New Prologue – Otto Blaast | The Gold Connections Trilogy

For the Great Generator

“I am not a man, I am dynamite.”

Taken from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo

Contents

Prologue:

An Insider’s Perspective

Part I

Witchcraft Galore!

Part II

California Starship Dreams

Part III

Sagittarian Chronicles

Epilogue:

Principia Stigmata

It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidence, but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.

Taken from Milan Kundera’s

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Prologue:

An Insider’s Perspective

When the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity finally came to a close, the first phase of my mission was complete. Having spent the entire year practicing the majical diary, the time had come to decipher my notes and try to present them in a coherent literary fashion. Mostly, it is this secondary stage, which dealt with questions concerning literary style and methodology, I wish to discuss at some length. Indeed, I am convinced that a systematic account of this process will enhance the reader’s understanding to the degree that the nature of the project will be more fully grasped, from an insider’s perspective, so to speak.

Though my field notes were written exclusively in the first person, from the very outset, I knew this was not how my work should be presented. Instead, it was clear from the get-go that my stories should be told from a third-person perspective, from a God’s-eye-view, in which certain events were selected as particularly relevant and presented in a non-judgmental, matter-of-fact fashion. As a result, the storyline is developed by way of the Great Narrator – namely Otto Blaast – who explains the precise progression of the central character’s daily life. Consequently, even though the main characters never speak directly to the reader, Otto Blaast always does.

So, with Otto Blaast serving as the Great Observer, I attempted to mold my majical diary into an autobiography of sorts. In doing so, I encountered some of the same difficulties that I faced in the first phase of my odyssey. For instance, despite the employment of this God’s-eye perspective, I still had to face the fact that Gold Connections is essentially a diary. I still had to confront the fact that by trying to describe my experiences, I felt like I was debasing them. There seemed to be, in other words, a great gulf between the dynamic quality of my own experiences and the static literary form in which they took. Eventually, I realized that attempting to capture the nature of my experience on paper was somewhat analogous to trying to define existentialism itself – virtually impossible, doomed for failure. For words can only convey so much. Language, at least in strict diary form, has inherent limitations. Hence then, the qualities of my experience simply out-soared the scope of my language and I found myself using words like, “ecstatic,” “euphoric,” “tingles,” “chills,” etc., over and over again, to capture the nature of my personal revelations. So, precariously enough, not long into the second phase of my quest, I felt as if I had embarked on an actual mission impossible.

Partly because of this predicament between dynamic existential experience and static literary form, I started to rebel. In particular, I began to create my own idiosyncratic version of the English language. If language was the primordial barrier, then I wanted to put a few dents in it, not at all unlike how frustrated Berliners would attack the Wall, knowing full well it was not about to come crumbling down. So I started to cast word spells. That is to say, I started to spell words the way I thought they should be spelled, according to my own missionary purposes. In my opinion, for instance, the word “magic” should be spelled with a “J” instead of an awkward “G.” So that’s the way I spell it – majic. And the same can be said of the word “laser,” which I spell with a “Z,” instead of an “S.” And there are other examples, like “Oaklahoma” and “mezmerized,” but not many.

By the time I finished transcribing the first few months of the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity, I noticed that a distinct literary style had naturally emerged and that a certain organic methodology underpinned most of my work. After considerable contemplation, I started to refer to this modus operandi as the PRR process.

So, how precisely does the PRR process work? Well, briefly, it functions as follows: First, there is perception. Hence, perception is deemed to be primordial and thus represents the genesis phase of PRR. Next, there is the second stage – reflection. Once something intriguing has been perceived, often times a state of reflection results. And finally, there is the fruition phase, the golden cognitive nugget, so to speak, in realization or revelation. Once something intriguing has been perceived and a state of reflection results, many times the product is a sudden realization or personal revelation.

It is this PRR process that runs throughout the Gold Connections diary. Day in and day out, the primary protagonist perceives something of interest, reflects or flashes back to a prior related experience, and then combines the two to form a personal insight. Consider the following excerpt,

Later that night, Toby Jay activated the Greek TV in hopes of catching the pregame show to the opening game of the 1996 World Series. Instead, however, he discovered that the contest had been postponed due to the extreme effects of Hurricane Lili. So naturally, since this was the first time in ages that an opening game of the World Series had been canceled, Toby Jay’s historical senses began to heighten, until, quite spontaneously, he flashed back to the day the Great Voice urged him to purchase a copy of Robert Pirsig’s much anticipated follow-up to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, namely the literary jewel, Lila.

Though it had been many years ago, Toby Jay still vividly remembered the tremendous impact the passage at the top of page 203 had on his metaphysical mind. Literally, for months thereafter, he kept repeating to himself, over and over again, “I’ve just had feelings that maybe the ultimate truth about the world isn’t history or sociology but biography.” But, of course, only now did he make the gold connection. That is, only now did he realize that – except perhaps for the last few pages of Part One of Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground – the passage at the top of page 203 constituted the first methodological insight into the creation of the Great Generator’s narrative epic. Now, in fact, those words rang so true, they were almost scary. For the ultimate truth about the world really was a type of biography. Or, in other words, the ultimate truth about the world really was Otto Blaast.

Notice the PRR process at work. First, there was the World Series cancellation due to Hurricane Lili, which then triggered a memory about the book Lila, which, in turn, triggered a personal insight into the veracious nature of Otto Blaast. Again, it is this cognitive tripartite process that underlies much of my work.

So, equipped with the PRR methodology, I slowly, but surely, transcribed the bulk of my field notes in a very systematic, and generally trouble-free fashion; that is, until I came to the last few months of the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity. Here I had to confront some serious stylistic issues. Essentially, this dilemma stemmed from the fact that during this period of time, I happened onto an assortment of books (and articles, and such) that were crucial to understanding my mission. Indeed, without these works, Gold Connections would have been radically incomplete, if not nearly impossible.

Now, I must admit, I was forewarned that something like this might crop up along the way. Like most things significant, I received an omen of this literary predicament when I happened onto Linda Goodman’s Star Signs at the outset of the year and encountered the passage, “Often, the initial manifestation of your quest is a series of strange ‘coincidences,’ which are not coincidental at all…leading you to certain books written about a variety of metaphysical subjects.”

As far as I’m concerned, no truer words have ever been spoken. Although it may not be scientifically explainable, the fact remains that information flows in mysterious ways.

So I had to ask myself: “What’s the best way to capture this miracle-book phase of my mission?” More precisely, given that a sizeable portion of the story line portrays the central character sitting at his dark oak desk, reading his latest literary find, what was the most effective way to capture this potentially awkward aspect of my work?

Well, for starters, I knew the main character should not do much talking. Right from the beginning, I knew Toby Jay’s voice should be introduced only to summarize certain insights. In the end, I decided to let the miracle-books, as well as other insightful sources, speak for themselves.

Here, it is crucial to note that the integration of these various source references, whether they appear as direct quotes or paraphrased paragraphs, are always transformative in nature. Or, in other words, in every instance, there is an informative insight that accompanies each source reference; never are source references employed gratuitously. Consider, for instance, the following miracle-book excerpt taken from Peter Berresford Ellis’s, The Druids,

Additionally, according to Greek and Latin sources, the druids were scholars of the stars and believed that the motions of the heavens above had a direct impact on the unfolding of earthly affairs. So devout, in fact, was this belief in celestial influences that every educated person in Ireland in the tenth century was required to know the rudiments of astrology, which included knowledge of the signs of the zodiac as well as the month and day the sun entered each sign.

“So this explains my obsession with moon phases,” Toby Jay suddenly realized, knowing at once that this was precisely why the Great Voice insisted that every diary entry be accompanied by its corresponding lunar state.

In addition, consider the following excerpt taken from Leonard George’s Alternative Realities: The Paranormal, the Mystic and the Transcendent in Human Experience,

Accordingly, “PK is the apparent ability of a person (or other organism) to influence the environment without using any of the known conventional means such as muscular action, therefore implying that the mind is acting directly on the external world.”

“So PK is actually supported by one of the most successful theories in the history of science,” Toby Jay quickly inferred, since definitive, long-lasting discoveries in the field of quantum mechanics also suggested that the mind acted directly on the external world.

Notice, in the examples above, each source reference is immediately followed by a personal insight. In the first example, Toby Jay happened onto information that confirmed the legitimacy of the lunar framework of his majical diary. Whereas, in the second case, he encountered information that connected PK (psychokinesis) to quantum theory, thereby confirming certain scholarly intuitions he had previously voiced throughout the year.

However, there were some places, particularly with respect to Rupert Sheldrake’s Seven Experiments That Could Change the World: A Do-It Yourself Guide to Revolutionary Science, where something else, some other transformative device or technique was needed. No doubt, this was largely due to the fact that here the source references were as lengthy as the personal insights were numerous. Here, in fact, it felt as though things could potentially get bogged down; the pace of the narrative ultimately stymied. In essence, I needed a way to speed up the narrative, while still respecting the rules governing the transformative use of secondary sources. To best illustrate how I eventually solved this literary conundrum, consider the following excerpts from Seven Experiments That Could Change the World: A Do-It Yourself Guide to Revolutionary Science,

“But there has also been a growing awareness in the West of Indian and Buddhist traditions, all of which offer a richer understanding of the relation of the psyche to the body than the mechanistic theory. And through the explorations of the effects of psychedelic drugs, the visionary practices of shamans, the existence of other dimensions of consciousness has become a matter of personal experience for many Westerners.”

Psychedelic drugs!

Visionary shamans!

Also,

“Thus, although the confining of the mind to a head of a machine-like body is still orthodox in mechanistic science, it coexists with survivals of an earlier and broader understanding of the psyche. It is also subject to the articulate and sophisticated challenges posed by Jungian and transpersonal psychology, psychical research and parapsychology, mystical and visionary tradions, and holistic forms of medicine and healing.”

Jungian psychology!

Mystical traditions!

Notice that the added bold-italic purple exclamations at the end of each source reference allows the reader to know precisely why each particular passage was of special significance to Toby Jay, without him uttering a single word.

Because I tend to think in terms of musical metaphors, I began to think of this literary collage-like technique in terms of Guided by Voices’ landmark album, Bee Thousand. For just as “Yours To Keep” is synergistically pasted onto the front of “Echoes Myron” for maximum complementary contrast, so too was I pasting passages together into a sort of intellectual mosaic, whereby each reference further strengthened the others.

Then, I started to envision this style of writing in terms of DJ Shadow’s extraordinary Entroducing….LP. More specifically, the Gold Connections story line is comprised, in part, of a multitude of sampled sources, such as books, magazine articles, a variety of personal interviews, TV show excerpts, etc. Consequently, there is a significant sense in which Gold Connections is, in part, a book about other books…or an esoteric encyclopedia of sorts.

. . .

So, by the spring of 1998, I had finished transcribing the entire Year of Mysterious Synchronicity, except for the majority of the month of December and the first eleven days of the following year. In fact, it was not until I returned home from a summer vacation in California that I started to write again on Labor Day 1998. But instead of jumping right back into the transcription process, I figured it would be wise to get my feet wet, so to speak, by polishing up the months I had previously transcribed.

Surprisingly, it was during this time that I noticed my literary allegiances had notably changed. Because I wanted to write like Jack Kerouac in the beginning, I reckoned that periods, commas, and other grammatical devices were my worst enemy. For the longest time, in fact, I despised traditional punctuation. Indeed periods, in particular, represented death marks to continuous, seamless flows of ideas and events.

