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God’s Own Singer Of Songs Goes Home

A Short Story

by

R.E. Prindle

 

When Earth’s last picture is painted

And the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colours have faded,

And the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it

-Lie down for an aeon or two,

Till the Master of all Good Workmen

Shall put us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy;

They shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten league canvas

With brushes of comet’s hair.

They shall find real saints to draw from

-Magdalene, Peter and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting

And never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us,

And only the Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money,

And no one shall work for fame.

But each for the joy of the working

And each in his separate star

Shall draw the Thing as he sees it

For the God of Things as they are.

  1. Kipling

 

I was on my hands and knees with the paper opened out before me on the floor when I came across a startling news item. Darius Trued had committed suicide. It was July 24, 1949. I remember the date clearly. The news blip said he had blown his head off with his step-father’s shotgun. I was speechless. How could somebody I knew commit suicide? By coincidence we had met in the public library just two weeks before where he told me his story since leaving the Orphanage.

If you remember, Darius was the little boy who had nearly hemorrhaged to death after his tonsil operation. I didn’t mention it then but as a result of ‘having saved his life’ Darius felt an obligation to me and we had to become friends.

He was something over two years younger than me, he was only nine when he tubed it, and so for the first part of my sojourn in the Orphanage he’d been down in the infant’s quarters. This was a very terrible pace; I have no idea what effect it had on his plastic young mind. God only knows what horrors were impressed on him down there. The horrors of the Orphanage were not the sort that you would find that obvious. The place wasn’t exactly like the death camps of Auschwitz or Dachau, there wasn’t killing and beating going on. It was more subtle than that but the effect was the same, if you came out, you came out with a different view of humanity. If you had been given a tour you would probably have said: This is really OK…for them. But not for you.

But we were young and impressionable, we needed positive reinforcement. We needed something to bolster our self-respect. As bad as it was up above in the older boy’s dorm it was a lot worse in the infant’s quarters. I would never go in there so I don’t know how many kids there were, I imagine thirty from the sound of their continual yowling and screaming. There were only two or three women to deal with those thirty infants. They were all demanding attention every minute of the time. It’s not that the women were not of the kindest disposition, it’s not that they didn’t try, but you can only spread one woman so thin. It was impossible to give each child the attention they needed so they just lay around and screamed. Once one got started they all began in sympathy. The cacophony was horrendous and very emotionally disturbing.

After a year of that they sent Darius upstairs with us Big Boys. I must have been nine at the time so Darius was maybe seven, probably sixish. Downstairs they had told Darius that I had saved his life so when he came upstairs the first person he wanted to meet was me.

When a new boy came in it was quite a thing so we were all gathered around to evaluate this new kid. The difference of two years between seven and nine is immense. The housemother came leading this little kid up to me by the hand. He had this big happy grin on his face like I don’t know what he expected. Maybe he was just happy to get out of the infant’s quarters. Maybe he thought I was going to be his big brother, I don’t know, I didn’t even care.

I do know that I didn’t need any little kid hanging on me all the time. I was alone and had withdrawn pretty far into myself. I didn’t want to come out for anybody. I was no longer looking for the ‘human’ touch; I’d had enough of that. I was trying to avoid it.

The woman led this little guy right up to me and introduces me as the guy who saved his life. Give me a break! All I did was open the door to the infirmary, look at all the blood spattered on the walls and went and got help. That wasn’t as easy as it sounds either; it was hard to get their attention. And then they made fun of me like I was always inventing things. I had to endure that humiliation for the little bastard. So now I was saddled with him.

You know…you know…all I knew up to this point were heart-rending stories of tragic situations. Darius’ story wasn’t any exception. I was too young to understand then but I knew something funny was going on. It all came together in later years. You see, the reason that Darius was in the Orphanage was because his mother was a prostitute. She put him in the Orphanage so he would be out of the way.

She hadn’t come around all the time Darius was in the infant’s quarters but she began popping in every couple weeks or so after he came upstairs. She always gave Darius a couple bucks so that between that which Darius was only too willing to share with the guy who ‘saved his life’ and this pop bottle money and whatever else I was able to scrounge we were the financial elite of the Orphanage.

You can feel the guilt building up, can’t you. I took from him and I didn’t quibble.

Now, Darius had a couple problems. He had some sort of skin ailment where his whole left arm from just above the elbow to his finger tips was crusted and thick kind of like sandpaper. I don’t know what it was and it wasn’t his fault. Everyone accused him of being unclean and not washing but that wasn’t true. They all ridiculed him and it was very hard on the kid. What can I say, everyone made fun of me too, everyone made fun of everyone else. I made fun of everyone in self-defense.

I was no slouch at giving insults either. It wasn’t just the Orphanage either; everyone in society is busy tearing the other guy down. I’m afraid I wasn’t very sympathetic which hurt Darius a lot but I had saved his life so he thought we were pals for life.

There wasn’t anyone in the Orphanage that could be called a happy soul. You already know my story there. I was one of the gang. We were all pretty dark but I wasn’t mean and nasty and neither was Darius. Darius expressed his distraction by composing little songs. He had a very sweet voice and could hit and sustain notes, stay in key, carry a tune and all those musical things. I’ve never been able to do those things, as much as I’ve wanted to. That was the only time I’ve ever known envy in my life.

I’m not going to try to reproduce any of his songs although I do remember lines of two or three but they wouldn’t make any sense now and without his plaintive sorrowful voice and despairing gestures the effect wouldn’t be the same. They were all sad songs anyway. The kid could improvise for hours. I don’t know how anybody with such a small vocabulary could express so much in so many different ways.

So, alright, so the kid is God’s own singer of songs and I wasn’t. So, what do I care. On top of my own problems his songs might as well have been hosing me down with acid. How much pain can anyone bear? Fortunately this only lasts for a year before I leave and coincidentally so does he. I went to the Wardens but his mother remarries some monster of a prick, as Darius told me, and takes him out of the Orphanage.

Before she does however she took Darius to this place where she lived and Darius insists that I go along. Why me? What did I ever do to anybody? Saving lives is perilous work, I would have thought twice if I’d known what was going to happen. The place his mother stays is not exactly a whore house. The place was merely the house out of which the women worked. I know what was going on there although I was too young to understand the implications then. It is only much later that I am able to reconstruct it and make sense of it. How much Darius understood of it I can’t say although he never discussed the visit or his mother with me again.

I only learned the nature of the place by accident. As it happened one of these women took a shine to me. She was a real beauty too. She must have been a real sensualist who wanted to induct a young boy like me into the mysteries. She had this beautiful room just filled with this enormous bed. Her colors were blue and white, everything in a becoming disarray; there were mountains of comforters, sheets and pillows. I was thoroughly enthralled. She could have done anything to me she wanted and I wouldn’t have been afraid.

She was leading me into this paradise when Darius’ mom spotted us. She hurried over and broke it up; acted real sanctimonious about it too. Too bad for me; I’m sure I would have been given a new slant on life that I would surely have appreciated. It might even have made a different man of me, so to speak.

Well, the madam, or house-mother, took the woman and Darius’ mom aside in my hearing admonished them. She told them that under no circumstances were men to be allowed in the house. For her thing to work, she said, there had to be an absolute appearance of propriety. The girls would have to have their ‘dates’ pick them up at the door and then do their business elsewhere.

The two women objected that Darius and I were only little boys but the Madam interjected that boys grew into men and no boys or men were allowed. Darius and I were not to be brought back. Darius’ mom wasn’t ready to leave so were sent out in the back yard to play.

You can be sure that the neighbors had a pretty good idea of what was going on so Darius and I were given the cold shoulder, anybody who was outside their house went in. I had had enough of rejection so I was only irritated the more. I took it out on Darius. I could say I wasn’t aware of what I was doing but if I did you would have little reason to believe me as I would you. Of course, we all know what we are doing but it’s not exactly like we willed it. It’s more like we just hoped that it would happen.

We were playing catch. I could hear this ferocious sounding German Shepherd in the yard behind Darius. I managed to throw the ball over the hedge into the nextdoor yard. Naturally it was Darius’ responsibility to retrieve it. He came back with wide open eyes to tell me that a giant ferocious German Shepherd was standing over the ball. Well, this Alsatian was not a meek dog. But just as everybody in the Orphanage was suffering from more hurt than they needed or deserved, the addition to Darius’ store of pain was perilously close to the top. I mean how much more could any of us stand, not that we stopped inflicting it on each other.

Then I really did it to Darius. I betrayed his trust in an unforgiveable way. You know, really, the unkindest cuts of all are those that don’t look like much to anybody else. You’ve got to remember that we all lived in the House of the Distraught, fourth floor.

I had a high school teacher who used to put these maxims on the blackboard. One of them was: When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on. That guy was a homosexual so you know he knew what he was talking about. Well, I was kind of Darius’ knot; I was all there was between his holding on and his losing his grip. So when I failed him he fell.

No big deal really. I mean I lost the end of my rope too. The irony is that there is no place to fall. You just end up standing on your feet but living in a different reality that is inhabited by the same people but who look like other people. Who needs ‘em anyway? But then my reaction may not have the same as Darius’.

Darius and I went out and bought a goldfish and a bowl, his money. Cost a quarter each. We kept them on top of the bookcases down in the library where no one ever went but me, and now Darius. That way nobody would kill the goldfish.

Just as Darius wanted to be my friend more than I wanted to be his I wanted to be friends with the Darwan’s son Skippy more than he wanted to be friends with me. As he was the son of the Orphanage administrator everyone else avoided him and his brother Cappy. The Darwens had no use for me so I was actually toadying up. I could only expect from them what happened.

When you’re at the bottom you, or at least me, will do anything to acquire some respectability. Once again I knew what I was doing but as, on the same level that love is blind, I didn’t care.

