A couple of years back I wrote this essay for Dark Discoveries as a feature of my Black Barony column. Images via Amazon. The Golden Age of Dread by Laird Barron The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark –Samuel Taylor Coleridge Past Is Prologue […]
Only knitters will understand the feeling of accomplishment with the completion of the first truly fingerless gloves that actually fit me. The rest of the world might as well toe up.
Historia Discordia is obviously a labor of love by the editor, Adam Gorightly, who has created a glorious collection of humorous, ludicrous and inspirational letters, essays and ephemera from the founding fathers of Discordianism. Inspirational? Yes! Many of the quips and clever epistles gathered within this colorful and well designed tome are the sort that make one scratch ones head in wonder and awe; “Wonder why I never thought of that?” and “What an awesome and polite way of mocking political (or religious) pundits!”
Although I was not familiar with the Discordian Society until its creators, Kerry Thornley and Gregory Hill, had joined the accordion orchestra in eternity, I had some exposure to the Church of Bob, Robert Anton Wilson, and even the Illuminatus Trilogy, which I purchased in the 1970s. (I regret tossing it due to my inability to read beyond the first couple chapters). Perhaps I was mentally incapable of appreciating the humor of masters Shea and Wilson in my younger days. Historia Discordia codifies and illustrates the wild intelligence that brought the Discordian Society into chaotic fruition.
Speaking of fruit, the golden apple of Eris, the goddess of discord and chaos, is definitely worth tasting, even if you are reluctant to bite. The more you know about Discordianism the less you need worry about Accordianism. You are already a member, either way. I guarantee you will enjoy the silly catma and dogma compiled in this remarkable book, and you can always just look at the pictures.
Oh, and my chosen Discordian name is “Palimpsest the Pointillist”. Hail, Eris!
Presidents’ Day is almost upon us, and I have heard rumors that Mardi Gras is in progress, although you would never know it here in the Land of ID.
I was recently asked by a Facebook friend to join her League of Western Fortean Investigators (L.O.W.F.I.) as the Idaho correspondent, which will be a challenge and a pleasure. The Idaho Panhandle has been our home now for almost five years, and the Land of ID is filled with splendid landscapes and staunch Republicans. So far, the weirdest phenomenon I’ve encountered was unexplained roars, which resembled the tumultuous trumpeting of very angry archangels or a fleet of revving B52s suspended above us. No explanation was ever found. Idaho does not appear to have a high weirdness quotient, but there are a lot of Californians here now, so perhaps some strange vibes will have followed us to the Gem State.
My art has been rather stagnant lately, so my resolution to post more paintings has been a failure. I am considering an art page on Facebook, which I have no clue how to accomplish, but today I am posting a recent drawing in marker pens which I call “Robin Drops Acid”. Now if only Batman’s sidekick can lead me to something Fortean to report.
As usual, I am on the wrong device to share the appropriate photo to illustrate my thoughts. Autumn is a special time of year here in northern Idaho. The foliage is turning slowly to gorgeous shades of saffron, carmine and magenta. The very air seems a different hue from the brighter light of summer. Nights are chilly, and the mosquitoes are circling with hungry attention at the doorways.
The Golden Altar of the Universal World Church has nothing to do with Fall in the panhandle. The church at Beverly and Alvarado in the beating heart, the geographical center of Los Angeles is long gone. I miss Dr. O. Lee Jaggers and his lovely wife, Miss Velma. The small photo displayed here is a relic of our years long ago in Orange County, California. Sunday mornings in Huntington Beach were enlivened by the heart felt, goofy sermons broadcast regularly from LA. How I wish we had owned a video recorder in those days so that we might relive the inspiring, “UFOs and the Creatures Who Fly Them”, and “Baby Fay” of baboon butt infamy.
Dr. Gene Scott was another frequent lecturer on our television. His cigars and layers of spectacles amused us no end. We still stop and say, “Gene Scott” whenever we hear a jaunty, blues melody similar to his background music, the soundtrack for getting “on those telephones!”
Ah, but time passes, the seasons change, and so does televangelism. We watch very little television, and what we do catch is usually several years behind what is current, since Roku and Netflix are our enablers. Our ancient Sony Wega still has rabbit ears and a pregnant silhouette. We gave up on cable service after the first year’s special price ballooned to an insupportable cost.
Now I entertain myself watching the leaves and the mushrooms on our property. It’s good to be closer to nature. I do not miss southern California.
My husband and I often think we missed our calling. We should have been a modern day Gilbert and Sullivan or some sort of crazed jingle maker. Silly notions, characters, tunes and scenarios are constantly emerging from our aging brains that need sharing with the universe. Therefore, I am announcing, right here, right now, a new concept for a website (don’t anyone steal this): Cyantology: a celebration of all things blue.
Now I fully expect to be inundated with hate mail from the Church of Scientology, simply because my brainstorm resembles the sound of their “religion”, but I assure you, there is no copyright on a color, especially printers’ blue. Cyan is the color of my true love’s hair (Alissa of the Agonist), the Smurfs, the lord Krishna, the cookie monster, and countless other blue meanies. I’ve chosen the name Cyantology because it rings better than Cyan-ology.
Until I can find a reasonable place to create my concept (there’s always Facebook), I announce Cyantology here. Since I have a single follower of my blog, I’m not too worried about my fabulous idea being highjacked.
The exact place and time my internet path crossed the author, Nick Mamatas, escapes me, but I recently ordered two of his novels before having read a single line penned by him. Since I am a devotee of Hunter S. Thompson, I was attracted to the fiction work, The Damned Highway: Fear and Loathing in Arkham, which combines Lovecraft inspired characters with a gonzo flair. I also ordered Move Under Ground due to its protagonists, some of my favorite rapscallions of the Beats.
Facebook postings by Nick Mamatas announced the release of his latest novel, Bullettime, which is described as a Discordian adventure. Since I had just spent $30.00 on the above mentioned paperbacks, I decided to request that our local library purchase Bullettime for its shelves and was pleasantly surprised to find they had.
The plot of Bullettime is both chaotic and simple in a healthy Discordian manner. The hero is a young man from a dysfunctional family who is constantly bullied (although the term is not used) by society. His disconsolate life is complicated by a chance meeting with the Goddess Eris, who infiltrates his thoughts and actions up to the satisfying finale.
Concurrent to the main action is multiple dimensions or realities called the Ylem, (pronounced “IGH-lum” according to Nick, who kindly sent me a link to the Wikipedia definition. Rather than leading the reader into alternate universes, Mamatas treats life in Ylem as a background or undercurrent of potential paths, much as I would envision the creative imaginings of this engaging author.
Bullettime is a day at the beach or a walk in the park, but beware of jellyfish and muggers.