Over the summer, however, my opinion of old-school punctuation dramatically changed. Now I was heavily into Hemingway; particularly impressed by the compelling simplicity of The Old Man and the Sea. Since, in my mind, this rather Spartan style of prose was custom-built for Otto Blaast. Before long, then, I began to replace many of my long, run-on, Kerouacian sentences with short declarative ones, having naturally adopted the literary philosophy that there is nothing more compelling than a collection of short, well-timed declarative statements.

Also, around this time, in October of 1998, I received a letter from one of my former University of Oaklahoma philosophy professors, Dr. Tom Boyd, who agreed to read the first rough draft and offer some helpful advice. I cannot express how radically this letter altered my perspective. Initially, I planned on compressing the entire Year of Mysterious Synchronicity into a single work. However, after reading Dr. Boyd’s comments, I became convinced that I had more than one book on my hands. Eventually, I realized that Gold Connections should be divided into a trilogy of sorts, with Volume One consisting of the last three months of the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity. Paradoxically, then, there is a sense in which the ending is really just the beginning, or rather the beginning is ultimately the end.

Again, since I tend to think in terms of musical metaphors, I started to conceive of the structure of my mission in terms of the theme song to the movie 2001: Space Odyssey, namely Richard Strauss’ “Also sprach Zarathustra.” For in both instances, the climax occurs at the outset.

Naturally, the consequences of this Straussian strategy were numerous. Perhaps the most favorable of these results was that everything became a lot more manageable. Instead of having to master well over fifteen hundred pages, I could concentrate on about a third of that. As a result, my work became a lot more reader-friendly. For no longer was I asking my readers to digest a thousand-plus page book. And, to me, this was a huge plus, particularly since a lot of people, including myself, are often times repelled by monstrous-sized books.

Another consequence was that Volume One had to be replete with mystery. All throughout, the central character flashes back to events of which the reader has little or no prior knowledge. Take, for instance, Toby Jay’s repeated references to Mark Twain telegraphy. In this case, the reader is not yet privy to the fact that earlier in the year he had discovered that Mark Twain preceded and, in many ways, foresaw the psychic, nonlocal implications of modern quantum theory. Eventually, of course, everything will be fully explained; that’s what Volume Two and Three are for. But until then, Volume One will remain full of unanswered questions and unexplained references.

. . .

So finally, on the night of the Full Moon, January 2^nd, 1999, I completed the entire transcription process and set out to fine-tune my first rough draft. In some ways, this proved to be a very difficult task; everything became very subtle and precise. In fact, during this polishing process, things were initially very sensitive and even uncertain. While it was one thing to keep a rigorous, systematic diary, continually scribbling down daily notes, it was an entirely different matter to actually mold them into a respectable piece of literature.

Eventually, I came to realize that there was something inherently risky, experimental, and even downright avant-garde in what I was doing. Indeed, I am not so much a professional writer as I am an experimental Beat Generation writer, like a scientific Kerouac with a conspiracy camera, or like a bohemian Carl Jung exploring Aleister Crowley-like methodologies.

Once again, since I tend to think in terms of musical metaphors, I started to interpret my mission in terms of the Velvet Underground’s seminal milestone, Nico. For in my mind, both are intrinsically alternative and independent in nature. Can you imagine, for instance, Nico recorded in a sophisticated, professional studio, fully equipped with slick expensive monitors and fancy digital mixing boards and such? Of course not. It would have violated its Dostoevsky demeanor. It would have betrayed its Andy Warhol attitude. Rather, on Nico, it’s the mundane truth of existence that means everything. To look reality straight in the eye and never bat a lash.

Analogously, I believe much of my work can be seen in a similar light. After all, it’s just one person’s diary; merely the product of a bunch of wildly scribbled notebooks. So how cheap and mundane can you get, right?

Well, as far as I know, you are now reading a book that may very well be the first of a kind; a prototype or literary singularity of sorts. Since, to the best of my knowledge, no one – not even Aleister Crowley – has ever attempted to systematically study an entire annual cycle from a purely mystical, existential perspective, which is precisely what I set out to do in the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity. Risky business, indeed. Much like Nico.

But, of course, on the positive, paradoxical flip side, risk has always been at the heart of self-discovery. In fact, without risk, there can be no self-discovery. Indeed, it is as if there is a principle stating that the higher the degree of risk, the greater the depths of self-discovery. And it’s precisely this sense of risky self-discovery that, I think, oozes from Nico. It’s so damn real, it’s almost scary as the aura of authenticity smolders and exudes, both remarkably inspired and decidedly disturbing.

There are other Velvet Underground parallels as well. For instance, during this fine-tuning phase, I began to think of the PRR process in terms of the recursive structures underlying Nico. Case in point, consider the monotonous, yet strangely evocative, viola work on “Venus In Furs.” Here the sonic methodology repeats itself over and over again.

Similarly, this, I think, is an apt analogue in relation to the natural progression of the Gold Connections story line. For working within the recursive PRR process, the Great Observer develops an equally recursive style of exposition, a style that is ultimately as continuous and repetitive as the viola on “Venus In Furs.” Take, for example, some common Otto Blaast expressions, like “What are the probabilities?” or “Wow, what timing!” This is a literary pattern that runs throughout many of the stories you are about to read. All throughout, the main character constantly wants to know the mathematics of the progression of his daily life, always sensitive to the curious clusters of events manifesting in his everyday dealings, always acutely attuned to the Great Generator’s didactic dialectic, Time Design.

Admittedly, not all the relevant ramifications of this Otto Blaast concept are favorable. One of the most undesirable consequences is that the Gold Connections story line lacks the immediate warmth of a first person account. Here, I’m specifically thinking of other autobiographical works, such as Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl and John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. In both instances, there is a tangible sense of intimacy. In direct contrast, most of my work (except for the three bar scenes) feels almost robotic in delivery. So much so, in fact, that I started to refer to this type of exposition as “automatic” or “modular” writing. Automatic, in the sense that the overall delivery is decidedly impersonal, mechanically operating completely independent of external influence or control. And modular, in the sense that certain literary components, such as “so,” “naturally,” “consequently,” “however,” “indeed,” “in fact,” and “of course,” are repeatedly employed. So, for lack of a better comparison, it is as though Otto Blaast was born from an Artificial Intelligence program, which succeeded in creating a story-telling android who writes with strict, systematic, Spock-like detachment, in a distinctly British tone of delivery.

Some detractors, however, might be inclined to insist that there are added burdens associated with such an overtly objective approach. That is to say, if you are going to employ this thoroughly empirical mode of presentation, then you had better connect the dots appropriately. Otherwise, they say, you quickly alienate your readership into a point of no return.

Indeed, I must admit this is one, if not the most potent objection to my work; that I do not connect the dots correctly, that many of the theories presented herein amount to little more than wild speculation, ultimately just a lot of irresponsible, crazy conjecture. In fact, a common response I have received from numerous critics goes as follows: “You know, all those supposed synchronicities or gold connections that you make such a big deal about in the book? Well, I think they’re really just a bunch of odd, meaningless coincidences.” Again, I believe this to be perhaps the most serious charge against my work, and therefore I feel compelled to effectively defuse it.

In doing so, very briefly, let me begin by stating that one of my primary objectives in penning Gold Connections was to depict, as accurately as possible, the overall conspiracy theory mind-set in action. Really and truly, what exactly is life like when a person decides to take that dreaded leap into the dark, spooky waters of conspiracy theory?

This much said, I would first like to suggest that whether or not the central protagonist is actually right or wrong on any given conspiracy issue – as far as depicting the overall conspiracy theory mind-set – is largely irrelevant. Whether or not Toby Jay is actually correct or incorrect on any speculative matter is, to me, really beside the literary point. Rather, what is most relevant is the mere fact that Toby Jay is engaged in such and such speculation. Many times just the simple fact that the character is having those specific thoughts or drawing those particular connections can be psychologically insightful, literarily speaking.

Again, one of my primary goals was to create a general, but nonetheless accurate, illustration of a modern conspiracy theorist in action. And in doing so, it’s imperative that the misses be deemed just as psychologically revealing as the hits, that the failures be seen as just as significant as the successes.

Still, some critics may find this to be an all-too-convenient way out. Surely, they will say, it is clearly not wise to play so loose with the truth. Surely, epistemologically speaking, not just anything goes. Surely, in the final analysis, the truth of the matter should be reckoned to be of central importance. Otherwise, you are just putting on some farcical, intellectual charade of sorts, just spinning your conspiracy wheels, so to speak.

Well, in reply, I honestly do not know a single conspiracy theorist who is largely unconcerned with the ultimate truth of things. Just the opposite, a quest for the actual truth of the matter is the primary reason why so many people eventually decide to take that scariest of plunges. Questing for the whole, often times hidden truth – not just blindly adopting the supposed official account – is at the core of the conspiracy theory mind-set. So no, not just anything goes.

Yet admittedly, successfully establishing these precise epistemological parameters is likely to be an ongoing, ever-evolving scholastic issue. Indeed I suspect a lot of trial and error will ensue. That is, there are bound to be as many misses as there are hits, bound to be as many incorrectly drawn conspiracy connections than not.

Here I believe a baseball analogy may prove to be instructive. In the rather humbling sport of baseball, frequent failure at the plate is to be presumed; this being the case primarily because of deceptive tactics employed by the pitcher. A Major League pitcher, for instance, has a vital interest in seeing to it that the batter in question not contribute to his defeat. As a result, the pitcher will almost always attempt to conjure up as many effective stratagems as necessary. Analogously, conspiracy theorists often find themselves in a similar, perplexing position as our putative batter. For presumably there are going to be various persons or corporate entities that have a vested interest in not being fully forthcoming; nature itself perhaps even included, (Remember Heraclitus’ gnostic admonishment, “The nature of things is in the habit of concealing itself?”) Indeed, to echo this concern, I would like to refer to the opinion of perhaps America’s preeminent academic conspiracy theorist, philosopher extraordinaire, Professor Lee Bashham. Consider the following passage,

Conspiracy theory isn’t “cheating.” Instead, it confronts us with a real gap between what we think we know and the reasons we rest on. At its best, conspiracy theory exploits this gap brilliantly. Conspiracy theory confronts us with a new creativity and challenging broadness in our conception of the real range of possibilities–a refreshing tendency to “think outside the box.” Such attempts are not, in themselves, epistemologically irresponsible. They are, instead, epistemologically humbling.

“Just how humbling?” I hear you ask. This, then, is the essential issue. As stated earlier, I suspect the answer to this all-important question will ultimately be hashed-out in the halls of analytic academia, within the exclusive confines of various technical philosophical journals.

This does not, however, preclude me from sharing some of my own successes and failures as they directly relate to my interest in conspiracy theory – conspiracy theory partly defined in terms of a quest for secretive, arcane, but nonetheless insightful, knowledge. Accordingly, I will begin with an obvious hit and then move to more questionable cases. While hopefully, in the process, I will further elucidate the internal workings of the conspiratorial mind.

In late November of 1996, I serendipitously happened onto a copy of Carlos Castaneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan; A Yaqui Way of Knowledge. Slowly, but surely, I systematically studied every chapter in this book. In doing so, I encountered the Sunday, April 21, 1963 entry in which don Juan introduced Carlos to the practice of divination through the medium of lizards. Now, having carefully read the Introduction, I immediately latched onto the fact that Carlos was conducting his studies at UCLA. Moreover, due to previous research, I was also aware of the fact that at around this time, Jim Morrison was pursuing a film career at UCLA. Suddenly, a secret, esoteric insight was born.