I tried to hang around with the younger Darwen, Skippy, who was my age or maybe a year older. He took advantage of me but thought it was his due for tolerating me. He was a sadistic little bastard. He used to catch frogs then lay in his bed with one of those spring guns that shot suction cups and try to blow the frogs up. This was a really low point in my life. I used to retrieve the suction darts for him so he could try again. That was a long time ago and I only did it once, maybe twice. I stopped trying to hang around with him after that.

What caused this incident with Darius was that there was this movie about this wonder horse who, as this movie made you believe, single hoofedly defeated the Japs on some tropical South Pacific island. I either wanted to go or was made to believe I wanted to go. Skippy and Cappy were biking it down and I was allowed to go with them. Most expensive trip I’ve ever taken.

That I was allowed to go along with them indicates that some sadistic dirty trick was involved. That I went with them knowing that dirty tricks against we orphans was their stock in trade show my level of desperation. I knew better. All I can say in my defense is that I was trusting to my luck. My luck wasn’t trustworthy.

They had bikes and I didn’t. I was at an immediate disadvantage. To begin with Skippy suggested I hold onto the back of his seat and trot along beside him. Even I recognized the humiliation of that. Being of a resourceful turn of mind I suggested I ride on his back fender. Skippy vetoed that but suggested I ride on the crossbar. I thought that it would be possible that others could confuse me for his little brother; I declined so I could avoid humiliation. Riding the crossbar is a painful thing, especially when Skippy was taking every bump as hard as he could.

I soon objected to that.

Then Skippy suggested I could sit on the handlebars and rest my feet on the lugnuts of the front wheel. This was much more easy in the planning than the execution. The nuts were only about a quarter inch wide so no firm purchase was possible. As my feet continually slipped off as I tried to balance on the bars it was inevitable that my heel got caught in the spokes. I tore the heel off my shoe, breaking four spokes of Skippy’s wheel.

We were downtown, two blocks from the Temple theater when it happened. Skippy wobbled the bars, my feet came loose and I broke three or four spokes and well as taking the heel off my shoe. Skippy was mock irate and said I would have to pay for the damage. He calculated the damage to his bike and said I owed him five dollars. Five dollars was a lot of bottles at two cents each. While a dollar bought a lot in kid terms, five dollars was equivalent to the national debt. I had to tell him that I didn’t have five dollars and didn’t know where I could get it. He said I could owe it to him.

But, when we got to the Temple he took my seventy-five cents admission saying that I now owed him only four twenty-five. I had to walk back to the Orphanage alone crying in my heart over the impossible figure of four twenty-five.

Well, Skippy hounded me for the money every day. Darius was mad at me over the German Shepherd so he wouldn’t loan me any money at all. It’s slow work accumulating bottle money when you need a lot. Skippy suggested that I could offset the debt with some of my meager possessions. Needless to say he took them at less than ten cents on the dollar. So I was down to some few cents left to pay. Under Skippy’s constant hectoring I was desperate to pay him off. I had already given him my gold fish and bowl when in desperation I thought of Darius’ gold fish and bowl to discharge my so-called debt.

And then I didn’t have the guts to just come right out and tell Darius what I had done. I let him discover it. I didn’t think a twenty-five cent gold fish was too high a price for saving a guy’s life but in the orphanage where they’ve even taken away your pride whatever you do have assumes an exaggerated importance. Or maybe it was the principle of the thing.

Darius was hurt beyond all belief. He was really hysterical. To be honest I felt so ashamed. I knew I had done something really wrong. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Here we both were, despised by the outside world, outsiders within our own world falling out with each other. It was all my fault too. I couldn’t lay off even a particle of blame on someone else. It is true that Skippy was a sadistic scumbag but I knew that before I debased myself by forcing myself on him to go to the Temple. Every way I turned for a way out I found a closed door. The only refuge I had was that I’d saved his life, as Darius kept telling me, and I figured his life must have been worth a quarter.

That was what I figured. Darius thought I had betrayed his sacred trust. So, well, we all make mistakes. I was just miserable.

That all transpired in the fall of 1947 when my whole world was spinning so crazily I couldn’t even tell it was spinning. Like I said; when you let go of the rope you enter a new reality. Darius wouldn’t speak to me anymore while I put a big X on Skippy. Old Man Darwen got fired for embezzlement that spring, while in June 1948 Darius and I both left the Orphanage.

I went to the Warden’s of course while Darius’ mom remarried and he was taken to live with them.

I had no sooner walked away from the Orphanage when all that became a closed book that happened in another lifetime. The gold fish thing is one of those things that bothered me on a daily basis then as now but I forgot Darius.

 

-II-

 

I was living another life when I ran into Darius at the public library. The Wardens and I were down there for some reason, I don’t know, maybe they wanted to check out a book, when Darius touched my shirt in the most timid manner from behind.

I turned and around and actually didn’t recognize him. In only a year this kid had been beaten to a psychological pulp. He was totally distracted. He no longer had any personal identity left. He wasn’t even breathing the same air everyone else was. It wasn’t pleasant for me to be reminded of my own past so I was about to brush him off but with eyes that could no longer see outside his mental trauma he implored me in this strange birdlike voice to come with him as he had something to tell me.

My god, I saw into his anguished mind and could not refuse him.

Only a year, only a year had elapsed since we had left the Orphanage but our lives were so crowded with debilitating incident that it might as well have been three or four lifetimes. Things were moving so fast that I had no time for reflection to make some sense of it. Everything was just scenery passing by a train window. For Darius that year had been all the time he needed to complete his education in this world.

Darius, who then only nine, took me by the hand and led me into the children’s story telling room and holding both my hands he began telling me the story of his life since leaving the Orphanage. He didn’t really tell it to me but he sang me his adventures in that high birdlike twitter he was using in a series of sort of poetic lay. Darius had a real gift for putting his thoughts in poetic form. It was as though he had three of the Muses on his shoulders singing the words to him while he merely repeated them in a trancelike fashion.

I don’t know what a distracted picture I might have presented to him but Darius was no longer looking at the world through his windshield. He was completely withdrawn within himself. His eyes were turned inward. I’m sure he saw me and his surroundings but only in the most passive manner, sort of like seeing the reflection of the world inside of the train window at sixty miles per.

As before he spoke or sang in this high twitter through pursed lips as though he were whistling. He held me firmly but gently telling me he had to tell me this as I was his only friend. Only I would understand. I guess he’d forgotten the gold fish. I didn’t want to listen because Darius was an unwelcome intrusion from a past I did not want back in my life. I’m probably the only guy who could understand what he was talking about and be able to even partially sympathize. As he was holding onto me firmly and gently even imploringly I had no choice.

Darius’ mother remarried with full intentions of giving up her former profession but the guy she married didn’t have much character. He didn’t exactly mistreat Darius but there was a cold indifference in his attitude that dashed any hopes Darius had of having a decent family life.

Part of this Darius told me and part of this I conjecture. His step-father ran up some gambling debts that he didn’t have the money to pay. He turned to his wife for help suggesting that she ply her old trade. Following the precepts of her former Madam Darius’ mom had come through her experience without too much damage to her reputation. People knew but because of the Madam’s precautions not as many as you might think. Mainly her patrons. She had learned the lesson and was reluctant to practice in the Valley. So in that very summer he was released Darius’ family took a working vacation in Toronto, Canada.

Darius was unaware of the true situation as it unfolded. The truth only dawned on him later. Too bad for him, I would have suppressed it. The three of them checked into a motel. Darius’ mother walked over to the side of the road to begin soliciting right there and then. Darius saw this and was somewhat mystified as to what his mother was doing. Well, the motel manager was not mystified, he knew exactly what she was doing. He wasn’t going to have any of that done out of his motel either.

He accosted Darius’ mother and her husband in the courtyard. As Darius was standing by he informed his mother that he couldn’t have prostitutes working out of his motel. Darius had no idea that his mother had been or was a prostitute, so he became very angry with the manager, taking it as a personal insult, laying into him with both his little fists screaming that the man couldn’t call his mother a prostitute.

The manager was a pretty decent guy and when he realized that Darius was innocent of his mother’s and step-father’s doings he relented rather than humiliate the little boy. He said they could stay but to practice her trade somewhere else than in front of his motel.

My heart nearly broke at this story but it was only a preamble to a worse. The sequel made clear to Darius his mother’s true past. The poor little guy just couldn’t handle it. Of course, who knows how his mind was affected down in the hell hole of an infant’s dormitory. Dormitory? Heck, there was so much noise going on all the time down there who could sleep? The poor guy had probably been awake a whole year before he came upstairs, that certainly would have weakened his resistance.

There was a big change in the way Darius told the second story too. He had sung the first story in the first person. Strangely he never looked directly at me but off to the right with his head down.

In the second half he switched to the third person like he was telling about someone else. I guess it was too much for him to bear. I read a story by Jean Genet once in which five or six guys gang raped him. He tells the story as though he stood by watching some other get sodomized. You see, when it all bets bad enough in order to protect your sanity you just step outside yourself and let them do whatever they will to your body but you don’t let them touch your mind but you still have to live with the results. Darius did that although he wasn’t capable of actually maintaining the lie. Given enough time he would have suppressed the memory into his subconscious where it would have made him schizophrenic or maybe worse sometime later on.

Or, maybe he might have been able to turn it into something else like maybe his father dying. Or, who knows, maybe he’d have been able to manage his way out. Life is funny, you can’t never tell. Of course, also, maybe he might have become a serial killer, teach everyone a lesson.

Here the story gets really incredible. It took me years and years to figure this out but I finally did. I probably will not be believed but as Mark Twain said, of course truth is stranger than fiction, the truth doesn’t have to be plausible. How true that is. The finest stories in the world can’t be told because they require too great a suspension of belief.

Now, Darius didn’t know who David Hirsh was but he got the name right. I knew who David Hirsh was but a mental block prevented my dealing with him on a conscious level. So I didn’t know to whom Darius referred at the time but he gave me a very accurate physical description which I did remember and was able to connect up decades later.

