, sheepish feel to it. Western New York is a mean, rundown place, even among those of us who can afford $72.50 tickets. The stress is great. The show seemed to be addressing that stress, somehow. Dylan worked his getting drunk into that expression as well, getting up after each song and raising his arms and behaving like an elderly Liberace on acid, circumambulating the stage in a stumbling, gesticulating gesture of old timey entertainment style delusion, which itself may be an ironic self-commentary, knowing Dylan. He might’ve worn a cape. He could’ve introduced a few Elvis moves, too. And come to think of it, he perhaps did during one of the concert’s two highlights, Love Sick, where he walked around the stage like the King singing In The Ghetto. The sound of that song fit well with the sound the possibly intoxicated bandleader was striving for that night, and it was one of the few times the bass drum seemed to ease up just a bit.  
  Then came a rather long stretch in which re-arranged, loosely played classics were rendered difficult for the audience to recognize: A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall; Highway 61 Revisited; and Simple Twist of Fate. All with a loud, thumping bass drum, sloppy transitions and unfamiliar melodies apparently impossible to properly harmonize with…a tempest of music cyclonically exploding beyond itself into a kind of oblivion, all leading to Ballad of a Thin Man, performed in recognizable fashion, but with Dylan’s microphone set for echo, slyly commenting on everything that’s happening, so when the lyrics hit the first chorus—“Because something is happening here/But you don’t what it is/Do you, Mr. Jones?”—the whole show begins making some kind of sense, the kind of sense requiring one to go home, pick up one’s pencil and write it down.  
But then the band, led totally by Dylan, meandered through lackadaisical versions of Like A Rolling Stone and an All Along the Watchtower that left at least my friend, and perhaps myself as well, wondering if lead guitarist Charlie Sexton was going to last much longer with Bob. He didn’t seem happy. In fact, the whole band seemed a little put off…as if its performance had been somewhat frustrated.
Dylan’s encore, Blowin’ In The Wind, seemed to have the feel of a leaf being blown along rather than something consciously directed, as if the whole thing were subject to the whims of nature’s breathing.
Fifteen years ago, it still wasn’t the case. But on this night, the darkness had arrived.
My friend, a long-time musician, felt the show was an abomination because Dylan had the ability to do so much more with his sound, considering the resources, and he charged so much money for people like us to go see him. He also felt that the band sucked. I somewhat agreed, but said most things Dylan does are intentional, and that it might be more interesting to ask why this performance took the form it did. What was he trying to do? Why did he once again rip us off this way?
My friend didn’t buy it, suggesting it was because Dylan was a drunk, and said if he’d been there by himself he would’ve got up and walked out. I could see his point of view, but couldn’t help feeling fascinated by the whole thing. Dylan had stayed mostly in the shadows all night, and when the light did shine on him he seemed otherworldly, like an intoxicated ragtime carnival barker…a wild west card shark dressed to the nines but sleazy enough between the lines to get what he wanted from you.
We walked back to my car through heavy darkness, feeling humid on the inside and somewhat confused, disappointed yet stimulated, dissing Dylan and complimenting him at the same time.
We had a couple beers on ice at the car and chugged them when we got there, smoking our smokes, waiting for the traffic to thin, comparing and contrasting this concert with the six others we’d seen together over the last 25 years, and realized this was likely our last one. Tempest, his next album, is the name of Shakespeare’s last play. And though Dylan may deny it, remaining on his Never Ending Tour, there’s a feeling of finality, demise, dissolution afoot. Time drains all of us, right down to the last drop.
The darkness, maybe, is here.
*****
The band: Charlie Sexton, lead guitar; George Recile, drums; Stu Kimball, lead/rhythm guitar; Donnie Herron, violin, viola, electric mandolin, pedal steel, lap steel, banjo; Tony Garnier, bass.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

IN SEARCH OF THE LOST TWIN: THE JUNGIAN-GNOSTIC-TAOISM [et al] OF PHILIP K. DICK

A REVIEW OF Philip K. Dick: VALIS and Later Novels [A Maze of Death, VALIS, The Divine Invasion and The Transmigration of Timothy Archer], edited by Jonathan Lethem, The Library of America, 2009.

It might be best when considering the chaotic life and writing of Philip K. Dick to simply start at the beginning.