“Well, hot damn,” Toby Jay suddenly realized, “I think I’ve just uncovered the likely source behind Jim Morrison’s ritual Lizard King alias.” UCLA was the secret code of sorts. Since during the creation of A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, Carlos was a student at UCLA. But, of course, so was Jim. In the mid-60’s, they were both attending the University of the City of Angels.

During the initial transcription process, I thought long and hard as to whether or not the above passage should make the final cut; should therefore be deemed a legitimate gold connection. After all, at the time, I had absolutely no solid, discernable evidence to support this alleged connection. Sure, Carlos and Jim were both attending UCLA at roughly the same time. But to claim that Jim had gotten a hold of a copy of The Teachings of Don Juan and had adopted it as his own shamanic modus operandi, this, even to me, seemed like a bit of a stretch; just the type of quixotic or “jumping to conclusions” sort of thinking that gives conspiracy theorists such a bad reputation.

Despite the fact that I had not a single shred of evidence to support the likely verity of this Golden State connection, I ultimately decided that it should make the final cut. “Why so?” you ask. Well, mainly because, I felt, it captured something integral and instructive in terms of conveying the conspiracy theory mind-set in action. In the end, I concluded that it was simply irrelevant whether or not the esoteric connection in question was correctly or incorrectly drawn. In this particular instance, whether or not the dots are, in fact, appropriately connected is really beside the literary point. Rather, what is of principal importance, literarily speaking, is the plain fact that the primary protagonist is engaged in this particular speculation, not whether he was actually right or wrong.

Yet, much to my amazement, many years later, in the spring of 2001 to be exact, I purchased a copy of Break On Through: The Life and Death of Jim Morrison by James Riordan and Jerry Prochnicky. Consequently, I encountered the following passage,

Morrison’s interest in shamanism and other related sub-cultures was increasing and Michael Ford remembers what must have been a pivotal experience for Jim in this area: “He wanted to meet with Carlos Castaneda. I think it was a matter of further investigation on Jim’s part. I arranged a meeting for him with a woman in the Latin American studies department at UCLA because I knew she could get him to Castaneda. I don’t know exactly what happened when he met Castaneda, but I know it was certainly full of revelation for Jim. It fulfilled part of his search somehow.”

In all seriousness, I cannot explain how absolutely elated I became after reading the passage above. “Bingo, I really nailed this one! So I’m not so crazy and paranoid after all!” In fact, this type of privy, esoteric knowledge serves as an ecstatic stimulant of sorts for many conspiracy theorists. To freely, even sometimes brazenly, theorize about a given recondite matter, and then be overwhelmingly confirmed, there really is no greater feeling, intellectually speaking.

I now will turn to my second example, which, to me, represents another esoteric revelation, although, unlike the previous case, it’s legitimacy will likely be called into question by those less sympathetic to the notion of mysterious, but nonetheless meaningful, coincidence. Consider the following passage,

Quickly then, Toby Jay stepped back inside the garden door and thought, “I’ve gotta hear ‘Third Stone From the Sun,’” the psychedelic sounds of which flashed him back to the day he received the stunning 9999 Revelation. Back, that is, to when he put two and two together and realized that Jimi Hendrix was born into the Ninth House of the zodiac on the 27^th of November and passed away on the 18^th of September at twenty-seven years of age. So it was 9999 straight across the numerological board; an uncanny cluster, indeed.

So, is the 9999 Revelation a real, legitimate revelation? Or does it merely embody a bunch of odd, meaningless numerological coincidences?

Regardless, for better or for worse, uncanny clusters similar to the 9999 Revelation are precisely the stuff that thoroughgoing conspiracy theory is comprised (consider, for example, Max Cohen’s obsession with the numeral 216 in the film Pi). Unveiling hidden patterns of all kinds, whether they are numerological or otherwise, is the ultimate reward for the committed conspiracy theorist. Indeed, deep within the conspiracy theory mind-set, secret connections abound.

Now this is not to say, of course, conspiracy theorists are immune to making “hasty generalizations” or drawing obviously erroneous connections. To best illustrate this fact, consider my third example extracted from the Gold Connections story line, one that, I think, clearly illustrates one of the great ills that often inflicts the conspiratorial mind, this being the tendency to adopt a somewhat whimsical, almost majical, conception of causality. Consider, for example, the following excerpt.

Especially noteworthy, however, were the special 25^th Anniversary signs adjacent to each of the fifty-yard markers. “Hmm” Toby Jay wondered, suspiciously, “is it just a coincidence that the Cowboys are celebrating their 25^th Anniversary in conjunction with the 25^th Anniversary of Disney World.” At the very least, the metaphors were curiously congruous as the big stars of Dallas sympathetically mingled with the dreamy fantasy of Disney. So congruous, in fact, that Toby Jay secretly suspected the bigwigs in the Cowboy front office had purposively chosen to highlight their stellar symbology in conjunction with opening of the World’s Largest Magical Kingdom. Or in other words, it was as if the big boys in Dallas had consciously cued off the big boys at Disney.

Intimately related to this decidedly fanciful notion of causality is the further, all-too notorious affliction, known as paranoia, otherwise commonly known within Beat Generation circles as “the hipster’s disease.” Speaking from considerable experience, I can personally attest to the fact that paranoia is ultimately and unfortunately an inevitable derivative of actively, thoroughly immersing oneself in conspiracy theory. Granted, paranoia often comes in degrees. Certainly, not every practitioner contracts an acute case. And, in some instances, the presence of paranoia can actually be quite healthy and helpful. But more times than not, it’s just the opposite – a dreadful intellectual virus of sorts. In fact, on this note, I would like to present the following lengthy Gold Connections passage, it being, I believe, a perfectly clear representation of the crowning apex of paranoia; an obvious instance in which a state of heightened awareness, which is one of the hallmarks of the conspiratorial mind, has gone entirely amuck.

Right away, Toby Jay stepped back inside the purple door, reclined on the dragon sofa, all set to tear into his golden Illuminet Press envelope, but not before he detected a subtle, yet nonetheless significant, cluster of synchronicity. It was the stamps. No joke, they were a strategy all unto themselves, starting with the two fifty cent stamps, each of which pictured a silver airplane juxtaposed against the smiling face of a young aviation lady, who looked a lot like Isabelle, accompanied by the caption, “Jacqueline Cochran, Pioneer Pilot.”

“Hmm,” Toby Jay wondered, “what are the chances that I would receive a copy of Principia Discordia with commemorative stamps depicting a master pussy pilot.” But the twenty-three cent stamp was equally as curious, if not more so, since it pictured an old Oakie traveling store on wheels, along with the caption, “Lunch Wagon 1890’s.”

“Eighteen-nineties,” Toby Jay recalled, “that’s when the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn was flourishing.” Furthermore, he noticed that the words, “Owl” and “Night Lunch” were printed on front of the old Oakie wagon. “Freakin’ night owl lunch,” he thought, “now if that’s not a witchcraft metaphor, I don’t know what is.” And yet, there were four other stamps, all of which pictured a bird known as an American Kestrel perched upon a dark, leafless tree branch, thus perfectly complimenting both the Pioneer Pilot and Night Owl references.

Consequently, as crazy as it sounded, Toby Jay suspected that someone in Lilburn, Georgia had purposively designed the ordered combination of stamps. That is, he sensed the presence of an Illuminet Press conspiracy.

Further, if it’s the case that paranoia is “the hipster’s disease,” then similarly we can safely say that a tendency towards nonsensical, even downright ludicrous, grandiosity is yet another internal contaminant of conspiracy theory. In rock n roll history, an obvious instance of this overblown sense of grandiosity would be David Bowie’s outlandish alter-ego acid-trip via Ziggy Stardust and his Spiders From Mars. Moreover, in modern cinema, Goldfinger immediately comes to mind. Only in the present case, all the over-the-top bombast and braggadocio is directly associated with the icon of Otto Blaast. To illustrate, consider the following set of passages,

“So,” Toby Jay suddenly realized in a state of esoteric elation, “the Ninth House of the zodiac represents the very essence of druidry.” Consequently, he now knew that the sign of the Sage, which was ruled by Jupiter-Zeus, stood for “oak wisdom,” the highest and most divine form of human understanding. Equally important, however, was the fact that a new aspect to his Great-Voice-inspired pen name had been revealed. “So Otto Blaast is like the modern-day equivalent to ancient Zeus,” he realized in a state of ecstatic self-discovery. Since now, for the first time in his life, he understood his archetypal ally to be the active phallic force of golden oak wisdom and the almighty God of Thunder for the 21^st Century.

Also,

“Wow, I had no idea Nostradamus was in all likelihood a stoner,” Toby Jay discovered in a state of odd surprise. “So,” he afterwards realized, “Otto Blaast is like Nostradamus for the new millennium,” figuring that just as in the case of the December 14, 1900 birth of quantum mechanics, a new hybrid of self-discovery had been born. Quantum blaast dynamics and the gift of enlightened prophesy – that was Otto Blaast; America’s preeminent stoner prophet for the 21^st Century.

For ultimate concurrence and closure on this thoroughly abstruse topic of concern, I would like to appeal to the perspective of perhaps the greatest, well-known American conspiracy theorist of them all, namely the portentously fantastic Robert Anton Wilson. Consider the following supportive passage,

That same mixture of revelation and put-on is always the language of the supra-consciousness, whenever you contact it, whether through magic, religion, psychedelics, yoga, or a spontaneous brain nova. Maybe the put-on or nonsense part comes by contamination from the unconscious. I don’t know. But it’s always there. That’s why serious people never discover anything of real importance.

So equipped with a better understanding of the literary nature of my mission, I became less tentative in the fine-tuning process. At last, I finally knew how I wanted things to read. Basically, I wanted everything to read super fast, like Indianapolis Motor Speedway gone way, way psychedelic-shaman-scientist. As a result, I started to refer to this style of writing as “Nitro literature.” Nitro in the sense that the story line is both rapid and relentless. As I like to tell prospective readers, “if you don’t care for something, like the sports or pornographic entries, just turn the page, I’m sure you’ll eventually encounter something to your liking.”

Hence then, in this regard, my allegiance to Kerouac ultimately won out. Whenever I could connect thoughts, actions and moments, I did so. “There is no time for long-winded exegesis or extensive critical analysis,” I reasoned. “So when in doubt, get to the point, tie stuff together and keep the story line flowing.” Consequently, connectivity became my operative literary principle; therefore the repeated use of connective phrases like, “shortly thereafter,” and “after which time” as lead-ins to the next experience.

Of course, this is not to say that this “Nitro literature” is without undesirables. In my opinion, perhaps the most unappealing aspect is that the ad hoc nature of the majical diary is more clearly exposed. By speeding up the pace, some segues were eliminated. As a result, some transitions seem more abrupt and thus more ad hoc than others. However, in some significant respects, I am inclined to believe that this rather undesirable aspect was simply the inevitable price I had to pay for presenting my stories within a strict diary format. After all, aren’t diary entries by definition ad hoc? Don’t special interests and particular purposes propel personal journals?