Hirsh apparently had visited the house out of which Darius’ mother worked. Whether or not he had anything against Darius’ mother or his step-father, Hirsh’s perversity apparently followed diverse and devious channels so it’s difficult to figure. He must have had some strange variant of homosexuality that, while he didn’t violate little boys directly, he literally screwed their minds. You know my history with Hirsh. Hirsh now came after little nine year old Darius. Aww, didn’t Hirsh have anything else to do? Didn’t he have enough money to entertain himself in other ways?

As I said, Hirsh was seen around the Orphanage so perhaps he saw Darius there, or maybe Darius’ mom had mentioned him to Hirsh on a ‘date.’ Perhaps he took a perverse delight in adding to the torments of a disadvantaged child. Perhaps he was saying that as a little Jewish kid he had felt tormented by others. Maybe he felt he had been in the exact same situation and no one had taken pity on him. Perhaps he thought he was just passing it on. Madness lasts a lifetime and takes many forms.

The setup he organized was incredibly elaborate but he was able to control all the variables to make it work. I’m sure he saw himself as a man of consummate genius, some sort of Einstein of perversity.

First, unknown to Darius, of course, he went to Darius’ mom to proposition her. She declined at first because she was sincerely trying to go straight. But, as Hirsh pointed out to here it wasn’t like he was asking her to do what she had never done before. One more time wouldn’t hurt. The pay was good and he wanted her to be sure to bring her son along.  I’m afraid I can’t tell about golden hearted prostitutes, Darius’ mom had no scruples to overcome, she was only too glad to do it. She just asked the details then went along.

There was an old decrepit amusement park just North of Bay City called Winona Beach. The place was within a few months of shutting down. On weekdays there was virtually no one there, they didn’t even operate the rides.

This was a Wednesday, Darius’ mom showed up at Winona Beach with Darius in tow. The day itself was sultry and overcast threatening a rain shower which it didn’t deliver. There was literally no one in sight when Darius and his mom arrived save for a few employees. The merry-go-round was still and there was no mirth in the Fun House.

Following Hirsh’s instructions Darius was left on the boardwalk. It was a real boardwalk elevated about twelve to fifteen feet above the beach forming the midway. Darius’ mom entered a door to the side of the Fun House, mounting a flight of stairs leading to a room over the Fun House where Hirsh awaited her. Darius was told to wait outside.

Doing this in an amusement park over the Fun House was a capital joke for Hirsh’s mad criminal mind as he was having fun in so many ways at someone else’s expense. He was really a shameless guy.

He brought along his son Michael and that gang to torment Darius. Even though I was outnumbered by them in my encounters I was at least he same age but at nine they were much bigger and more savvy than he. Hirsh had no business turning big kids like that loose on a nine year old kid. Hirsh had already demonstrated his shamelessness and would again but he was so base in this that my mind just boggles. It’s like he wasn’t human and if he was he had found ways to distort ‘human’ out of all recognition.

Darius said, or rather sang, that they didn’t lay a hand on him but butted and jostled him with their shoulders hoping he would fall off the boardwalk. Of course, Hirsh was watching from his window over the Fun House with Darius’ mom making her laugh at Darius’ plight. How perverse do you have to be to take pleasure in making a boy’s mother laugh at his tortures? Shameless whore that she was she respected Hirsh’s power more than her son’s welfare and laughed heartily.

Then one of the Hirshes suggested that people often dropped money through the boardwalk to the sand below. Sid Cohen showed Darius seventy-five cents he said he found down there. As much to get away from them as anything else Darius went down below the boardwalk. Then as a big joke all the Hirshes stood over him and peed on him through the gaps in the slats. As they did they looked up at Hirsh’s window where they were rewarded with peals of laughter from Hirsh and Darius’ mom.

Darius had no idea why he was being treated so badly by complete strangers. There was no way he could get away from them. When he went back up they hustled him into the dance hall. The hall was adjacent to the Fun House. The owners had built a viewing place behind some slats like a venetian blind high up so they could monitor activity on the dance floor from above the Fun House. You know, either keep fights to a minimum or watch their stooges start them. Darius was by now thoroughly unhappy. As he was trying to escape the taunts and jostling of the Hirshes the bartender, or whatever he was, big burly guy, charged at him shouting get out of here you little bastard, we don’t want your kind around here.

Darius almost broke down when he had to tell how frightened he was as he fled the place while the little Hirshes rolled on the floor laughing at him. Darius actually told me that he heard his mom’s voice laughing but as he told it he seemed to edit it out so that he seemed to forget, or suppress it, as he told it. It was bad enough that I had betrayed his trust over the gold fish; his mother’s betrayal was so much worse. I guess he had to go through some pretty deep denial to keep his mental balance, such as he had. Even then he hadn’t seen the worst yet.

So, this fat old bartender comes out and shouts at him that he couldn’t be much of a boy or he wouldn’t have scattered like that. Did Darius think, he said, that he would actually hurt him? Well, Darius did think that and I don’t blame him. The Hirshes didn’t follow Darius outside so he sat on this bench around a big oak tree next to the merry-go-round looking down the boardwalk wondering when this nightmare was going to end and feeling like he really was a failure because he ran from the big fat bartender.

Now, the boardwalk curved along the beach in a manner that Darius was looking directly at the window behind which Hirsh, delirious with delight at Darius’ distress, was screwing his mother for a few dollars. Whether it was a happy inspiration or Hirsh’s devious projection of reality actually happening, as Darius watched the blinds were pulled up where Darius could see his mother facing him on her hands and knees while Hirsh worked her behind doggy style. Maybe she was embarrassed finally and didn’t know what to do but she laughed out loud at Darius, stuck out her tongue and wagged it at him.

I don’t know for sure that Darius was even aware of what he was telling. I mean, I don’t know how much he consciously remembered and much was just welling up from his subconscious where it would return unremembered by Darius’ conscious mind. I mean, the kid was hurting so bad that I didn’t want to be near him let alone share in his terrible anguish.

Shortly after his mother came down the stairs motioned to him to get in the car telling him they were finished and were going home. They were finished! Who were they? Darius and his mom or the Hirshes and Darius’ mom. Finished at what? Demolishing the poor little kids sanity?   He then said that he told his mom that he didn’t want to know her anymore.

I had listened in shocked silence but that sent me through the floor. I was immobilized by the end of his story. Darius then actually kissed my hands and said I was the only friend he’d ever had. Just about that time Jack Warden shows up and orders me out to the car. ‘What are you queer?’ he says in the most derogatory way. ‘No, I’m not queer.’ I say, not even knowing what queer was at that time. I didn’t know what it was but I knew if it was bad I couldn’t be it.

So, I left Darius standing there.

If I was Darius’ best friend he was in sadder shape than either of us knew because I couldn’t use his distress. I had enough of my own. If I had added his to mine it would have broken me. I just couldn’t do it, he would have to fend for himself. Life was just as hard for me too. I dismissed him from my mind, didn’t think about him at all until two weeks later I read that he’d solaced his mental problem with a load of buckshot.

A shotgun. Wow! The kid sure as hell had a lot more nerve than I did. But, you know, I’ve thought about it and I don’t really think he was trying to commit suicide. This may sound funny but I think he was just trying to put his eyes out. Somehow he didn’t think the buckshot would go any further than that; it would stop short of taking his head off.

That’s what I think. His eyes had seen too much. His intellect and will had been totally emasculated. It was something like George Bernard Shaw who thought his peculiar vision of the world was the result of being able to see more accurately than other men, or Jackson Brown who makes the same complaint in his song Doctor, My Eyes. Darius’ reaction was much the same as that of Oedipus who put out his eyes with the clasps of if his mother who was also his wife’s brooches when he could no longer deal with the reality that he had married his mother. A little further in and he too would have committed suicide. The minds of both he and Darius were incapable of resolving their mental dilemmas. So I suppose you could say Hirsh murdered Darius. It was a good law and order crime. At the time I knew nothing of Hirsh’s involvement. I couldn’t recognize Hirsh. I had my own eyes and mental emasculation to worry about.

In way I was almost relieved that Darius had done it because I had no room for his troubles and my own. Saving his life hung over me. How did I even know he wanted his life saved. I mean, he had every reason to believe that he had been deserted by his mother, he was down there in that infant’s hell hole, alone and deserted. How fearful he must have been of his tonsil operation. When he passed me in the hall he did say that he had to go and die now. So, maybe he had a death wish. Maybe he’d already had enough then. Maybe subconsciously he was taking advantage of an opportunity so his subconscious mind made him hemorrhage. Maybe I ruined his chance to change this world for the next and so he made me responsible for the rest of his life. It sure seemed like he thought I owed him something. I didn’t care. I didn’t want any part of it. I was just being a good scout, that’s all.

I stood on my knees with my hands on my hips for some few minutes before I closed the door on that one and moved on to the next. There were lots of news items I hadn’t read yet and besides I hadn’t even gotten to the funnies

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Far Gresham And His Angeline

A Short Story

 

Pages wrung from the Memoirs of Far Gresham

7/4/76’

Edited by R.E. Prindle

 

As I have told you I have never had the blues. But, as the weather system of the planet is characterized by a system of highs and lows, tropical low pressure systems being the most intense of lows, so, while I have never had the blues I have flirted with the blues while evading the depths of the blues comparable to those feared tropical lows. So, it was on the evening in question. A Pacific low pressure front was passing through, bringing with it the steady splash and drips of its persistent precipitation. The drops hit the skylight and roof with two distinct tones, answered by drops pelting the windows and the gurgle of the drainpipe.

I stood in the dark looking out the windows at my own reflection suspended like a phantom on the glass. The vision of myself stirred up memories from my past that haunted my mind just below the limes separated from conscious memory by an invisible but impenetrable barrier. There lay those troubling skeletons of the past that I had spent my life trying to exhume. The suppressed memories, those most painful episodes in a troubled life that dominated my consciousness from the beyond and directed my energies into unfruitful channels.