PKD and his twin sister, Jane, were born six weeks premature in Chicago in December 1928.
His father, Joseph, worked for the Agriculture Department. His mother, Dorothy, had kidney disease resulting in poor breast milk.
The twins and their mother had scant medical support. In January 1929 Philip and Jane were rushed to the hospital suffering from severe malnutrition and dehydration. According to PKD, his mother allegedly gave more to him than his sister, so Philip survived but Jane didn’t.
Dick always felt guilty about Jane’s death, having taken her food. How might a young boy learn or imagine such a thing? Did someone suggest it to him or flat out say it? Or was it something his brain or mind manufactured with the materials at hand? Regardless, Philip kept her alive and relevant in his imagination, doing everything he could to bring her back: “She fights for her life & I for hers, eternally…My sister is everything to me. I am damned always to be separated from her/& with her, in an oscillation.” [823]
Dorothy divorced Joe when PKD was 5, and by the time little Philip was 8 he’d begun a life of never-ending emotional and mental challenges, having experienced a “childhood Satori,” being treated by a psychiatrist and writing his first story with fond maternal encouragement. 
Interestingly, and perhaps coincidentally [or not], the shape of Dick’s imagination seemed a recursion of many mythologies across humankind [the material on hand] that had certain key elements in common, suggesting to Dick the possible existence of a shared monomyth or collective unconscious as the wellspring from which his conscious matrix sprung. And that well, according to PKD’s vision, was a vast active living intelligence system [VALIS]. 
One of the most dominant themes in his final novels revolves around saving women in distress [various manifestations of his dead twin sister] as a means of unifying the universe [and making himself whole again]: the divine syzygy/yin and yang are once again united rather than separated [until it’s time to separate again]. The dharma process of unification, redemption and at-one-ment is accomplished. 
Then, hopefully, one’s relieved of one’s karmic cycle and moves on; unless, of course, one is a bodhisattva…then the cycle begins again…and so does the “occlusion” we must clear away so we can re-member and re-cognize ourselves for what we are.  Dick goes so far as to imply that he himself is a bodhisattva in his last novel, The Transmigration of Timothy Archer.
These fictions not only seem to have en-lightened PKD, relieving his psychic burden, but may also ease the same in certain, or perhaps uncertain readers, of whom there are growing numbers thanks to a greater common awareness of Gnosticism, chaos theory, holograph theory, information theory, quantum physics, string theory, Zoroastrianism, ancient aliens, etc. & et al, thanks in large part to the Internet, cable, movies, etc. 
Dick [as a meme, perhaps] has evolved—is evolving—from a troubled child into an autodidactic archetype, and in this sense his energy’s lingering or maybe even growing in today’s world where an increasing number of people are “connecting the dots”—refining their qualia—and projecting their mindful holograms for themselves, as there’s a growing sense of the status quo pursuing its own interests, not those of Dickheads or Dickheads-in-waiting who might take a contrary view.
Such PKD-based films as The Matrix, Blade Runner, Minority Report, A Scanner Darkly and The Adjustment Bureau—which register a level of paranoia that’s been growing since 9-11 and the explosion of social cybernetic spy technology—have gone a long way toward injecting the interconnected human mind with new-old mythic forms. The popularity of Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth, based on the 1980s Bill Moyers’ interviews, introduced many people for the first time to the ideas of Carl Jung, who Dick began reading at 16 [40 years prior to the TV show]. This knowledge, becoming more widespread as a result, broadened Dick’s potential readership. More people began reading him and he began seeming less crazy as time wore on.
That Dick was writing 30+ years ago, one can’t help but wonder, especially after reading his later novels and some of his Exegesis, if he really weren’t some sort of prophet or medium or conduit of information injecting itself here from elsewhere. If you haven’t read Dick, that might seem a far out statement. If you have, you may argue it’s too tame. To write about Dick at all is to find the seam between over- and understatement and mem-brain it [sic], kind of like the “te” of the Tao te Ching in operation, language evolving virtue out of virtual phenomena. 
So, in an effort to keep Dick simple…
Prophecy
In VALIS, PKD writes of Horselover Fat’s belief that Christ “…[was] an extra-terrestrial life form which came to this planet thousands of years ago, and as living information, passed into the brains of human beings already living here, the native population. We are talking about interspecies symbiosis.” [274]

This truly frightens PKD, because that means Fat, who’s PKD’s textual avatar, has come to the realization that life, consciousness and reality are all about “where time changes into space” and space into time. We’re portions of an eternal consciousness forever conceiving Itself and ourselves, macro and micro selves conceiving self into self in material terms via language. “I” am the in-formation of that language, re-presented by The Word [or intercessor, medium, membrane] allowing us to perceive the signifier/signified duality of language, our means of becoming, and the paradox that we perceive ourselves as simultaneously  more than language, yet completely enmeshed in It. Each thing surpasses each other thing as a necessity of time. That’s the mind of God at work, according to PKD. 