Closely related to the ad hoc nature of the majical diary is the “snippet” or vignette aspect of the majical diary. Properly understood, the majical diary is a series of loosely, or not so loosely, connected short stories or reflections. Every new day is a story all unto itself. Life, in fact, is inherently imbued with contingency and thus largely unpredictable; you never know what life is going to present next – one day is almost entirely uneventful, while the very next, the flood gates of experience and insight burst wide open. In short, life rarely presents perfect segues. Consequently, the majical diary tends to be significantly more abrupt or “jumpy” than other forms of literature; the smooth, nice and tidy, flow of ideas, themes and events present in most fictional literature is often times sorely lacking in the majical diary.

Aside from cohesion issues, dialogue was a considerable concern as well. Honestly, to be right up front, I must admit I’m more than a bit skeptical about autobiographies that include sections with a lot of long, detailed dialogue. Personally, I found this to be virtually impossible; capturing the bare essence of a given conversation was, most times, the best I could do. This, in turn, has led me to skeptically wonder, “Really? They were able to recall that entire conversation…they were able to remember every twist and turn,” whenever I encounter such autobiographical accounts.

Frustratingly enough, the practitioner of the majical diary has no proper recourse to literary artifice. Certainly, there is an enormous obligation to resist taking literary liberties. It is never literarily lawful to resort to that which is spurious in order to smooth out the raw edges or dramatize an otherwise lackluster storyline. Indeed, the majical diary is nothing, if it’s not authentic and true.

In my case, then, I initially told myself, “First things first, I’ll just get all the essential stuff down on paper, and then fill-in the details later,” having taken to heart the old investigative adage, “if you didn’t write it down immediately, then it didn’t really happen.” Unfortunately, whenever I went back to fill-in the details, I realized that, in the process, I was virtually always prone to take certain literary liberties – I was continually tempted to interject a bit of embellishment. As a result, I felt like I had cheapened and thus disrespected the majical dairy. Again, the majical diary is nothing, if it’s not authentic and true. And, as we all know, human memory is notoriously unreliable, particularly where details are concerned. In the end, then, I decided to opt for a rather purist rendering of the majical diary, one without literary artifice or embellishment, but instead one with a lot raw edges, abrupt segues, and sometimes slightly sophomoric dialogue, (the three bar scenes are obvious exceptions).

In addition, the reader will encounter an obvious dearth of dialogue. This overall lack of dialogue is directly related to the decidedly solitary lifestyle I led in the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity. Rarely, did I leave my home. Rarely, did I speak to people. Usually, I only left my home to acquire the essentials of life: groceries and gas, primarily. Furthermore, I had very few friends or acquaintances; even these relations were extremely limited. In fact, whenever I attempt to explain my rather hermit-like lifestyle, I always find myself asking, “Have you seen the movie Pi? Well, I pretty much led the life of Max Cohen.” Only I wasn’t pursuing the path of a genius, computer-powered mathematician, but rather the life of a modern-day, esoteric alchemist; hence the absence of any consistent human interaction and thus the overall lack of interpersonal dialogue (again, the three bar scenes are obvious exceptions).

Apart from issues concerning dialogue, yet another major potential problem loomed large. More precisely, all throughout the progression of the GC story line, a cardinal rule of traditional literature is repeatedly transgressed. That is to say, there is a continuous stream of popular references, which virtually all students of fine literature learn as absolutely forbidden. In my defense, however, I would first like to appeal to the opinion of perhaps my generation’s greatest writer, David Foster Wallace. Consider the following free-wheeling interview excerpt taken from Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip with David Foster Wallace by David Lipsky,

“Fights–the professors’d say, Don’t use pop references (a) because they’re banal and stupid, and (b) because they date your piece. And it’s just sort of like, I mean I think, I don’t know about you, what kind of stuff you do. Me and a lot of the other young writers I know, we use these references sort of the way the romantic poets use lakes and trees. I mean, they’re just part of the mental furniture. That you carry around.”

Let me just say that I am in complete agreement with the above passage. In fact, it’s my devout belief that, at least in this day and age, it’s virtually impossible to write compelling, living autobiography, without periodic references to popular icons. Otherwise, you are either just living in a cloistered cave of sorts, or simply not telling the actual, minute-to-minute, hour-by-hour, story of your life.

Now, without carrying on too long about this rather taboo matter, I would like to conclude by deferring to the voice and insights of a true American original, namely the late great Lester Bangs. Consider the following quote from Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste: A Lester Bangs Reader edited by John Morthland,

I was just beginning to realize that I was coming up in the dawning days of a new era when literature would turn to toilet paper, daily news would become surrealistic, and artists of all stripes everywhere would feel blissfully free to cut themselves loose from their heritage, or even not learn that heritage, because there was more relevance to be found in the splashy trash of the popular press…

Also, taken from Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung; The Work of a Legendary Critic edited by Greil Marcus,

So perhaps the truest autobiography I could ever write, and I know this holds as well for many other people, would take place largely at record counters, jukeboxes, pushing forward in the driver’s seat while AM walloped on you, alone under headphones with vast scenic bridges and angelic choirs in the brain through insomniac postmidnights, or just to sit at leisure stoned or not in the vast benign lap of America, slapping on sides and feeling good.

Now lastly, aside from the previous concerns pertaining to the issue of accurately connecting the conspiracy dots, I would like to address perhaps the most problematic aspect of all in respect to transforming the majical diary into a work of respectable literature; this being, which experiences should make the final cut, and which should not. Here, I’m afraid there really are no easy, clear-cut answers. From my experience, self-editing has been by far the most long-standing, perennial difficulty. Ultimately, this difficult dilemma had to be resolved, at least in some instances, by way of subjective, value judgments. This, however, does not entail that these value judgments be utterly arbitrary. Clearly, some principled means had to be invoked.

Accordingly, I have attempted to ameliorate this quandary by appealing to what I like to call the “too precious” criteria as a guiding literary principle. Now admittedly, there is a sense in which all of life is precious. Yet, not all experiences are worthy of a literary telling; some experiences are simply “too precious” or excessively self-indulgent. In fact, it’s very easy to get carried away with things and begin to believe that virtually everything is profoundly important and therefore deserves a spot in the final cut. So, in order to trim the literary fat, so to speak, I found the “too precious” principle to be tremendously helpful, although sometimes no fat was actually cut. Let me now present such an example,

Of course, at that very moment, Toby Jay froze in a state of sheer, uncanny synchronicity. “Hey, wait a minute,” he instantly recalled, “Dayton Ohio, that’s the hometown of GbV…the place where Bee Thousand was born.” Suddenly, this startling connection flashed him back to the mysterious clustering of events that occurred on the day of Lughnasadh 1994. Back, that is, to when he heard Bee Thousand for the first time; just hours after he had dropped Isabelle off at Will Rogers Airport so she could catch a flight to Beverly Hills to pose for Hustler’s Beaver Hunt Contest. Completely unaware at the time that his next-door neighbor, an old army gunner named Harold, was dead, rotting on the other side of his duplex wall. Until now, no doubt, this curious series of events had always eluded his understanding. But now he really got it. Now he truly understood. Since now, after speaking to Professor Merrill back on the night of the September Cursing Moon, Toby Jay realized that just as blackness was virtually always accompanied by the glory of gold, so too was the vile profanity of Hustler naturally attracted to its opposite, namely the sacred power of healing. Hence, in an intriguing sort of way, this mysterious cluster was like an instantiation of an ontological polarity principle, paradoxically stating that wherever there was Hustler, there was healing, and that wherever there was rotten black flesh, there was the regenerative light of “Mincer Ray.”

When the reader encounters this passage, I’m reasonably sure they’ll understand the horns of this dilemma. On the one hand, the passage above may seem overly self-indulgent in the sense that it’s a weighty anomaly in an otherwise fast and crisp telling. To many, it may appear to be a “too precious” or “too esoteric” tangent. On the other hand, I’m certain that the above passage contains deep, metaphysical insight. So for the longest time, I wrestled with this question, this artistic dichotomy of sorts, until finally, I stumbled onto a historic quote that forever slammed the door shut in favor of inclusion instead of exclusion. To quote F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The test of first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.”

The moment I finished reading this quote, my hair, quite literally, stood up and tingled. “This is it,” I thought, “this is all the confirmation I’ll ever need.” Indeed, this quotation not only justified inclusion, but also provided me with a new-found resolve. “Believe in your experience, man…believe in your experience!” I constantly began to tell myself. In fact, on more than one occasion I re-read Jack Kerouac’s List of Essentials, always fixing on the line, “No fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language & knowledge.”

. . .

So finally, in the early morning hours of July 27^th, 1999, I completed my first, though admittedly, very rough, final draft of Volume One of the Gold Connections trilogy. At last, then, I could embark on the third and final phase of my mission, which was to hook up with a sympathetic literary agent and get my work published.

“So I need to write a provocative query letter to open the proverbial door,” I reasoned. Just a single page would do.

Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

“Where am I to start?” I wondered.

Since, to me, my vision quest encompassed virtually everything.

You name it, Gold Connections has it.

So during this query phase, I was forced to peel away the myriad layers of characterization and determine the core of my work. In the end, I reckoned this core to be American history. First and foremost, the book you are about to read is a non-fictional account of one person’s life in Stillwater, Oaklahoma in the year of 1996. That’s its essence. That’s its heart. American autobiographical history, that is.

But after American history, what comes next? Here I think the order of importance is bound to be arbitrary. In the final analysis, for instance, is Gold Connections more sports oriented or mythology driven? Is the story line more pornographic or philosophic? Is it geared more towards self-discovery or to conspiracy theory?

See, to me, these are very tough questions. Because I think it would be misleading to say that sports wins out over mythology, or that pornography is more prevalent than philosophy, or that self-discovery is more central than conspiracy theory. Certainly, each has its place. Each complements the other. So to emphasize one over the other is, I believe, to do a disservice to the other.

In closing, then, I would just like to say that after all the pondering and soul searching, I believe the book you are about to read is essentially a slice of Americana, albeit strange and sometimes downright unbelievable. In other words, it’s about everything people encounter in their daily lives, from watching superstars like Fran Drescher and David Duchovny on TV, to drinking beer and getting high on marijuana while watching the Dallas Cowboys on Monday Night Football, to listening to masterful musical works, like Bee Thousand and Entroducing…, to reading fascinating books, like The Teachings of Don Juan and The Illuminatus! Trilogy. Only I just happened to live across from one of the most powerful witches this world has ever known, in a small Midwestern town that, still to this day, gives conspiracy theory an entirely new meaning.

Hope you dig it, yours truly.

July, 1999 (Revised in 2010 and 2020)

P.S. I have elected to reference Jack Kerouac’s List of Essentials because I believe it best captures my literary approach in the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity.

LIST OF ESSENTIALS

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Submissive to everything, open, listening
Try never get drunk outside yr own house
Be in love with yr life
Something that you feel will find its own form
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
The unspeakable visions of the individual
No time for poetry but exactly what is
Visionary tics shivering in the chest
In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Like Proust be an old teahead of time
Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
Write in recollection and amazement of yourself
Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
Accept loss forever
Believe in the holy contour of life
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
You’re a Genius all the time
Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored and Angeled in Heaven

– Jack Kerouac

Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember some of my early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the experiment whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and not take fright at the whole truth.