Loosing the spectres of the past was my preoccupation. I had long studied Freud and De Sade, self-analysis of my psyche had often nearly driven me mad, but how could, how can I desist. Our minds are on the same beam of the same wave length so I can tell you this without overt shame or embarrassment.

Reading, my usual refuge and solace, had failed me on this particular evening. I had replaced on their shelves, Athenian Propertied Families, 600-300 B.C., Mackay’s Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, as well as Robertson Smith’s Religion of the Semites.

I opted for a bottle of scotch and some old phonograph records instead. Now, I’m not what you would call a drinker, and you know I’m not, but this night as I saw the Blues sitting on my couch batting her eyelids at me, I thought I’d fortify myself against the rain with some protection and possibly open a door on one of those troublesome memories. Aiming for lighter hearted frivolity I got out some old Louis Prima records and tried to lift my spirits. Oh, of course I was amused by Josephina Please No Leana On Da Bell and Louis Prima’s other amusing fripperies, but as I sipped at my scotch I found a need for more ineffable sadness. Thus, just as Prima was swinging into Bongo, Bongo, Bongo, I Don’t Want To Leave The Congo, I levered the tone arm up and began digging through my collection for someone giving voice to the Hurt. I passed up Hank Snow and his Nobody’s Child and Webb Pierce singing Pass that bottle over here because they don’t reach the area I was reaching for, although both are great singers of sad songs.

Reaching down into the section labeled ‘Moaners’ I pulled up Jesse Winchester’s first LP and Mickey Newbury’s It Looks Like Rain. Mick and Jesse knew enough about rain to satisfy my desires. My bottle was half empty as my brain fogged over and the notion of lying down occurred to me. The rain was still descending as I weaved toward the bedroom with the lyrics of Winchester’s Yankee Lady and Newbury’s plea for his sweet Angeline dancing around in my brain. I had hopes, even in my sodden state, that my memories would be jostled around and one might come up. One did, but I wish now that it never had.

I stood for a moment clutching the door jamb while trying to relocate my balance. I had wanted to connect links with suffering humanity and I had. I was feeling lower than a catfish on the bottom of the mouth of the Mississippi way down South in New Orleans. I oriented myself in the direction of my bed and gave a shove. With a deftness unplanned and of which I would not have thought myself capable I caught the covers up and in my fall slid between the pale blue lower sheet and the light pink upper sheet. I didn’t have wait for Morpheus, where did I read that? let’s just say Sleep for Sleep took my head and slammed it into the downy white pillow case. I disappeared into the abyss of oblivion.

Sometimes, most of the time, sleep is never so deep that you’re unaware of your blood circulating or your hair growing or any one of a number of physiological matters, but this night, probably because of the alcohol or possibly also because of psychic exhaustion I slipped below the level of the abyss of oblivion where the sun has never penetrated. It there had not been a bottom I would probably be falling yet.

My exhaustion was psychical rather than physical. After a couple of hours of amnesia, my body sated with rest, the alcohol in my blood stream diminished, but not yet dissipated, set off discharges in my mind that lifted me from the pleasure of oblivion to the threshold of pain. I lay there flickering in and out of consciousness until I reached a state of half waking half dozing.

I didn’t dream, but my liberated sub-conscious sent up images from my subliminal reservoirs faster than I could grasp them. Just as I was about to recognize an image it fled before my mental grasping. And then, I can’t explain it, it’s only happened twice in my life, my inner being, my doppelganger, my alter ego, that image of myself that was in the rain splattered window, that phantom who may be more real than myself, perhaps he is the guardian of my sanity, he who suppresses and hides my most painful memories, puts them in a place where they can’t harm me, transweaves the unpleasantnesses of my life into a fabric that makes my life presentable, who didn’t, can’t make himself known, seemed to say, although nothing could be heard: ‘Alright, you want to see, look.’

Then somewhere along the limes where my conscious and unconscious meet, a hatch, a skylight, opened up and I was shown, I don’t say remembered, I was shown the worst moment of shame and sorrow I have ever known. The guilt of a thoughtless and callous man rose up and took possession of me. I let out a low moan. It was too late to turn away.

Don’t think badly of me. It was my fault but I wasn’t entirely responsible. There were mitigating circumstances. I’m sure you will agree once you know. Let me tell you the story. I’m sure you will find mitigation to soften your censure into a compassionate pity, empathy, or even sympathy. Never judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.

I was eighteen, no nineteen, when I committed a despicable act. But let me begin the story much earlier so that you can understand much better. No man can be understood without a knowledge of his childhood. My own was not imbued with the vibrant and cheerful colors of happiness. No, my friend, it was quite the reverse. Nor do I seek your pity although I will not reject your sympathetic attention. I have always been of the opinion that one must accept the situation in which one finds oneself and try to convert that dross into gold. To shed your past like a caterpillar sheds his skin and emerges transformed into a newer, better creation, or at least a more attractive one. I hope that when my life is over, when my trials are done, when my sorrows have ended, will not have failed in this task.

I am not an orphan, per se, but I was abandoned by my mother when I was seven. She left me on the steps of the Municipal Orphanage and I never saw her again. My life in the Orphanage is not germane to this story, but you must know the social hardships which orphans must endure. Orphans are social outcasts. Just as a man without a country has no place to rest, so the child without a parent is an unsanctified outcast of society, driven to the fringes of the sanctified. Forced to the edge of the pale, if not, out side it. He becomes a species of outlaw who has committed no crime. Nobody’s child, a child with no protector. A wanderer in a desert with no boundaries while always being its geographical center. He is despised and victimized by adult and child alike. He is compelled to wear the badge of inferiority just as the Jews in Medieval times were required to display their yellow Mogen David. The orphan wears his like the Negro wears his skin.

In our case we were dressed in oversized or undersized clothes. We were compelled at various times to wear mismatched socks or shoes. Oversized shoes and socks that were more hole than sock. Shirts so large that the sleeves had to be cut back to expose our hands, the ragged edges flapping at our wrists. Our hair was cut with cowlicks sprouting every which way. We were made to look ridiculous and we were sent to public school that way.

I have often envied Blacks and Jews their solidarity. Despised though they may have been they could find solace, or at least as much as humankind will allow, in each other. We, while in a world of our ostensible peers, despised each other as we were despised. At school we were not allowed to win, often not allowed to compete, and were denied any success. The gates of Christian charity were closed to us, although by a misconstruction of the world charity, the ‘decent folk’ distributed largesse, which they misconstrued as charity, to inflate their self-esteem, to us in the form of small conscience offerings at Christmas and, perhaps, also Easter. It was demanded that we be the hewers of wood and carriers of water for out betters with the parents. But the worst was yet to come.

When a child turned ten he was no longer welcome at the Orphanage. Orphaned or abandoned he was even rejected by the custodians of the damned. At ten the Angels of Charity arrived to claim their due. Our prospective foster parents arrived to claim their due. Our foster parents came to pick up a means of livelihood and a slave for the house. I was either selected by or assigned to, I don’t know which, the Wardens. The Wardens did not really need the money they were sent for my care each month, or, that was not their prime motivation, although precious little of it was ever spent on me. What they wanted was a clown.

The Wardens were much less than successful. Jack Warden, or Mr. Warden as I was compelled to call him, had delusions of grandeur based on some sort of imagined connection to the royalty or nobility of ancient England. He even kept a collection of coats of arms on the wall. He would point to this particular one and say, ‘Yeh, that’s the one. That’s the one right there. That’s the one all right.’ Just like it was his, but I knew it wasn’t. He was white collar over at Malleable Iron so that he could maintain his dignity over the blue collar workers.

The Wardens lived in a decent house on Bay Street which was O.K. but beneath his supposed dignity. Anne Warden, Anne as she said had been the queen of England, affected manners which she thought were the immaculate reflection of the ‘well born.’ But, I shouldn’t complain because those affected manners have stood me in good stead. They had two sons, Skippy and Cappy. Cappy was two years older than I was and Skippy was four. Neither boy was amounting to anything. The townsfolks’ opinion of the Wardens was much less exalted than their own. The status of Skippy and Cappy was therefore not of the highest. The Wardens were not totally oblivious to reality. While they were masters of delusion they were also acutely aware of the disparity between their illusions and reality. They could not levitate their sons over the children of more affluent and successful people. They could invent innumerable reasons for themselves but the neighbors rebuked them when they made exorbitant claims for the lads.

I was the solution to their problems. On the one hand they could demand credit for their charity from the neighbors and on the other society paid them to keep a fool for their boys. What radio beam I followed to keep me on track I’ll never know. I suppose religion had something to do with it. I had been compelled to attend church since a small boy. I knew the Baptists, the Methodists, and non-sectarians, whatever their fantasy might be. Now, as the Wardens were very sanctimonious, I found the Presbyterians. I was always revolted by both the Bible and its devotees, but as the Bible is the dream story of a despised and ineffectual people whose lives are irradiated by an irrational hope, I identified with that strange peoples’ desperate situation and seized the only life raft that fate had to offer me. I embraced hope as a fat man embraces a full refrigerator at midnight. I made hope my own. It was all there was between myself and psychic desolation. For the Wardens drove me further and further into a mental zone that was very far from normal. As my childhood progressed I became aware of two existences. The one, the despicable clown that I was compelled to be and the other, the real me, that stood aside and watched and doled out encouragement and hope to the wretch who walked in my shoes.

As society would not honor Skippy and Cappy in the manner they thought was their due, I was to give them that status in their eyes. I was denied and ridiculed. I was placed in impossible situations so that I might perform badly, while Skippy and Cappy would then show their superiority by ‘doing the job right.’ One time I was made to mow the lawn with a dull mower and compelled to watch in silence and mortification while Skippy ‘did the job right’ with a sharpened mower. But it’s more important that you see what I was forced to become.