Dick also writes of Fat’s belief [meaning his belief] that we’re living in “apostolic times, but a layer of maya or what the Greeks called `dokos’ obscures the landscape. This is a key concept with Fat: dokos, the layer of delusion or the merely seeming. The situation has to do with time, with whether time is real.” [279] 

I think that PKD ends up discovering that time is more than real, it’s reality itself. However, it isn’t actual because the actual thing, or space, is beyond time. Only once time, or information, is injected into space from elsewhere does anything matter. This becoming matter becomes what Wilhelm Reich called a “mechanico-mystical” complex or syndrome that informs all “mystico-fascist,”[1] authoritarian ideologies that promote patriarchal domination. It’s exactly this kind of mindset that may have led his mother to give PKD more breast milk than his twin sister, if indeed that were the case and not something occluded by the evil loosing itself upon the world, which works to separate yin from yang, animus from anima, Dick from Jane.
The Metaphysical Apparatus
The world, according to Dick, is a “vast active living intelligence system.” He came to this realization after the events of “2-3-74,” in which Dick believed God communicated with him directly for a period of several weeks in the form of a pink beam of light. Dick realized that in this experience “his two space-time continua [the primordial twins; syzygy; the yin-yang] ceased to be separate and merged. And his two identities—personalities—[PKD and Horselover Fat—first and third person technique] also merged.” [271]
Now, Dick quotes from his Exegesis: 

#14: The universe is information and we are stationary in it, not three-dimensional and not in space or time. The information fed to us we hypostatize into the phenomenal world… “We are not individuals. We are stations in a single Mind. We are supposed to remain separate from one another at all times. However, Fat had received by accident a signal (the golden fish sign) intended for Thomas.” Thomas also gets Fat’s message and discovers Fat living inside him in ancient Rome. The language he’s hearing is English. [272]

As PKD re-members Horselover, Fat at-ones with Simon, meaning Simon is Philip and the Empire, the Black Iron Prison, has never gone away but still rules the world. Here in VALIS we have a revelation or apocalypse of orthogonal time, where Dick and Fat and Simon the Early Christian Roman are simultaneously existent being[s]. The world is an LP record and each of them [how many more of them exist?] merely represents different points in the groove. What matters, as in quantum physics, is where the stylus is…and it can be picked up and put down anyplace else on the album, illustrating the particle-wavelength paradox and Heisenberg’s uncertainty. 

If I can say anything for certain about PKD’s work, it’s that uncertainty is its fundamental default position. Uncertainty requires a faith in process, not some ends outside of time. And we see this, perhaps, in Dick’s last novel, The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, in the way Bill and Timothy merge into the same person…the way Fats merges with Phil in VALIS…and that by extension and/or intension may actually recurse Itself with all humans, writing us in Its image: Your are me over there: I am you over here. They are us over there, we are them over here; etc. & et al. It is us everywhere, just dreaming each other, set across set into subset and sub-subset, etc. & et al. 

Word-beings living a dream plasma…
SYZYGY
As established, everything revolves around the male twin[Dick/Animus/Yin/Demiurge/Yahweh/Heaven] saving his fallen twin sister [Jane/Anima/Yang/Sophia/Goddess/Earth], and unifying the divine syzygy, yin with yang, despite yet because of the edicts of the orthogonal time vortex that’s overtaken them as a matter of fate, not will, becoming will, not fate, until fate overtakes will again, etc.
It would seem we’re eternally recurring cosmic hermaphrodytes simultaneously existing in many worlds, according to Dick. In The Divine Invasion, the anima, Zina, claims her world’s as real as Emmanuel’s, a demiurgical character representing the animus. Emmanuel, the instinctive patriarch, argues against this woman’s presumption, claiming “I am He Who causes to be. You are not.” [542] He tells her she doesn’t understand, that he picks and chooses among potential worlds and decides which ones become actual.  Zina tells him he’s made “poor choices,” to which he says her world and what she’s saying are all lies:
It is wish fulfillment. You cannot build a world on wishes. The basis of reality is bleak because you cannot serve up obliging mock vistas; you must adhere to what is possible: the law of necessity. That is the underpinning of reality: necessity. Whatever is, is because it must be, because it can be no other way…I know it; I stake everything on this proposition. Here I stand or fall.  [542]
Yet despite the chest-beating, Zina easily wins the argument. Animus can never win except by brute force…by taking the mother’s milk. Emmanuel feels as though he created Zina as his “disinhibitor,” who will help him re-member, something he can’t do on his own. And animus feels troubled when it senses anima’s greater psychological power. Animus gets an inkling of who Anima is, what she’s doing, when he realizes “it [time making space matter] is too much for me; even me. I can’t believe it.” But he must, because she’s the divine Goddess, the mother of the demiurge of whom the Gnostics speak. She is the one who’s truly all powerful…until she falls again and animus rises, seeking her recuperation. Thus goes syzygy, eternally recurring Itself…
DISINTEGRATING THE WHORL
The end of Timothy Archer shows it’s the search that matters, not the discovery. And that the reporting of what you find while searching is actually prophecy, especially when read in hindsight.
Dick reiterates his notion from VALIS that Christ was a fictional creation, but expands on that to suggest he may have been a psychedelic mushroom dealer, a kingpin in fact, whose 12 disciples distributed “the Word” throughout the land.
He uses the fictional discovery of the Zadokite Codex, akin to the actual discovery of the so-called “Gnostic Gospels” at Nag Hammadi, as a source for this speculation. Timothy Archer, the Episcopal Bishop of California based on the actual bishop, James Pike, a close personal friend of Dick’s, believes the Zadokite Codex was the source of Q, the sayings of Jesus from the Synoptic Gospels, but pre-dated Christ by 200 years. 
The codex, according to Archer, associates Q with the Anokhi, a divine being that is actually a mushroom the Zadokites grew in caves by the Dead Sea. This means that the “body and blood” of Christ in the Holy Sacrament is actually a psychedelic fungus. According to Bishop Archer, the Zadokites made bread from the Anokhi and drank broth made from boiling it. 
In The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, perhaps Dick’s most erudite and philosophical novel, the narrator and other characters attain an earthy mental state of wildness where and when the old myths are no longer adequate and newer versions of these old myths must return, be recouped, re-membered, arisen and atoned for.
It now seems as if PKD, in the voice of Angel Archer [his dead sister], is prophesying his own early demise in the form of Timothy’s ruin. The preceding suicides of the bishop’s son and mistress [Dick had made several serious attempts on his own life] were precursors to Timothy Archer’s fall [he landed on his knees] and, perhaps, to his own actual death, or the ways he imagined it might happen.