Taken from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s

Notes from Underground

On the eve of the month of Samhain, 1996, Toby Jay Townsend activated the Greek TV to catch coverage of Monday Night Football, featuring the Philadelphia Eagles against the Dallas Cowboys. But shortly after the former team jumped out to a quick, ten-point lead, he instead opened the purple door, hopped inside the Window Wisdom Mobile and headed straight to the Alien Workshop to see if he could score a bag of weed, since he had completely depleted his stash on the night of the Full Moon Lunar Eclipse.

However, no one was presently home at the Alien Workshop.

So Toby Jay moseyed over to Jeffrey’s house next-door to ask about David’s whereabouts. When he stepped inside, immediately Toby Jay was overwhelmed by the stench of rotten cat piss. “What the hell?” he wondered. “How on earth can he stand this foul, nauseating smell?”

Rather hurriedly, Jeffrey said that David was currently attending an Environmental Systems class and that their main marijuana connection, the black, sharp-dressed college kid, Terrelle, who drove the white Volvo 240 with dark-tinted windows, was out of town.

“Bummer,” Toby Jay bemoaned.

But then, just as he turned around, Toby Jay nearly tripped over a model rocket standing about three feet tall. “Whoa, whatta righteous rocket!”

“Ah, that ain’t shit, come check this out,” Jeffrey boasted. No joke, in his bedroom, there stood two large-scale rockets, one about five feet tall and the other around seven.

Come to find out, Jeffrey was a real, honest-to-Pete rocket scientist. He even invited Toby Jay to his next test date on October 5^th, the day he was scheduled to launch the big seven-footer.

“Wow, whatta blaast!” Toby Jay wildly erupted.

Just then, David walked through the front door. As usual, he was wearing a classic Grateful Dead tie-dye T-shirt. Yet, uncharacteristically, David was all smiles due to the fact that he had just aced a test in his Environmental Systems class.

Instinctively, Jeffrey reached for the TV remote and locked onto a pocket billiards tournament on ESPN. Not long thereafter, a stunning sports update appeared at the bottom of the screen. “No way, the Cowboys are actually leading the Eagles at half time,” Toby Jay remarked in amazement, then proudly professed, “ya know, that’s what I love about sports, the sheer unpredictability of it all.”

But then, yet another late-breaking sports update appeared at the bottom of the screen. Only this time, ESPN announced that Reggie Miller had finally signed that big, bonus-baby contract he had been holding out for, for so long.

Naturally, Toby Jay began to reminisce about all the sacred hoop dreams in the Golden State. Back to when he played against Reggie’s Riverside Poly squad in the 1^st Annual Norco High Summer Basketball Tournament and actually outscored him on one notable occasion.

“Are you sure about that?” David asked, squinting his eyes with cat-like suspicion.

“Hell yes, I’m sure,” Toby Jay snapped back. He then asked Jeffrey to switch back to Monday Night Football.

But because Jeffrey was hell-bent on watching pocket billiards on ESPN, Toby Jay and David headed next-door to the Alien Workshop.

Their timing was perfect.

David activated the TV right as the second half kickoff was floating through the air. “I’m gonna go get some beers,” he said in response to the synchronous timing.

Meanwhile, the action was fast and furious.

“Man, this game feels downright feral,” Toby Jay marveled out loud as David stepped back inside the Alien Workshop with a six-pack of Bud in hand. Indeed, both teams were playing with unparalleled intensity; neither squad could hold onto the football due to all the reckless, bone-crushing tackles. Without question, this was one of the hardest-hitting games Toby Jay had ever seen. In fact, he could feel the fierce dynamics right through the TV screen.

So finally, when the Eagles intercepted a Troy Aikman pass, only to turn the ball over again for the umpteenth time, Toby Jay turned to David and said, “Dude, I wish I had a copy of this game on video. Ya know, it would make a great case study in the field of quantum mechanics.”

Then, suddenly, majic emerged.

Majic, that is, in the form of a little green football. For right after an overzealous Philly fan tossed a miniature green football onto the playing field, television coverage cut to an instant replay, at which time analyst Dan Dierdorf instructed, “Now watch closely at the top of your screen…there comes the little green football.” In which case, immediately thereafter, premier play-by-play man, Al Michaels hysterically shouted, “Martians are coming!”

Of course, at that very moment, David knew exactly why Toby Jay desired a copy of the game for posterity’s sake; it being perfectly obvious that all the crazy, skull-crushing action had gone straight to Al’s head and, in turn, and had triggered his fanatical flying saucer synapses.

. . .

Later that night, shortly after he returned to Blackley Street, Toby Jay sensed that the air around him was abuzz with a zapping, high-pitched Psis frequency. “Sounds like Principia’s up to her old tricks again,” he reckoned, having suddenly recalled that, exactly one year ago to the day, he had strategically planted the Marilyn CIA mind-fuck prank; it being highly doubtful that Principia had ever forgotten that bizarre instance of supreme psycholinguistic sabotage.

However, an hour or so later, when the zapping Atomic Commission frequency finally ceased, Toby Jay instinctively activated the Greek TV and tuned into the beautiful bronze image of Daisy Fuentes. “Boy, I’d like to grudge fuck her,” he wished like an imp, mainly because Daisy looked a lot like Michelle Grose, who was an old, classy-bitch flame from his carefree, bandana-wearing graduate school days at the University of Oaklahoma.

But when Daisy’s beautiful bronze image vanished into a commercial promoting feminine freshness, Toby Jay went channel surfing and locked onto CNN’s Larry King Live. Tonight, the entire show was dedicated to the 25^th Anniversary of Disney World. In fact, the personal interview segment of the show featured the two top dogs at Disney Productions, both of whom, curiously enough, were named Michael.

Naturally, when Toby Jay learned that Disney World first opened its majical gates on October 1^st, 1971, his senses, esoterically speaking, soared. “Now if this doesn’t smack of a Celtic conspiracy, nothing does,” he figured. For, by all rights, the World’s Largest Magical Kingdom should have opened its gates in May, June, July, or even August or September, rather than the dark, dank, and decaying month of Samhain.

Then, Larry King mentioned that the Christian Coalition was currently boycotting the 25^th Anniversary celebration, due to its pagan origins. So obviously, Walt was Celt smart and the Christian Coalition knew it.

“Well,” Toby Jay gathered, “I guess the song really does remain the same.” Since, after the passage of roughly seven centuries, the Christian Crusaders were still threatening to wipe out the legacy of Merlyn.

. . .

Later that night, immediately following the CNN feature on the 25^th Anniversary of Disney World, Toby Jay tuned into a rerun of the late local news. In turn, he was shocked beyond all belief when he watched perennial baseball All-Star, Roberto Alomar, spit in the face of a Major League umpire. Indeed, this act of scurrilous impropriety was absolutely unprecedented. In fact, never before had a Major League player spat square in the face of a Major League umpire.

“Now if this isn’t a sign of the New Dark Age, nothing is,” Toby Jay reckoned in disgust, while secretly figuring that this fiendish fiasco had a lunar logic all unto its own; this being, of course, the eve of the month of Samhain as well as the genesis stage of the Cursing Moon phase.

. . .

Several hours later, as the Garfield clock read 4 AM, which was roughly the same time, exactly one year ago to the day, Toby Jay had strategically planted the Marilyn CIA mind-fuck prank, he crossed Blackley Street to check the status of Principia’s internal lighting frequencies. As expected, the eerie, amorphous window, located perpendicular to the Mickey Mouse door, was smoldering, glowing with deep hues of demented hellfire.

Surprisingly, as he was crossing back to his side of the street, Toby Jay stopped dead in his tracks due to the freakish sight of two gargantuan pumpkins, both of which were so humongous that their shape was terribly deformed. Each of the pumpkins, in fact, appeared as though they had somehow contracted a hideous case of melonous elephantiasis.

“Only on Blackley Street,” Toby Jay reckoned, sarcastically.

In addition, hanging above both of the grossly deformed pumpkins, there was a candy basket in the form of an orange jack-o-lantern, which had black inverted triangles for eyes and a sneaky smile in the shape of an outstretched bat.

“Aw, bullshit,” Toby Jay sighed, when seemingly out of nowhere, a Stillwater cop car started to stalk his backside. By the body language of the officer, one would have thought somebody had just committed a serious crime.

“Do you live around here?” the officer asked in an interrogating tone.

“Yeah, I was just lookin’ at my neighbors’ pumpkins, that’s all.”

“So do you have a habit of keeping odd hours?”

“Well, I’m an aspiring writer. So yeah, I do tend to keep some pretty strange hours.”

“I need to see some identification,” the officer immediately demanded.

In turn, Toby Jay reached for his Indian trading post wallet and pulled out his Oaklahoma driver’s license.

“Hmm, it says hear that you live on 225 University Street in Edmond,” said the bully officer, as though he had just been lied to.

Of course, right then, Toby Jay became frightened, thinking to himself, “this power-hungry bastard is actually gonna try to throw my ass in jail.” Fortunately, though, he had his checkbook on hand, the information of which forced the bully officer back inside his patrol car, but without ever offering any apology for the unwarranted intrusion.

As a result, for quite some time, Toby Jay’s heart continued to race. Since for the first time in the Year of Mysteriously Synchronicity, his personal liberty had been unduly threatened; his right to freedom unnecessarily questioned. But because it was now officially the month of Halloween, corresponding to the Cursing Moon phase, he figured this fearful experience made perfect celestial sense.

. . .

So then, later that morning, because his parents were scheduled to arrive in Oaklahoma City in the next few days, Toby Jay decided to dismantle his bizarre, psychotronic art display. Basically, he wanted to make things as pleasant as possible for his parents; yet the strange psychotronic art display was anything but pleasant. Instead, it had “mad, crazy scientist” written all over it.

First then, Toby Jay reached up and grabbed the TR-30 fuses, as well as the Big Black heat-exchange hose. He then placed the old rusty flying saucer next to the hollow log, which was housing the Pentecostal polarizer. Lastly, he propped the timeworn MC5 Kick Out the Jams LP against the Sonic Youth Bad Moon Rising wood-framed poster.

Afterwards, he wondered, “huh, how best to fill the void?” Until, suddenly, he realized that the most parental-friendly choice was the Julius Irving poster he had acquired as a kid in the Golden State.

As it turned out, the hanging of the Dr. J poster proved to be as perfect as it was prophetic. Perfect, in the sense that the wall was tall and narrow and the poster was the tallest and narrowest he owned. But prophetic because, after all these years, only now, after discovering the weird science of anti-gravity generators, did he grasp the poster’s true symbolic significance; this being Dr. J as the Swan Song logo incarnate, as well as the mythology of Prometheus actually sprung to life.

. . .

By now, it was nearly seven o’clock in the morning, yet Toby Jay had still not gone to bed. Because of his recent run-in with the Stillwater police, his nervous system was still on overload. So, to pass the time, he activated the Greek TV. Instantly, he locked onto Good Morning America as host Joan Lunden was standing in the middle of Main Street in downtown Disney World. Indeed, she was all set to kickoff the first day of the 25^th Anniversary of the World’s Largest Magical Kingdom.

“No way, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” Toby Jay muttered under his breath, shortly after he learned that Disney World was located smack dab in the middle of a giant swamp – right in the heart of dark, spooky waters.

On the following day, October 1^st, 1996, Toby Jay was awakened by the distinct metallic clank of the golden mailbox. So, shortly thereafter, he opened the purple door in order to check the mail. In doing so, he was elated to discover that he had just received the Holiday issue of Hustler magazine.