While the boys were dressed well, I was made to look shabby and unkempt. Just as at the orphanage my clothes never fit. I had to wear Skippy’s worn out shoes. Cappy’s old clothes, although I actually outgrew him. By high school I was flopping around in big shoes and a pair of too small grey gabardine pants with a shiny behind. High in the leg and the crotch pulled up tight between my legs. The pocket openings were all frayed and the pockets all worn out. You could see your reflection in the seat of the pants the cloth was so shiny. Girls wouldn’t even look at me.

Then after Skippy and Cappy graduated it was even worse. Neither went to college as was expected. Both just kind of bummed around. The Wardens turned on me savagely in their disappointment. They wanted me to be even more ridiculous as they now thought their sons had failed them. I don’t like to drink because sometimes the memory of it drives railway spikes through my brain.

I don’t know when it started but I know that it was the result of the accumulated opprobrium, ridicule and denial that I had endured all my life. It became an especial burden as I became old enough to understand, even if in primitive outline, what was being done to me. I rejected all accusations of unworthiness and knew in my heart and grasped intellectually that I was as good as my detractors. Nevertheless the weight of their scorn and hatred, which they of course denied, bore down heavily on me. As my various neuroses and eccentricities developed in relation to my ostracization I began to hear a sound in my ears, a roar as mighty as Niagara. It stood as a barrier between myself and the world, or rather the world from me. I had to listen to people around it, with an especially attentive ear. I was afraid.

I held myself together through high school but upon graduation, abandoned by everyone, ridiculed and laughed at by the Wardens, I fell apart. I became ineffective. I had difficulty tying my clown shoes. I often had to make two, three or four attempts before I could succeed at that simple task. Once while receiving change from the paper boy I turned my hand sideways just as he released the change which clattered to the floor. I was mad with anguish and self-criticism. The hope that had sustained me fled and I was hopeless.

Throughout the summer I knew not what to do. When the days began to shorten and daylight began to flee, I, by association, thought that I must flee. I had some few dollars that I had manage to save and putting on my clown shoes, my shabby grey pants with the short legs and high crotch, an old white T-shirt, and a too small denim jacket that I had inherited from Cappy, I walked out the Warden’s house for the last time. I can still hear the slam of the screen door. The tongue and groove on the green painted porch numbered ten. I can see them all as my shoes passed over them.

I wanted to get far away. As I had never been far away before I thought in short distances. Primary in my mind was to leave the Valley. I rejected going to Detroit and the South because I knew I couldn’t deal with that many people. I thought of going out in the Thumb but the Wardens had relatives in Caro and I didn’t want to be close to them at all. For, probably psychological reasons I decided to head up north the Grand Traverse, the Great Crossing. A divide, that once crossed would divide me forever from a hated and hateful childhood. As my mother had abandoned me I would symbolically abandon her. Not that she cared. I had never heard from her.

Blinded by my desperate urgency I walked out of that house of the distraught and just kept walking. I wouldn’t have spent the money anyway but it never occurred to me to take the bus. It never occurred to me to put out my thumb; I just walked along listening to the roar in my ears which seemed to be intensifying, to be getting louder, it seemed to be engulfing my brain. I don’t remember much of my flight. I remember passing the multitudinous churches of Midland. That city was dominated by large chemical plants and a chemical stench constantly hung over the whole city. In my distracted state I imagined that that oppressive smell was emanating from that army of churches. No love had I even known from sanctimonious hypocrites of God.

After Midland the roar in my ears seemed to affect my vision. I saw and registered nothing. The tears repressed for eighteen years began to flow and I walked and walked, sobbing and sobbing.

I don’t even know whether I stopped to rest or not. I just kept picking those big clown shoes up and laying them down. Because of the size of the shoes I had to lift my knees high to bring my foot forward. I was oblivious to the catcalls of passing drivers appalled by the sight of the strange apparition that I was. At night, local boys drove by and threw beer cans at me. One reached out the window and tried to hit me with his fist. I grabbed at his arm and pulled it back. I escaped their wrath for playing ‘unfair.’

As I say, I walked on and on until my woes engulfed me, until my body and mind separated and we existed in two different worlds. As my body trudged on my mind descended by stages into a hell of despair. Oblivion overwhelmed me, nothingness became my reality. I don’t know what happened.

When my senses returned, when the terrible fog lifted and dissipated and became a mere haze I found that I must have left hell and gone directly to heaven. My overall impression was white but I was surrounded by the most heavenly colors. White, a delicate pink and the palest of blues. My head was resting in billows of soft, clean, white pillows, the cases of which I had never seen the like. My body was covered by the sheets, pink and blue and a down slightly darker blue comforter. Above, the white underside of a blue canopy glowed cheerily back at me. It was daylight but still semi-dazed I lay there drifting in and out of consciousness. Then just as the sun was going down I heard a door open and shut. I looked over to find her smiling down at me. It was Angeline, my redemptress.

A feeling of security warmed my heart and saying nothing I slipped off into unconsciousness for the night. When I awoke sometime before dawn she was lying there beside me, sleeping peacefully. Not daring to move I lay there quietly studying her. She began to stir. I pretended to be asleep and she, solicitous for my welfare, dressed quietly and left for work. As I tried to rise I found I couldn’t and spent the morning fitting my mind into my body. The reunion was difficult and imperfect. I would spend decades trying to match the edges.

I found myself weak and lethargic, unable to concentrate or even to grasp my situation. Sometime in the morning, feeling the pangs of hunger I compelled myself to rise and seek nourishment. During the process of alimentation I surveyed my surroundings. My shelter, and it was little more than that, was a one room shack. It was small and mean but immaculate. The lovely bed, although bed is an inadequate description of the little paradise in which Angeline reposed for her slumbers, was in one corner. A bathtub was adjacent to it. On the other side of the room where I now sat, were her kitchen facilities. Dressers and a table with chairs occupied the front of the room. In the middle of the front wall was the door.

After eating, still exhausted, I lay down again to rest.

It was as though I had received a great injury, suffered a debilitating illness for as the fall turned into winter I remained faint and listless. As the approach of spring became imminent my mind began to regain its sharpness and my body its vitality.

Angeline was very patient with me, neither pressing me nor hurrying me. In those few months, even in my depressed state I came to appreciate and love her. She was twenty-five and had also had a difficult childhood; which fact I only surmise as she never talked about her past nor complained about her present. She sought complete self-sufficiency and within reason did everything for herself. She eschewed radio and television and even never bought magazines or newspapers. She wanted to create her own perfect world without obtrusions from an unsympathetic and hostile reality. In the time I knew her I never saw her with another person.

My own laughable wardrobe had disappeared and she had tailored new clothes for me. She knew how to do everything. Where she learned I don’t know. Even my oversized shoes were gone, replaced by a pair of moccasins Angeline had sewn. For the first time in my life I was dressed in clothes that fit. Clothes that were meant to dignify me not ridicule me. Clothes that signified manhood not foolhood.

Angeline worked as a waitress in town. What town I can’t remember except that it was on the South side of Lake Michigan near the Grand Traverse. It was a small town which I never had occasion to visit. Angeline’s cabin was on the rise looking out over the cool blue waters of Lake Michigan, over the Grand Traverse separating the Upper and Lower Peninsulas. The place where Lake Michigan without any discontinuity or break changed its name to Lake Huron.

On those cold wintry days I often sat on a stump looking out over the Great Crossing, the Grand Traverse, that might someday separate me from the past; that might lead to a new and better life on the other side.

Angeline was always cheery, what cheeriness I know I learned from her. Much cheerier she was than I. I was not the best company that winter and I often wondered why she didn’t turn me out. She didn’t. Angeline had the capacity to make the best of everything. She would warm up the coldest night and cool off the hottest day. She could make the darkest corner bright. She was able to nurse me back to health.

So my winter of recuperation passed in the heaven created by Angeline. Recovering by day, fed by a divine cook in the evenings and passing my nights beside the loveliest incarnation of womankind. Angeline would have been no-one’s cover girl but there was no woman more beautiful than she.

As Spring came on my strength and energy returned. My psyche began to repair itself and I attempted to recover the mental balance that I had always been denied. As the days grew longer and daylight appeared between Angeline’s return and nightfall we began to take long walks through the woods and down to the lake shore. There were delightful little streams in the woods, there was an abundance of wild flowers. The air was sweet and fresh. The skies were clear and blue. Berries as summer progressed. There was nothing more a man could want-except escape from a hateful past that lay too close behind.

As I began my slow recovery I felt the need to tell the world of the way it really was, to save it from doing to others what it had done to me. I began to write about my pain in little stories. I sent them to magazines but they all came back. The world was not interested in my pain, or perhaps my pain was so fresh that the jagged edges terrified whoever my readers may have been. Angeline encouraged me and urged me on, so that I never quit trying.

The roaring in my ears had continued and continually distracted me. I was compelled to be patient with it for there was no way to avoid it. But then, one night that summer during my sleep that mighty Niagara ceased to flow. When I awoke that morning I was aware that something was different but I didn’t know what. Something was missing, it was so quiet. And then when Angeline spoke to me it was as though I could hear her voice clearly for the first time. It was then I realized that the roaring had ceased. The very worst part of the pain must have dissipated. My joy suffused by body and the look of love and gratitude with which I embathed Angeline brought a flush of pleasure to her cheeks. Whatever happiness I was able to give her, she enjoyed it then. I could never understand what pleasure Angeline could find in me. I wanted to be pleasant and charming to her and I tried very hard to be so, but I know that my injuries were so grievous, my self-absorption so complete, that I couldn’t have been.