Transmigration forms the climax of the self-destructive projections of Dick’s highly literary fiction, which is to say his reality, the actual state of his mind caught in time.

In both the VALIS Trilogy and PKD’s epic battle with cosmic guilt, we are able to see the human being heroically battling the gargantuan, biocentric forces of the cosmos. More than that, we are able to bear witness to postmodern humankind’s struggle to redeem itself for what it’s done—and ever doing—to the Earth.

Timothy Archer dies fighting his fate like a man. He chooses to do so, battling its memes/language/ideas as a living thing existing in its own right by its own means, using us as hosts [ends] the same way we consistently succumb to it, each signifying the other to its death.

Transmigration ends with Angel’s feet planted firmly on the ground. She writes that Timothy “died hard, which is to say he died hitting back. Fate had to murder him.” [767] She chooses to not believe Tim’s returned using Bill [the bishop’s mistress’ schizophrenic son] as a host, but agrees to take care of the mentally ill young man when he’s released, once again, from the mental hospital. And Angel, PKD’s surrogate, now wants to save the blond boy in distress, the way Philip always had a thing for dark haired girls in trouble. One must constantly choose flexibility if one’s to at-one with an irrational universe…becoming a grain of chaos blending into an inconceivable, macrocosmic super-order. 

Some suggest that Dick, finally, believed everything that happened in his novels and to himself was pure insanity. PKD WAS DESCRIBING INSANITY, NOT GOD. God was real. God was sane. But PKD knew better. He experienced actuality as an irreal, insane matrix emergent from multiple dreams of multiple selves in multiple places at multiple times dreaming itself into existence…into mattering. Mind is the witnessing I/Eye inside here—the other side of this hologram/plasma/membrane/seam…and love for his sister was always the guide star through his madness, what got him through. 

Finally, Dick, in the form of Angel Archer, seems to reject the apparent end that history would have contrived for itself in favor a more down to earth view, rejecting Timothy’s teachings and the religious impulse in favor of the material existence of a record store manager. 

I hear Sophia from The Divine Invasion telling Phil that “Unless your past perishes…you are doomed. Do you know that?...Your future must differ from your past. The future must always differ from the past.” [349] 

It’s called disintegrating the whorl, wearing down the groove, playing the song, breaking the record…as one must.


[1] The Gnostic Theory of Alien Intrusion by John Lash:
http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/vida_alien/esp_vida_alien_18v.htm Wilhelm Reich saw the rise of a similar syndrome which he characterized as "the mechanico-mystical" complex. (See The Mass Psychology of Fascism.) Its signature is "authoritarian ideology," the mindset of fascism and patriarchal domination. Reich's analysis of what I… call the mystico-fascist complex…contains ample references to Catholicism and the Holy Roman Empire, the millennial ancestor of the mystico-fascist program.

Monday, August 20, 2012

UN-KNUCKLED

Look me
in my
stars. You
can feel my
voice vibrating
inside you, longing
to be heard, 

feeling some
thing, should you ever
need it. Knowing
this, when you pass
un-knuckled
through my door, 

ask your
self if
your soul, your
body’s scars
healed 

your grief
for a season
won’t respond

to reason,
finding out
the price you paid
was pretty high, giving
and taking it only
spun the world
around, making it
feel pretty
normal
& all.