Curiously, much like the December issue, the cover art to the Holiday edition was a work of conspiratorial genius. Only this time, instead of the cover model taking the form of an inverted temple, she was depicted as a Christmas tree. She, specifically, was decorated with spangled red and gold garland, tiny golden bells, and colored lights wrapped around her taut Hawaiian body. All of which was capped off with a golden pentagram star mounted to the top of her little harlot head.

“Holy temples…sacred trees, what’s next?” Toby Jay wondered in jest.

Then, grinning to himself, he turned to the infamous Asshole of the Month Award. Surprisingly, this time the dubious honor was replaced with the Hero of the Month Award. Surprising, because this was only the second time such an award had ever been bestowed; the first instance of its kind going to actor Hugh Grant for his felonious escapades with a black Hollywood hooker. This time, however, the farcical accolade went to President Clinton’s close advisor Dick Morris. As a matter of fact, opening with the line, “Let us now praise one infamous man,” the special Hero of the Month segment reported that Dick had engaged in a year-long, fetish-filled affair with a $200-an-hour prostitute, the relationship of which involved him sucking her toes and licking the bottom of her feet. Yet, by far the most shocking revelation was that Dick took calls from the Oval Office, then held the receiver up to the hooker’s ear, so she could listen in on President Clinton’s confidential conversations.

“And he’s a hero?” Toby Jay cynically pondered.

He then turned to his favorite section, Erotic Entertainment. Here, he was immediately aroused by a double-penetration photo, which was accompanying the Fully Erect review of Rocco Siffredi’s new offering, Whipped Cream.

“Rocco’s the Michael Jordan of porn,” Toby Jay reckoned with waggish reverence.

Then he flipped to the following page, where he locked onto one of the filthiest photos he had ever seen in America’s magazine. The picture was relatively small in size; located at the bottom of the page. Very explicitly, young princess porn star Cinderella was licking Max Hardcore’s cum sac, while her partner in crime, Barbie Angel, looked the camera straight in the eye, as thick strings of spunk drooled from her radiant, sunshine smile. Almost unbelievably, according to the review of Max: Maximum Anal Perversions #9, “both pigtailed blondes suck choad sticks, until they choke, coughing up sputum that hangs from their chins in lathery strings…and orchestrate a loogie exchange in which both blondes perform mouth-to-mouth regurgitation of spent semen.”

Filthy, filthy, filthy, for sure, but it really turned Toby Jay on. “Boy, Barbie Angel looks like she’s having the time of her life,” he noted, twistedly. But then, he glanced upwards to the top of the adjacent page and locked onto an Erotic Entertainment report spotlighting the new Wicked Pictures production, Satyr, in which award-winning adult-film director Michael Zen set out to mold classic Greek mythology into triple X smut.

“Dang, talk about transforming the sacred into the profane,” Toby Jay jested.

Shortly thereafter, he encountered another Fully Erect Rating. This time, the honor went to the movie Dream House. Accordingly, the accompanying review, in part, read, “Artsy-fartsy touches – i.e. the pudgy troll men sanctifying fuck scenes with candles – intrude, and the cheesy pseudopsychedelic video effects…Dream House delivers top-notch raunch…a fat-lipped bitch gets waylaid in a nightmarish ware-house by a half dozen dudes who gang-bang her face.”

Shocking, shocking, shocking, for sure, but it still turned Toby Jay on. “So Dream House is another instance of Principian inversion theory,” he figured. After all, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to reckon that the production in question was really Profane House in disguise.

Next, he turned to the backside of the last page of the Erotic Entertainment section and nearly freaked when he encountered yet another Fully Erect rating, Buttman’s Bubble Butt Babes.

“Fuckin’ A!” Toby Jay burst. “Three Fully Erect ratings!”

Of course, this was completely unprecedented. Never before had Toby Jay seen so many five-star reviews in a single issue of America’s magazine. So naturally, in his mind, this too had to have an internal logic – a secret code of sorts – until suddenly he realized that the Holiday issue was, quite likely, produced during the time of the historic Centennial Olympic Games. He realized, then, that in the minds of the guys at Hustler, three sacred Olympian metals called for three profane porno reviews.

Afterwards, Toby Jay flipped back to the licentious photo that accompanied the review of Max: Maximum Anal Perversions # 9 and began to masturbate himself to the perverse images of Cinderella and Barbie Angel. Indeed, in doing so, he could barely believe the swelling dimensions of his manhood, as the expansiveness of his shaft seemed almost majical, much like the day he penetrated Michelle Grose in his sister’s bedroom at 2070 in the Golden State.

“Man,” Toby Jay marveled, “I’m a legitimate seven inches.”

Seconds later, the classic Oak station announced that on this very day in 1970, Jimi Hendrix was buried at Greenwood Cemetery in Renton, Washington.

. . .

Later in the evening, Principia stepped outside the Mickey Mouse door, wearing her big black Terminator shades. She then proceeded to ignite the Evil Green Machine. At the time, the Garfield clock read 4:22 PM. Then, two hours later, at exactly 6:22, she ignited the Golden Cream Curse and blaasted off to Sixth Street like a batty witch from hell.

“Boy, Principia’s awfully active today,” Toby Jay noted cynically, certain that her unusually active behavior was a direct result of the fact that it was now officially the first day of the month of Samhain.

. . .

Hours later, during KRXO’s nightly Connect the Classics program, Toby Jay gleaned several favorable numerological connections that had somehow managed to escape his notice. First, there was the morning show 9 At 9, followed by the Ultimate Album Side at 12 noon, then Getting Off at 5, Connect the Classics at 9, and finally The Laser Show at 12 midnight. All of which meant that Oaklahoma’s premier classic rock station was synchronized to the numerical frequencies of his three allied planets: Jupiter, Mercury and Mars; 3, 5 and 9 respectively.

“So my mission is actually hardwired to the classic Oak station,” Toby Jay realized in a state of ecstatic revelation.

Soon thereafter, the Great Voice spoke – it was time to check the status of Principia’s internal lighting frequencies, so he naturally followed.

Quickly, then, Toby Jay crossed Blackley Street.

Again, the creepy, amorphous window was smoldering – deep, rich, horrendous hellfire. This time, however, the surreal sight flashed Toby Jay back to the night of the Full Moon Lunar Eclipse. Back, that is, to when his best buddy in graduate school, professor Lee Basham’s eyes bulged to enormous dimensions as he inspected the outside of Principia’s demonic dungeon in the dark of night and cautiously remarked in a tone of utter awe, “Jay, those windows aren’t natural. They look like they’ve been melted.”

Anomalously enough, when he finally returned to 415, Toby Jay noticed that his classic 1950’s Hot Point refrigerator was oscillating with a crazed, unprecedented madness, the vibrations of which instantly triggered an instinctive desire to listen to Sonic Youth’s EVOL. Indeed, despite the fact he had subconsciously avoided this particular musical selection all throughout the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity, now the time was right. Now, in fact, he really got it. For only now did Toby Jay realize that he was listening to a textbook example of Principian inversion theory.

First and foremost, EVOL was about the transposition of the precious passion of love; like the logical equivalent to an inverted triangle or downward spiraling staircase. Primordially, its audio essence resided within a warped Discordian utopia, dominated by insane shadows, frustrated desires, murderous strangers, eerie green lights, pain, fear, skulls, bruises, nightmares and dead friends. Furthermore, who could ever forget those opening lyric lines to the epic finale track “Madonna, Sean, and Me,” in which Thurston Moore rather menacingly crooned about killing the California girls. But by far the most disturbing listening experience came by way of “In Kingdom #19,” a tune whose lyrical imagery reminded Toby Jay of the bizarre fact that Principia’s Evil Green Machine looked virtually identical to the vehicle the old drunken cowboy, John Troy Lee, was driving the day he doltishly crashed into Toby Jay’s backside and consequently shattered his C-5 vertebra.

“Damn, this feels downright painful,” Toby Jay grimaced, particularly since EVOL was released in 1986, the same year as his near-fatal auto accident. Indeed, like no other song on earth, “In Kingdom #19” vividly captured the most horrific day of Toby Jay’s adult life.

On the following day, Wednesday 2, Principia furtively emerged from her wretched dwelling, wearing her fruity majical gown. A sign, no doubt, connected to the fact that it was now the birth of the Samhain Cursing Moon, consequently confirming what he had suspected all along, namely that Principia’s fruity gown represented frustrated financial desires and the inversion of Nature’s most brilliant and cleansing colors.

Then, suddenly, the Great Voice spoke.

“OK,” Toby Jay acquiesced, having been informed that tomorrow, the eve of the October Cursing Moon, was to mark the first phase of the photographic aspect of his mission. Hence, without hesitation, he opened the purple door, hopped inside the Window Wisdom Mobile and headed straight to Camera America to pickup a few rolls of film.

Afterwards, he stopped by Stella’s – Stillwater’s hippest vintage store – for some sandalwood incense. As a consequence, he ended up having a fairly lengthy conspiracy theory conversation with the store’s proud owner, Scott Byrd.

Initially, the catalyst to their conversation was a book called Green Gold the Tree of Life: Marijuana in Magic & Religion.

Naturally, the mere title sent Toby Jay’s senses reeling. Of course, he had always suspected that there was a close connection between marijuana and majic. But now, finally, he had happened onto clear-cut scholastic evidence.

Scott highly recommended the book. However, he was uncertain as to how long he would be selling it, due to the suspicions he sensed it had raised in the minds of the Stillwater police.

Synchronously enough, when the two of them stepped outside to talk conspiracy theory, there were two Stillwater cop cars facing directly at Stella’s.

“Shit man,” Toby Jay said in a decidedly paranoid tone of voice, “nothin’ makes me more nervous than a pair of black and whites.”

He then began to share with Scott some of his recent conspiracy insights. He started with Stillwater’s finest, Eskimo Joe’s.

“Dude, Eskimo Joe is a demon in disguise.”

“Oh yeah,” Scott said cooly. “I clued into that a long time ago. And actually, Mexico Joe looks even more evil. But really, Old Joe is just a reflection of this town, in general.”

In response, Toby Jay pointed towards the Subway sandwich shop, located just up the street and said, “Now check out that Subway sign, if that’s not one of America’s most obvious symbolic conspiracies, I don’t know what is. Just think about it… what’s the first thing that pops into your head when you think of the Devil? Pointy, arrow-like tails? Well, the sign clearly depicts the tail of the Devil. And linguistically, what do the words ‘sub’ and ‘way’ mean? They mean the Underworld and the Tao respectively, right? So, Subway is like saying Taoist Underground or Witchcraft Subterrania instead, right?”

Again, everything was old hat to Scott, who calmly replied, “yeah, and think about the word ‘witch’ in the word ‘sandwich.’ And where do you find sand but near the ocean, which is, as you well know, intimately connected to the witchs’ menstrual cycle.”

“Wow,” Toby Jay responded. “Now that’s a brilliant linguistic code, if I’ve ever heard of one.”

Then Scott pointed to the housing complex, located adjacent to the Subway sandwich shop and said, “See those apartments above Studio II Photography…the ones with all the black wrought iron railings?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, that’s where Gaza lives.”

Naturally, Toby Jay erupted in a state of sheer shock. “No fucking way…you mean to tell me that Gaza the Ghoul lives above a photo lab in the heart of the Campus Corner conspiracy?!”

. . .

So, after wishing Scott a good day, Toby Jay hopped back inside the Window Wisdom Mobile and traveled to the Alien Workshop to check-in with David about the big Election `96 debate between James Carville and William Buckley.