We spent the summer and fall roaming over our little paradise, dipping our feet in the cool streams and exploring the lakeside. And then came the winter once again. We still walked in the woods on Angeline’s days off and it was there on that cold January day that we came on our portent of disaster. We discovered a deer that had been injured by a bow hunter. The arrowhead and the broken shaft of the arrow were still lodged in the deer’s foreleg. The wound had festered and the deer was in great pain limping pitifully. If it had been healthy it would have run away before Angeline could have charmed it. Perhaps Angeline could have charmed it anyway; she was that spontaneously wonderful. The deer, with the trust and docility of one bereft of hope, subordinating its fear out of desperation to his pain, submitted to Angeline’s graces and the two of us guided the poor beast to Angeline’s little cabin.

She lavished attention on the deer; with all the care of a loving and open heart she began to nurse him back to health.

I am ashamed. It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t envy. I too had enough compassion to help the deer. It was a feeling of foreboding. My own pain had been so great, indeed its dissolution had only a year earlier just begun, that I had been unable, it had not occurred to me till then to ask Angeline how it was that she had found and brought me to her home to mend. I wish I had not thought to ask myself that terrible question then. I certainly could not have been a prize. My face must have mirrored the distraction of my mind. I was wearing those ridiculous clothes, dirty from I don’t know how many days of tramping along the highway. I was grateful to Angeline then; I’m even more grateful today, but I couldn’t help comparing myself to that deer on which she lavished as much love and attention as he had lavished on me.

I didn’t really think about it, I didn’t consciously dwell on it, but my past, just behind me, began nipping at my heels. As I stood outside her door and gazed out toward the Grand Traverse, escape from that past seemed possible and necessary. Without really thinking about the notion of flight, or leaving Angeline behind, the notion began to take shape in my mind.

As winter passed once more and the beauties of April and May arrived the deer, now healed, walked away, looked back at us, nodded a goodbye one morning and disappeared into the woods. I stood by Angeline and watched him leave saying nothing. That April and May I enjoyed her company as never before while I, myself, grew more sad and morose.

Then one day in May we were out walking through the woods, I with my head down absorbed in my depression when in an effort to cheer me she said: ‘Oh, Greshie, look up, look at the sky, isn’t it beautiful?’ And it was. It was a sky such as only happens in Michigan. The clouds were drifting in majestic rows from the northwest. Each wisp was bigger than a cream puff. Each separated from its neighbors by an equal distance; each row separated from the other rows by an equal opening. These serried battalions of fluffy white clouds marched on in endless succession across the blue of a fading day. Each cloud was tinted with overtones of pink. Pink, white and blue. Angeline’s colors. The colors of happiness with which she surrounded herself, surrounded us each night in her arbor of bliss. She pointed this out to me glowing and joyous. Of course I shared her joy, but I also noticed a dark grey band forming behind each of the thousands of clouds.

When we returned to the cabin, the blue of the Grand Traverse was still visible in the fading light of a perfect day. It was then, I think, that I knew that I would be leaving soon.

Now, I didn’t think any of this out at the time and perhaps I’m only making excuses for myself now, but Angeline was on this side of the Grand Traverse at the end of my childhood and my life lay on the other side. Perhaps if I had made the crossing and she had found me on the other side things would have been different. As part of my future rather than my past, I might never have had to leave her. I was once again numb. How could I tell her. What could I say. How could I find words to say it. What right did I have to leave the savior of my life. There were no answers that came to my mind. There were no answers. None.

And this is my shame. That deer had more compassion than I had. He at last gave Angeline a nod goodbye. With me, Angeline just came home to an empty cabin and an empty bed. Oh God, I’m so ashamed of myself. How could I be so cruel and heartless. I who knew what cruelty and heartlessness were. How could I….

Still, as the ferry pulled from the slip heading out across the Grand Traverse, I was aboard it. As the ferry glided across the water I stood looking back along the shoreline hoping to sight the scene of my salvation. It was already too far away, around a bend in the coastline which I would never be able to find again. It had vanished from this earth as far as I was concerned. My Eden existed for me in memory alone and I had forgotten that.

I became conscious, as with tear blurred vision I gazed outward, of the twitters of other passengers around me. Not knowing what to think I cautiously and discretely looked about me. They were laughing at me. Dismayed I searched for a reason. Then I discovered that the moccasins and clothing that had been so perfect in the House of Love were not appropriate for the vulgar wide world. No matter, they were crafted with love by the loveliest woman the world had ever known. They were men’s clothes not fool’s clothes. I knew the truth and it was sufficient for the day. Tears of gratitude coursed down my cheeks.

My tears ran over my cheeks, past my ears and onto the pillow as I awoke to the reality of the present. Still partially intoxicated I sat up on the side of the bed elbows on knees head in hands, trying to calm my aching heart. What had I gained and what had I lost? At the Wardens I used to spread the Sunday Funnies on the floor to read them. On the masthead had been a picture of Puck bearing the legend: Oh, what fools ye moral be.

Exuent.

Pages torn from the unexpurgated memoirs of Far Gresham

Fragment dated 1/26/1992

Edited by R.E. Prindle

Do you remember me? Or did I ever introduce myself? It doesn’t matter. I am the master of reality. You know me; I encompass you. You and I are one, not two, One. I am what you think you are; you are the sum of my thoughts. Last night I had the strangest dream. You were in and out of my consciousness as I dreamed my dream. You were the woof; I was the warp. Do you remember that dream?

I had been reading Justine by De Sade. De Sade lives in your subconscious, rolling around, directing your actions, but you are afraid to look him in the eye. You deny the basis of your existence and thus falsify your perception of life and refuse to come to terms with the contradictions of your nature. Did I say you and your? Did I say I? I say a fusion, there is no individuality, all flows from the godhead in an uninterrupted stream, now one aspect prominent and then submerged and then another and yet another. Parmenides? Yes, he is here too.

It was at the part leading up to Teresa’s escape from the church of St. Mary in the Woods; from those monks, those priests who lived so far beyond the edges of self-control. Before dropping off to sleep, the passage having struck me so forcibly I ruminated once again on those twin engines of despair that that emerged from the furnaces of modernity, the Revolution in France to dominate the thought of and characterize the nature of the tumbling years that spewed forth from the cornucopia of Time in a flood, the washes of which trouble the minutes of the moment, railing about the limes of our consciousness as though a stereo played so that only the loud passages intrude into our awareness but the quiet passages still trouble our dreaming awakeness.

Despair, despair, the negation of hope. The ugly overwhelming beauty; beauty submitting to the ravages of the hopeless. Life as it is now lived. Holy Mother full of grace, grace us with relief.

I dreamed my dream or my dream visited me in the depth of the night when I was ill prepared to receive it or defend myself against it. It blazoned through the mirror of my mind which was unprepared and failed to capture the photographic clarity, the cinematic verity with which it existed for that moment, for that eternity which vanished. But let me tell you what I remember or perhaps now invent, perhaps the gleaning of a lifetime of observation, viewing, reading or phantasizing. In my dream, shared by you I was sitting on a sofa in a long narrow room. The sofa, a normal sofa, perhaps brown, perhaps maroon, more likely I would own a maroon sofa. Am I molding the dream to my own needs? No, I don’t think so, for my dreams are of a fabric with myself, with you. With you, who need me who are me.

My book lay open on my lap as the bible is required to lay open in the church ceremony. To be closed would be sacrilege. Neither I nor you, we are not sacrilegious.

Before me was a woman and a man. I can only guess, but perhaps the woman represented the concept of Sex and the man represented the Libertine. The woman was lovely. She was the dream of that you, I, we, the One ever hoped that the warmth of the flesh could ever be. Her figure was opulent, her throat and copious breasts defied description. The memory of her features is vague and perhaps unnecessary. The promise of the fulfillment of desire overwhelmed the atmosphere.

The two were about to engage in sportive sex. I was asked whether I wished to join. I looked blankly back, extending my senses to penetrate the nature of the situation. A vague aura of soft danger emanated from the two. I politely declined. They, she was sitting or reclining in what was either a plastic swimming pool or a rubber life raft, he was poised over the Sex Goddess, posed to begin his redemption. An aura of tentative horror began to fill the room. As the moment approached an innocent, yielding threat began to emanate from the woman. She smiled one last inviting smile at me and then two began to sport about. The woman never lost her self-possession, following or leading as the moment required. Her sense of anticipation of his desires was marvelous to behold. The man never attempted self-control. The man quickly roared through arousal to excitement, high excitement and into frenzy and beyond as shall be seen.

When his frenzy had attained an intensity beyond which I could ever have imagined the woman suggested an injection of some strong chemical drug. I had then and have now no idea what it could have been. The very smell of the drug which immediately overwhelmed my senses not only hinted at but exclaimed destruction.   The acrid and corrosive aroma was such that I wanted to shout out a warning, but he was so eager for the sensation in his excitement that I thought better and clutched the book I was still holding more tightly in an attempt to still my quaking hands.

She injected the eager man and he at once disappeared into a deeper frenzy which intensified as he indulged his fantastic desires on the woman. His frenzy, I say, expanded as he ran through his excesses. Incredible as his earlier exertions had been he now was reaching a new plateau. Without asking his permission, her own face now glowing in anticipation, she reached for her hypodermic. Once again the air was rent by that terrible odor as she injected him another time. He had no means of assent or denial. I was horrified, watching quietly and objectively as he immediately redoubled his efforts as he sought to realize the mystery of her nature and perhaps his own. The woman submitted to, encouraged, led him into his most outrageous desires. How she survived his, what were now brutal attacks can only be explained by the irreality of the unreality of my dream.

Suddenly the narrow room was filled with a dark light. I was unable for a moment, almost a moment too long, to apprehend the vision which arose before me, for the man under this extreme stimulation had realized his inner reality, the reason for his existence. A holographic image of his hopes and fears terrifying and ugly but with a beautiful mathematical symmetry and intense dark tones sparkling with an impossible black light. As the image gained definition and a clarity of reality it became apparent that the vision was emanating from the mind’s eye of his desires, filling the room before me. As the man’s vitality was eroded and his essence consumed the vision faltered and began to fade. As much in awe at her achievement as myself the Sex Goddess exclaimed excitedly, ‘Can you see it too, Far, can you see it too?’ She hoped I too would enjoy what she had conjured as intensely as she did. I sat amazed, stunned, stupefied. I was shaking uncontrollably. I understood what I was seeing and accepted its impossible reality but could not make consciousness accept the fact. I was terrified as I watched because I knew that in the realization of his desires he had sacrificed himself on the altar.