Curiously, along the way, as he passed by the Salem Church, Toby Jay noticed that the billboard out front read, “Welcome Back Pastor Emlyn Ott.”

Automatically, his conspiratorial intuitions ignited. “Ott,” he thought, “that’s pretty damn close to Otto, is it not?” sensing that this unlikely correspondence was further proof that his mission was, in fact, connected to the Church of Witches.

Unfortunately, nobody was present at the Alien Workshop.

Yet, strangely enough, when he returned home and began to document this improbable Ott/Otto synchronicity, Toby Jay’s last working pen ran out of ink. “This is a sign that the Salem Church doesn’t want the truth to be known,” he reckoned, superstitiously.

So, soon thereafter, like a man on a mission, Toby Jay opened the purple door, ignited the Window Wisdom Mobile and traveled straight to Wal-Mart to purchase a pack of Paper Mate pens and several more Golden Fibre notebooks.

. . .

Later that evening, Toby Jay opened the purple door and traveled to the eastside of Stillwater to meet up with David at the Alien Workshop in order to attend the debate between James Carville and William Buckley at Iba Arena.

As expected, the debate turned out to be more humorous than substantive. Instead, the highlight of the night belonged to Iba Arena itself. Breathtaking, indeed, were the holy radial window structures circling the top level of the gymnasium, each of which took the form of an ancient mandala with white crosses embedded within each glassy sphere; thus gloriously symbolizing the divine nature of human perception.

“Boy,” Toby Jay marveled, “they just don’t build sports arenas like this anymore.”

But then, he glanced down and noticed that the lower regions of the gymnasium were designed in the spooky shades of Samhain, with a heavy emphasis on the sinister sheen of black.

“Damn,” he gathered, “it’s the sacred and the profane all over again.”

. . .

Later that night, when he finally returned home to 415, Toby Jay thought it odd that his answering machine was double blinking. “Huh,” he recollected, “I haven’t received back-to-back messages like this in aeons.”

At first, however, Toby Jay hesitated to activate the messages for fear that there had been some sort of expensive catastrophe at Westing Manor. However, when he eventually worked up sufficient courage, he was elated to learn that he had received a message from Hastings, informing him that his special order of Peter Berresford Ellis’ The Druids was ready for pickup. This, in turn, was directly followed by a message from his father in the Golden State.

“Nice synchronicity,” Toby Jay noted.

Moments later, he flashed back to the night his father spoke nostalgically about the good old days at Goldenville High, back to when the school choir made annual pilgrimages to Iba Arena to sing in the 5,000-strong Christmas Christening Celebration.

. . .

Several hours later, under the guidance of the Great Voice, Toby Jay opened the purple door and crossed Blackley Street to inspect Principia’s internal lighting frequencies. For the first time in a long time, all the lights were out. “This blackout status is connected to the fruity gown,” he sensed intuitively, suspecting that this was Principia’s way of unifying the Cursing Moon forces.

And yet, as he was crossing back to his side of the street, Toby Jay was suddenly stopped dead in his tracks by a mammoth, but nonetheless muffled sound nearby. He knew the sound very well. It was the sound of heavy-duty construction.

“But it’s two o’clock in the morning, is it not?”

So, out of sheer curiousity, Toby Jay started to trace the source of the sound. Eventually, he ended up in front of a powder blue house, with a dark blue VW Beetle with menacing black tinted windows, parked in the drive.

“Damn,” he thought, “I feel like I’m lookin’ Wile E. Coyote dead in the eye,” as he peered through a lighted window and watched the owner of the blacked out Beetle hammer on his bedroom walls with glazed, madman intensity.

Of course, as always, Toby Jay believed he had an explanation. Basically, all the destructive, gonzo antics were directly related to the fact that his neighbors to the north, who owned a loud barking dog named Harley, had just moved down the street, right next to the powder blue house. Hence, all the vicious pounding was the owner’s way of combating the arrival of Harley. Or rather, it was as if the owner, with every rabid stroke of the hammer, was saying to himself, “I’m gonna pound some fuckin’ sense into that fuckin’ dog.”

So, with the prophecy of the Age of Warring Neighbors weighing heavy on his mind, Toby Jay started across the street, until suddenly the Great Voice spoke.

Strangely enough, he was compelled to grab Principia’s black plastic trash bag, which had been left out on the curb for the morning pickup. Naturally, despite the fact that this struck him as decidedly bizarre, Toby Jay immediately followed suit.

. . .

So, as soon as he stepped inside the purple door, Toby Jay propped the black plastic bag up against the Sigmund Freud seat. He then thought, “I really need to wait until the time is right, before I open up that bag.”

Instead, then, Toby Jay approached the Greek stereo and lazerized Joni Mitchell’s lovely Blue. “Boy, these have gotta be some of greatest songs ever written,” he reckoned with sheer delight, while listening to the opening track “All I Want,” followed by “My Old Man,” the lyrics of which, especially when Joni sang about the frying pan being too wide, inspired him to cook a skillet-full of Oakie fried potatoes.

“Jeez,” Toby Jay thought, “I haven’t enjoyed cooking this much in forever,” while relishing the fact that Blue, much like Van Morrison’s masterful Moondance, spelled the deep, psychic demise of Sneaky Puss.

So, shortly after Toby Jay wolfed down a heaping batch of Oakie fried potatoes, on came the eighth track “River,” signaling that it was time to inspect the contents of Principia’s black plastic bag. Immediately, then, he reached for a pen, grabbed a Golden Fibre notebook and sat down in the Sigmund Freud seat. Then, very gently, Toby Jay reached inside the black plastic bag and pulled out the July 1^st, 1996 issue of Forbes magazine.

“Aha, this is proof that Principia’s fruity gown is connected to her frustrated financial desires.”

Next, Toby Jay pulled out a copy of TV Guide. Somewhat surreally, Jenny McCarthy was featured on the front cover, looking like some sort of acrobatic, beach-bunny genie.

But then, reaching back inside the black plastic bag, Toby Jay pulled out two brown paper sacks, both of which had been carefully torn into precise pieces. Oddly enough, in puzzling the pieces together, he noticed that each of the sacks pictured a small house surrounded by great towering trees, bearing an uncanny resemblance to 415. And, since the sacks read, “Warmest Wishes For A Happy Holiday Season,” they had to be at least one year old, but looked much, much older.

Then, as he was sifting through the individual pieces of brown paper, Toby Jay happened onto the first truly shocking discovery. Inexplicably, he happened upon a phony sweepstakes check from a company called Western Equities in Irvine, California.

“Freaking Western Equities…in Irvine California!” Toby Jay automatically burst. Of course, to him, this was tantamount to treading on sacred territory. Instantly, in fact, he flashed back to one his fondest SoCal memories. More specifically, he flashed back to the summer of 1985, when he was fortunate enough to have seen The Smiths’ Meat is Murder tour at Irvine Meadows Ampitheatre. Vividly, to this very day, he could still recall the mellow aroma of marijuana saturating the fair ocean air, as well as the hordes of enticing New Wave, Djarum-smoking, Madonna wannabes. So, the mere thought that Principia had any connection whatsoever to Orange County was, to say the least, beyond unsettling.

Unfortunately, the uneasiness did not end there. Indeed, with considerable trepidation, he reached back inside the black plastic bag and pulled out a copy of The Christian Science Monitor dated December 7, 1989.

“So,” Toby Jay instantly inferred, “Principia was probably telling the truth when she told me she sometimes teaches Sunday School at The Church of Christian Science.”

In addition, there was a copy of the Stillwater News Press dated Sunday December 10, 1989. “December tenth,” Toby Jay instantly recalled. “That’s the day her father was born.”

Furthermore, there was a brochure from a company called The History Book Club, dated 1991. Impressively enough, the book titles ranged from Ancient, Medieval and Military history, to Claudius and Caligula, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, the Vikings and Celts, Hitler and the KGB, to Winston Churchill and JFK.

Then, whap-O!

Toby Jay encountered the shocker of all shockers. No joke, he now held in his hand a First Interstate Bank statement from Simi, California, bearing the almost unbelievable date of 6/9/87. So, there was now a 69 numerical connection to the Golden State, dating all the way back to 1987.

“I’m stopping here,” Toby Jay decided in a state of utter disbelief, despite the fact he had inspected but half of the black bag’s contents. Carefully, then, he attempted to place all the pieces of trash back in the same order he had found them. Afterwards, he closed the contents with the Catalina blue twisty, and rested the black plastic bag up against the Bad Moon Rising wood-framed poster. Then, still in a state of sheer disbelief, he sat down at the dark oak desk and continued to listened to repeated cycles of Blue until the wee hours of the morning.

On the following day, Thursday 3, the eve of the October Cursing Moon, Toby Jay awakened with the contents of Principia’s black plastic bag still abysmally etched on his brain. Bizarrely, it felt as if his small-town life in Stillwater had somehow managed to morph into a David Lynch motion picture, whereby an ordinary, innocent American neighborhood was, underneath it all, teeming with perverse pathology and unimaginable horror.

But eventually Toby Jay slowly slipped out of bed, threw on an old faded pair of Levis’ 501 jeans, pulled on a St. John’s Bay thermal, then put on his plush, button-down, dark chocolate Polo shirt. Then finally, he slipped on his trusty Timberland hiking boots and approached the golden oak dresser, where he reverently wrapped his gypsy-blue bandanna around his severely scarred forehead.

“This is gonna be a historic day,” Toby Jay anxiously reckoned. For this was the day the Great Voice had ordained as the genesis phase of the photographic aspect of his conspiracy mission.

Though he had planned on making the Salem Church billboard his first photo, Toby Jay’s plans soon changed when Principia stepped outside the Mickey Mouse door, slithered inside the cockpit of the Golden Cream Curse and blaasted off to Sixth Street like a wicked witch on wheels.

“So I’ll make the Mickey Mouse sticker my first photo,” he figured strategically, sensing that this was the perfect time to capture her twisted queendom.

Quickly, then, Toby Jay cautiously crossed Blackley Street. Thinking to himself, “first things first,” he proceeded to snap several shots of the Mickey Mouse sticker. Then he hurried back to the bat cave, where he took several photos of ‘The Principia’ sticker stuck to the upper portion of the back windshield of the Evil Green Machine.

But then, suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, Principia returned to Blackley Street in record time.

“Oh shit,” he groaned, feeling like he had just got caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Principia asked in a tone of obvious disgust.

“I’m taking pictures because nobody’s gonna believe the story I’m about tell,” Toby Jay honestly replied. But then he pulled a bit of reverse psychology by asking Principia to strike a Gold Connections pose. Surprisingly, she actually acquiesced, with her big black Terminator shades wrapped around her ghoulishly shaved eyes.

“Wow, I never dreamt I’d actually get a picture of her,” Toby Jay thought in a state of sheer astonishment.

He then crossed Blackley Street, hopped inside the Window Wisdom Mobile and traveled straight to the Salem Church to photograph the “Welcome Back Pastor Emlyn Ott” billboard.

Then, just up the road, he decided to stop by David’s house to take pictures of the Alien Workshop sticker that Scott had stuck to the front door, many months ago.

Next, Toby Jay crossed the street to take pictures of the Masonic Temple. Much to his amazement, he managed to capture a fascinating angle of the FART steeple hovering ominously above the Lodge of Freemasonry, both of which appeared to be inextricably bound by a complex arrangement of electrical power lines.

“Say, while I’m at it,” Toby Jay thought, spontaneously, “I’ll stop by Stella’s to see if the Crystal Couple would like to strike a pose.”

But Kristin would have nothing of it.

“I’m not taking any pictures, man. I don’t do photos, dig?” she said with a sneer.

“Well, I wasn’t asking you,” Toby Jay quickly countered. “I was talking to Scott.”

In which case, Kristin immediately went on the defensive and claimed that including photos in a work of literature would be a cheesy ploy, saying emphatically, “there ain’t no fuckin’ photos in On the Road.”

Scott was clearly hesitant. “Ya know, everything’s gotta be just right,” he said in a declining tone of voice.

“Oh yeah, I understand,” Toby Jay vehemently agreed. “Photos possess some of the strangest powers I’ve ever encountered. Ya know, Principia uses them to resurrect the dead.”

. . .

So, shortly after he finished conversing with Scott about the bizarre findings in the field of Kirlian photography, Toby Jay started to systematically capture the Campus Corner conspiracy on film. First, he focused on the grand centerpiece – the University Fire Station – which not only featured a curious Persian cupola sprouting from its top, but also dislayed a conspicuous Knights Templar shield mounted directly above the front entry door. Next, he took several shots of the Spirit of `76 Indian Chief mounted outside the Wooden Nickel Clothing store. Then, he crossed the street to photograph the Stella’s sign, which Scott once described as embodying an inverted triangle of antiquated auto transmission gears.

“Only in Stillwater,” Toby Jay figured as he focused on the Rastafarian pizza delivery ghost painted on the back wall of The Hideaway.

But then, wham-O!

Like an immaculate instance of Time Design, right as he turned to the north to get a different perspective of the University Fire Station, Toby Jay came face-to-face with Gaza the Ghoul. “Whoa, what are the chances?” he wondered, as the Hungarian monstrosity passed by with the same slouched shoulders as Billy Corgan, wearing a bright yellow T-shirt and a pair of powder blue jeans.

“Imagine that, a ghoul all dressed up in sunshine and blue,” Toby Jay cynically marveled, knowing that right before his very eyes was a living, breathing manifestation of the Stillwater conspiracy.

In fact, much like the previous photo of Principia, he had managed to capture something he never dreamt possible. Only this time he had somehow managed to capture a real creep in motion.

Finally, Toby Jay approached the front of the University Fire Station in order to get a close-up photo of the quote from Cicero. Carved into a massive slab of Grecian stone, the maxim read “Men Resemble Gods In Nothing So Much As In Doing Good To Their Fellow Creatures.”

“Well, that’s a wrap on the Campus Corner conspiracy,” Toby Jay finally decided. So, he hopped back inside the Window Wisdom Mobile with the sole intention of stopping off at McDonalds for a large order of French-fries. Instead, however, he was temporarily sidetracked when he encountered what appeared to be another prima facie aspect to the Campus Corner conspiracy. It was Chris’ University Spirit bookstore, located directly across the street from St. Andrews Church. “Huh, why the name Chris?” he wondered. That is, until it suddenly dawned on him that Chris’ University Spirit was really Christ’s University Spirit in disguise.

For the Great Generator

“I am not a man, I am dynamite.”

Taken from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo

Contents

Prologue:

An Insider’s Perspective

Part I

Witchcraft Galore!

Part II

California Starship Dreams

Part III

Sagittarian Chronicles

Epilogue:

Principia Stigmata

Taken from Milan Kundera’s

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Prologue:

An Insider’s Perspective

As far as I’m concerned, no truer words have ever been spoken. Although it may not be scientifically explainable, the fact remains that information flows in mysterious ways.

In addition, consider the following excerpt taken from Leonard George’s Alternative Realities: The Paranormal, the Mystic and the Transcendent in Human Experience,

Psychedelic drugs!

Visionary shamans!

Also,

Jungian psychology!

Mystical traditions!

. . .

So, is the 9999 Revelation a real, legitimate revelation? Or does it merely embody a bunch of odd, meaningless numerological coincidences?

Also,

Also, taken from Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung; The Work of a Legendary Critic edited by Greil Marcus,

. . .

“So I need to write a provocative query letter to open the proverbial door,” I reasoned. Just a single page would do.

Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

“Where am I to start?” I wondered.

Since, to me, my vision quest encompassed virtually everything.

You name it, Gold Connections has it.

Hope you dig it, yours truly.

July, 1999

(Revised in 2010 and 2020)

P.S. I have elected to reference Jack Kerouac’s List of Essentials because I believe it best captures my literary approach in the Year of Mysterious Synchronicity.

LIST OF ESSENTIALS

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Submissive to everything, open, listening
Try never get drunk outside yr own house
Be in love with yr life
Something that you feel will find its own form
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
The unspeakable visions of the individual
No time for poetry but exactly what is
Visionary tics shivering in the chest
In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Like Proust be an old teahead of time
Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
Write in recollection and amazement of yourself
Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
Accept loss forever
Believe in the holy contour of life
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
You’re a Genius all the time
Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored and Angeled in Heaven

– Jack Kerouac

Taken from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s

Notes from Underground

However, no one was presently home at the Alien Workshop.

“Bummer,” Toby Jay bemoaned.

But then, just as he turned around, Toby Jay nearly tripped over a model rocket standing about three feet tall. “Whoa, whatta righteous rocket!”

“Ah, that ain’t shit, come check this out,” Jeffrey boasted. No joke, in his bedroom, there stood two large-scale rockets, one about five feet tall and the other around seven.

Come to find out, Jeffrey was a real, honest-to-Pete rocket scientist. He even invited Toby Jay to his next test date on October 5^th, the day he was scheduled to launch the big seven-footer.

“Wow, whatta blaast!” Toby Jay wildly erupted.

“Are you sure about that?” David asked, squinting his eyes with cat-like suspicion.

“Hell yes, I’m sure,” Toby Jay snapped back. He then asked Jeffrey to switch back to Monday Night Football.

But because Jeffrey was hell-bent on watching pocket billiards on ESPN, Toby Jay and David headed next-door to the Alien Workshop.

Their timing was perfect.

David activated the TV right as the second half kickoff was floating through the air. “I’m gonna go get some beers,” he said in response to the synchronous timing.

Meanwhile, the action was fast and furious.

Then, suddenly, majic emerged.

. . .

“Only on Blackley Street,” Toby Jay reckoned, sarcastically.

“Do you live around here?” the officer asked in an interrogating tone.

“Yeah, I was just lookin’ at my neighbors’ pumpkins, that’s all.”

“So do you have a habit of keeping odd hours?”

“Well, I’m an aspiring writer. So yeah, I do tend to keep some pretty strange hours.”

“I need to see some identification,” the officer immediately demanded.

In turn, Toby Jay reached for his Indian trading post wallet and pulled out his Oaklahoma driver’s license.

“Hmm, it says hear that you live on 225 University Street in Edmond,” said the bully officer, as though he had just been lied to.

. . .

“Holy temples…sacred trees, what’s next?” Toby Jay wondered in jest.

“And he’s a hero?” Toby Jay cynically pondered.

He then turned to his favorite section, Erotic Entertainment. Here he was immediately aroused by a double-penetration photo, which was accompanying the Fully Erect review of Rocco Siffredi’s new offering, Whipped Cream.

“Rocco’s the Michael Jordan of porn,” Toby Jay reckoned with waggish reverence.

“Dang, talk about transforming the sacred into the profane,” Toby Jay jested.

Next, he turned to the backside of the last page of the Erotic Entertainment section and nearly freaked when he encountered yet another Fully Erect rating, Buttman’s Bubble Butt Babes.

“Fuckin’ A!” Toby Jay burst. “Three Fully Erect ratings!”

“Man,” Toby Jay marveled, “I’m a legitimate seven inches.”

Seconds later, the classic Oak station announced that on this very day in 1970, Jimi Hendrix was buried at Greenwood Cemetery in Renton, Washington.

. . .

“So my mission is actually hardwired to the classic Oak station,” Toby Jay realized in a state of ecstatic revelation.

Soon thereafter, the Great Voice spoke – it was time to check the status of Principia’s internal lighting frequencies, so he naturally followed.

Quickly, then, Toby Jay crossed Blackley Street.

Then, suddenly, the Great Voice spoke.

Initially, the catalyst to their conversation was a book called Green Gold the Tree of Life: Marijuana in Magic & Religion.

Scott highly recommended the book. However, he was uncertain as to how long he would be selling it, due to the suspicions he sensed it had raised in the minds of the Stillwater police.

Synchronously enough, when the two of them stepped outside to talk conspiracy theory, there were two Stillwater cop cars facing directly at Stella’s.

“Shit man,” Toby Jay said in a decidedly paranoid tone of voice, “nothin’ makes me more nervous than a pair of black and whites.”

He then began to share with Scott some of his recent conspiracy insights. He started with Stillwater’s finest, Eskimo Joe’s.

“Dude, Eskimo Joe is a demon in disguise.”

“Oh yeah,” Scott said cooly. “I clued into that a long time ago. And actually, Mexico Joe looks even more evil. But really, Old Joe is just a reflection of this town, in general.”

“Wow,” Toby Jay responded. “Now that’s a brilliant linguistic code, if I’ve ever heard of one.”

Then Scott pointed to the housing complex located adjacent to the Subway sandwich shop and said, “See those apartments above Studio II Photography…the ones with all the black wrought iron railings?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, that’s where Gaza lives.”

Naturally, Toby Jay erupted in a state of sheer shock. “No fucking way…you mean to tell me that Gaza the Ghoul lives above a photo lab in the heart of the Campus Corner conspiracy?!”

. . .

Curiously, along the way, as he passed by the Salem Church, Toby Jay noticed that the billboard out front read, “Welcome Back Pastor Emlyn Ott.”

Unfortunately, nobody was present at the Alien Workshop.

. . .

“Boy,” Toby Jay marveled, “they just don’t build sports arenas like this anymore.”

But then, he glanced down and noticed that the lower regions of the gymnasium were designed in the spooky shades of Samhain, with a heavy emphasis on the sinister sheen of black.

“Damn,” he gathered, “it’s the sacred and the profane all over again.”

. . .

“Nice synchronicity,” Toby Jay noted.

. . .

“But it’s two o’clock in the morning, is it not?”

So, with the prophecy of the Age of Warring Neighbors weighing heavy on his mind, Toby Jay started across the street, until suddenly the Great Voice spoke.

. . .

“Aha, this is proof that Principia’s fruity gown is connected to her frustrated financial desires.”

Next, Toby Jay pulled out a copy of TV Guide. Somewhat surreally, Jenny McCarthy was featured on the front cover, looking like some sort of acrobatic, beach-bunny genie.

“So,” Toby Jay instantly inferred, “Principia was probably telling the truth when she told me she sometimes teaches Sunday School at The Church of Christian Science.”

In addition, there was a copy of the Stillwater News Press dated Sunday December 10, 1989. “December tenth,” Toby Jay instantly recalled. “That’s the day her father was born.”

Then, whap-O!

But eventually Toby Jay slowly slipped out of bed, threw on an old pair of Levis’ 501 jeans, pulled on a St. John’s Bay thermal, then put on his plush, button-down, dark chocolate Polo shirt. Then finally, he slipped on his trusty Timberland hiking boots and approached the golden oak dresser, where he reverently wrapped his gypsy-blue bandanna around his severely scarred forehead.