His effort spent, the clamor, noise and commotion in my room subsided. My ears cleared, my eyes refocused, my dazed and dazzled mind sought its equilibrium, my breathing lost its rapidity and sank to normal, my body stopped quivering, my hands stopped shaking, my book saturated with perspiration was shredded and ruined.

As I say, my senses returned to me, my perceptions were startled anew. I saw the woman holding a transformation in her hand. The man was no longer with us. He had turned into a white cat. He sat hind quarters down, his front paws rigidly distended supporting his emaciated panting heaving body. His ribs were plainly visible while his pulsating belly heaved rapidly. His fur was distended into sweated tufts. He appeared not insane, not mad, but still in a frenzied state of rut. I noted with a revulsive horror, mixed with a grudging sympathy, that his eyes, little red eyes, bulged beyond their sockets, their pupils forming a raised blip on the ball. At first glance he appeared ferocious but then the truth became apparent that he was a frozen, immobile panting statue. His tongue extended, he was panting heavily and would pant that way forever.

Trapped within the realization of all his desires he was now separated from the external world. Like the man who got on the subway with his dime in his pocket only to learn that the fare had been raised to fifteen cents when he tried to exit he was doomed to ride forever, unable to leave the subterranean world for the lack of a nickel. The Libertine was trapped within himself; in a tunnel at which there was no light at the end.

The woman who had endured brutal treatment and had shown cuts, bites, bruises and welts which had made me dizzy with fear for her was now miraculously returned to a wantonly inviting freshness which aroused a hunger deep within me which I fought to resist. She appeared to be filled with remorse rather than gratitude that it was all over. As the traumatized cat sat in her hand, she would flip his desensitized head up which would then fall back to its former position, alive but lifeless. She did this repeatedly muttering, perhaps in a low wail possessing a shadow of satisfaction, perhaps in a plaintive plea to undo what she had done: ‘I only wanted him to have a good time; I only wanted him to have a good time.’ She turned a warm, succulent, inviting smile on me, a smile that would have made the nose on one of the faces on Mt. Rushmore twitch, and said once again: ‘I only wanted him to have a good time.’

I don’t know that I made a move to go to her or whether my resolve not to was weakened for at that time the night faded before the dawn and the rising sun cast a beam through my window and one reality gave way before another.

 

Exuent The Dream

A Short Story

The Attack Of The Massagetae

by

R.E. Prindle

 

While it is quite true that life is never easy there are moments that stand out as so insane as to be beyond belief. Truth and fiction. A writer can write any absurdity, any nonsense, any seeming impossibility he wants but there is always a real life situation that goes beyond it. Madness lurks in the human mind.

Man is a vile beast. This story goes to prove it.

Dewey was walking up to the seeming perfect love nest he and Vanesa had found in the Marin County town of Larkspur. The place had been the perfect dwelling to start their life as newlyweds. They had been overjoyed to find it. Now two weeks after their return from that honeymoon that tranquility had been blasted.

It was with heavy reluctant steps Dewey trudged up the lower slope of Mt. Tamalpais. He had to tell Vanessa that he had been fired from his job. He had been fired unjustly by a sadistic boss who was visiting his own early experience on another but in this world of seemings and appearances the accusation was immaterial and unprovable. The stark fact was that in his first month as a provider he had proved inadequate to the task.

Worse still was the knowledge that his former employer would blacklist him. He had a high hurdle to clear.

He turned the corner to begin the steeper climb to the duplex which lay in the sunshine above the lowering foggy skies on the level. As he climbed the steps to the porch he noted a rucksack beside the door.

Staring at it curiously he opened the door to find a man intimidating Vanessa.   The man glowered at Vanessa with obvious rape on his mind.

‘What’s going on here?’ Dewey said, repeating a phrase he had once heard a sheriff use, stepping between the man and Vanessa.

‘Get out of here, man. Didn’t you see my rucksack by the door?’

‘I think you’ve made an obvious miscalculation, pal, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Dewey stated in a firm voice but puzzled at the chutzpah of the man.

‘I said get out! Didn’t you see my rucksack by the door? You can come back when I’m finished.

‘Yeah. I saw your rucksack. Leave now.’

‘I’ll leave when I’ve done what I’ve come for! Don’t you know what that rucksack means, ignoramus? Amongst the ancient Massagetae of Scythia all women were the common property of the men. When a warrior was visiting a woman he planted his spear at the entrance of her hut. No one, not even her husband, interrupted the man until he finished and left. My rucksack is the equivalent of that spear!’

‘You’re quoting Herodotus to me to justify raping my wife, you scumbag.

Dewey’s left arm shot up straight, finger pointing to the door. ‘Get out.’ He shouted his voice quavering between rage and wonder at the man’s unparalleled chutzpah.

‘I will not. I…’

‘You will! Call the police honey.’ Dewey asked Vanessa taking care to not give her name away to the creep.

Vanessa still paralyzed from fear merely fluttered her hands but the man realized his game was up.

‘You uncivil bastard!’ He said, moving toward the door. ‘When word of this gets out your name will be mud around here.’

‘If word gets out Jack, You’ll have the police at your door. Only a fool would advertise that he’s a criminal.’

The man began to really move toward the door snatching up his rucksack as he passed through. ‘God, I hate a prick.’ He called back over his shoulder.

He walked on the down the hill where he was met by two confederates, Sammy Glick and Steve Levine.

‘Didn’t go over too well, eh, Jack.’ Smiled Sammy as though the matter had been a big joke.

‘What a prick! He wasn’t as dumb as we thought. He knew our routine came from Herodotus. I tried to brave him down but he wouldn’t go for it.’

‘Yeah, we know. We were watching from the trees across the street. You looked a little shaken when you left though. Did he pull a gun?’ Steve ventured.

‘He wanted to call the police and accuse me of attempted rape. I tried to intimidate him by saying we’d smear his name in the neighborhood when we got the word out but he said if I talked about it the police would be at my door. Now it think about it, it was really close. If he calls the cops they may see it as attempted rape.’

‘Don’t worry. He doesn’t know your name. Well smear him some other way.’ Sammy said. ‘Steve, you go down to the head of the street in case the police do come. When they do, stop them. By that time I’ll have something thought up. Some outrageous chutzpah, don’t worry.’

‘Man, It’s really too bad though. She’s a choice little piece.’

‘Yeah, I know, nice ass, big jugs. Besides it would have been the funniest thing. I imagined this thing where every night when he came home one of us would be in there with her, our ‘staff’ at the door. I could just see the prick sitting on his stoop waiting fur us to finish.’ Sammy chuckled low down in his throat. ‘Wouldn’t that be a gas?’

Sammy saw himself as a big clever man triumphing over his lesser. Such was morality in the California of 1963. It was going to get worse. Back in the house Dewey comforted Vanessa who was quite shaken. To have this insanity crushed on top of Dewey being fired came close to breaking his spirit. As vile as he knew the world to be he was stunned to find it as sick as this. He still had a long life of learning ahead of him

He didn’t call the police because the police had never listened to him before. He saw no reason for them to do so now.

‘I don’t think he’ll be back, Vanessa, but if he does have the police number memorized and call them immediately. Yell out the window to Trudy downstairs. Throw something at him.’

Dewey still had to find a convenient time to tell her he’d been fired.

Book VI

Our Lady Of The Blues

A Novel

The Shadow Knows

by

R.E. Prindle

 

Fighting his own battles far from San Diego another threat to Dewey’s wellbeing was going forward in the mind of Yehouda Yisraeli, Our Lady Of The Blues.

Many things had happened for Yisraeli in the five months the Teufelsdreck was overseas. When the ship left he had his porn business and the Faux Playboy Club. When it returned he had added two more sleazy bars- the Diamond Horseshoe and the Tropical Vista- as well as having laid the groundwork for his own record label- Michael Records.

Yehouda had no ear for popular music but his sidekick, Showbaby Zion did. Showbaby, who was another Jewish ‘expatriate’ from reality, had come west from Baltimore. On the way he dropped the name Irving Cohen in favor of Hoveve Zion. Hoveve was an alternate spelling of Choveve and from that his moniker was corrupted to Showbaby.

He was a follower, quite content to play Robin to Yisraeli’s Batman. Even though he was twice as intelligent as Yehouda and had all the ideas he couldn’t function without a leader.

It was he who suggested Yisraeli pick up the Diamond Horseshoe as a lead in to the record business. The Horseshoe was northwest of Escondido in an unincorporated area. It was one of those nondescript bars offering exotic dancers backed by a hot piano player. In those far off days before Playboy, Hustler, the Sexual Revolution and the abolition of censorship had freed the base desires of man from all restrictions of expression the Horseshoe was a barely licit business catering to only the crudest elements of society.

The girls were not allowed to dance nude or to engage in the grossest ‘dance’ steps. They had to wear bottoms if only a G-string and pasties over their nipples. Most preferred long tassels dangling from the pasties.

These slightly less than topless bars were the successors of burlesque. By 1958 the longstanding traditions of burlesque had been banished from society. If the last burlesque house had not yet been closed its demise was only a few months away. American had convinced itself that vice could be abolished by an act of will. All the Red Light districts in the country had been abolished at the turn of the decade. California’s most famous, the Barbary Coast of San Francisco, had been closed at that time. The well meaning but not very bright moralists who demanded the closure of these districts had no idea that they were merely transforming American society into a pit of immorality by dispersing these illicit areas throughout the population.

In San Francisco the resident of the Barbary Coast merely moved a few blocks west up to lower Broadway and recreated the center of Sin City in that area. Subsequently the whole of San Francisco has been corrupted.

Hank Williams commemorated the change in his song about how the displaced whores who still remained whores destroyed the decent girls when they brought their illicit mores to decent neighborhoods when they were expelled from the Red Light districts.

Thus we allow well meaning but stupid reformers to corrupt our lives in the name of decency. The Horseshoe was one of many clubs that opened in formerly clean areas. Men like Yisraeli who bore a grudge against society were thus given means to undermine the society they hated.

For Showbaby the main attraction of the Horseshoe was a Black pianist and singer name William Morris. Zion had great hopes for the pianist but they were not to be realized as the player had been shorn of all will and hope. Young, too, only twenty-eight.

Forced to turn elsewhere for talent for their fledgling label Showbaby was open minded enough to see the potential of the developing Surf Music groups. At the time Surfboarding was brand new in California. The excitement of the pastime gripped the imaginations of White youth. Surfers were a wild party loving group. They wanted something new and different in music. Thus arose the style known as Surf Guitar. Dick Dale and the Deltones would emerge as the premier Surf group. Confined mainly to the Southland they were not especially well known outside Surf circles.

Showbaby latched onto a group known as Con Crete and the Rebars. They were never to become that famous but they had a following and sold enough records in the Southland to form the basis of Yisraeli’s small but lucrative label.

For Yisraeli the label was merely another means to undermine society. A man of some intellectual reach he realized the limitations of male porn to corrupt general morality. The clubs were effective solvents also but their appeal was limited to an audience that was in search of such entertainment hence already corrupt.

Yehouda wanted something that would invade the entire space of his victims. Their homes, their cars, their minds, the very air they breathed. Records such as the salacious ‘Baby, Let Me Bang Your Box and Hank Ballard’s ‘Work With Me Annie’ and its sequel ‘Annie Had A Baby’ showed him the way to corrupt the very mind of the world. The airwaves could used in a corrosive way.

‘Baby, Let Me Bang Your Box’ with its very suggestive title devolved into a clever denouement in which ‘Box’ was not the woman’s pudenda but her piano stayed within permissible lines but still got the corrosive point in. The singer had essentially said over the radio ‘Baby, I want to fuck you’ which everyone got but still stayed within barely acceptable limits. The same was true of ‘Work With Me Annie’ which described the sexual act also in ambiguous terms.

But the piece de resistance for Yisraeli would be the tune ‘My Boy Lollipop.’ Yehouda had an oral fixation. ‘My Boy Lollipop’ for all of us not too dumb to see through its obvious meaning was a story of fellatio. Even the chorus of ‘lol, lol, lollipop, lol, lol was the very simulation of the tongue movements of the act. And the Girl Group got away with singing it to prepubescent girls over the radio. Of course, the girls were Black to further camouflage objections.

At the same time there was a great horror of oral sex which inexplicably dissolved to become the accepted norm in a very few short years. Perhaps Lenny Bruce helped. ‘My Boy Lolllipop’ probably had its share in dissolving the horror. The horror was so great at the time that the most celebrated criminal case of the era involved Caryl Chessman who had been given the death sentence for forcing women to suck him off while on dates. At the time murderers were walking after serving a mere two or three years so the severity of Chessman’s death sentence demonstrates the detestation in which oral sex was held.

Yisraeli along with Lenny Bruce and other malcontents thus wanted to convert the US into a nation of cocksuckers. Suffice it to say, they succeeded. Thus, while his sidekick, Zion, was trying to produce successful records Yisraeli would seek out the most subversive lyrics.

In the name of social justice he would also seek to promote Black acts. While appearing benevolent he was really trying to stick it to the goyim by making them do what they didn’t want to do. Besides in racist America Blacks were indulged by letting them get away with indecencies that Whites weren’t. No White artist could possibly have gotten away with a recording called ‘Baby, Let Me Bang Your Box’ but nobody was going to call a Black on it. Thus, while appearing to be the progressive agent of change Yisraeli indulged his most criminal proclivities. The role of the Negro in the record business was very much that of the hope of White entrepreneurs to leap frog over the backs of Blacks to fortune.

There was a certain type of beaten down White man whose only hope was to exploit someone more beaten down than he. Thus, his natural prey was the Negro. White women loved to sleep with Negroes because it was the ultimate in sinning. It transgressed the ultimate taboo.

White people thought Blacks were mysterious, inexplicable, living in a mysterious uninhibited primitive consciousness that was the ultimate in freedom. The White entrepreneurs who were as denied and repressed as the Blacks they exploited found excitement in robbing these people who while taboo like themselves were yet so free to express themselves.

Yisraeli was of this White school. He both hated and loved the Black man but mostly he despised him. In his own way William Morris exemplified the Black man to Yisraeli. He was immensely talented yet so weak that he drowned himself in liquor. He thus made himself despicable to Yisraeli’s immense satisfaction. Yehouda was both disappointed and pleased that Morris failed him.

Then too, the record industry was inherently dishonest. The record labels cheated the artists, stole from songwriters and generally refused to disburse any money they didn’t have to. Blacks thought they were singled out but this was not true; the labels cheated everyone. They viewed the artist as a resource for exploitation, something like a gold mine, to get the maximum return. You didn’t share the revenues with the gold mine hence the artists were treated like dirt.

The labels believed that they did all the work from production to distribution to promotion. The artist provided nothing but the inspiration which had cost him nothing. They could see no reason why he should be paid. If he wanted to make money then as they had made him famous for nothing he could cash in on his celebrity by getting up on the stage and shaking it around. They really wanted a cut of the artists performance money too but they couldn’t figure out how to get it. Oh well, the performances were free publicity for their records.

This aspect of being able to cheat and steal was very appealing to Yisraeli’s damaged psyche. No artist was ever to get a dime in royalties out of Our Lady Of The Blues.

On this particular night Yehouda and Showbaby were sitting around the Horseshoe sipping their ginger ales, yes, ginger ales, both men were too astute to become drunks, talking over prospects when it occurred to Yisraeli that Trueman should be coming back soon. This was in late February 1958 just before the payroll bomb burst on the Teufelsdreck.

‘He’ll be back soon.’ Yisraeli said moodily out of the blue.

‘Who?’ Zion said reflectively tossing peanuts in his mouth.

‘Who else? Dewey Trueman.’ Was Yisraeli’s moody reply.

‘Oh, yeah. Him.’ Zion said with just a hint of disgust.

‘I don’t know why you let that guy bother you so much. Try to think about business.’

‘He killed my son.’

‘Umm. I forgot.’ Zion said who, as many times as he had asked, could never get a satisfactory answer as to how Trueman had killed Michael.

‘Well, I haven’t. That sort of thing has got to be punished.’ Yisraeli growled as he got up to make a toilet run.

‘The past is the past.’ Zion thought to himself as Yehouda walked away. The he raised his eyes as the door opened and a man pushed through. A big fellow. Six-four with the girth of a two hundred eighty pounder. Taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the sleazy bar the man saw William Morris at the piano, a slatternly white woman doing some ‘sensuous’ gyrations on the stage above the bartender and Zion sitting on a stool at the round of the bar.

‘Busy tonight.’ He jeered to himself.

Bert Torbric was a meeter and greeter. He operated on the principle that the more people you knew the better the chances of latching onto something good. He had had one such success several years previously, as he told it, when he had been at a session with a couple composers. On that evening they had come up with ‘Melancholy Baby.’ Torbric had made a couple unwanted but accepted phrasing suggestions for which he demanded and received one third credit, although unacknowledged on the records, hence, even though his name didn’t appear, he considered himself a composer.

That was the extent of Torbric’s talent, however, never forgetting that success he was always on the alert for an opportunity in the music biz.

As his eyes focused he recognized Showbaby Zion sitting alone on his stool. Sitting down beside him he joked: Showbaby! Out slumming?

Showbaby laughed good naturedly. All the bar habitues humored each other.

‘This place is too good for slumming, I can show you places Bert. What’s a high society type like you doing down here?’

‘Oh, you know. I was in the neighborhood.’

Bert ordered a double Jack Daniels on the rocks and was swapping comments on the crusty old bird swinging her tassels in figure eights when a figure with the faint odor of the toilet swooped up ghostlike and silently slid onto the stool beside Torbric.

‘Mr. Show.’ He said around Torbric.

‘Hello, Yehouda.’ Showbaby said, getting the drift. ‘By the way, this is a guy I know- Bert Torbric.’ His introduction and tone indicated Bert wasn’t to be taken seriously.

But, Yehouda Yisraeli was a crafty guy who always had his eyes out for the main chance. As he put it: ‘You never know when a guy might turn up useful.’ Still, he noted Showbaby’s opinion.

He gave Bert a warmer hello then the introduction warranted. As it was, both Showbaby and Yehouda were right but for different reasons. Yehouda, who always ferreted out as much information about an acquaintance as he could threw out a polite: ‘How’s the wife and kids?’

Jackpot!

Bet didn’t wear the ring but he answered: ‘Great. Just great. You know, my oldest son just got out of boot camp. I’m pretty darn proud of him. That kid’s going to have a great career in the Navy.

‘Just out of boot camp? You don’t say.’

‘Yeh. We aren’t losing him though; his ship is based down in San Diego so he’ll be home at least on most weekends.’

‘What did he get, one of those big carriers?’ Asked Yehouda who knew more about the ships of the fleet than the Secretary of the Navy.

No, he got one of the smaller ones, which is OK, they’re easier on a kid than the big ones, a Destroyer Escort, DE 666, the USS Teufelsdreck. Strange name.’

Yehouda’s lip froze to his glass, his color rose, his temples throbbed as he recognized opportunity. ‘Did you say the USS Teufelsdreck?’

‘Yeh, yeh. My boy’ll be home for weekends.’

‘Well then, so will mine.’ Yehouda said to himself in a sarcastic undertone. ‘The lord has delivered my enemy unto me and I will smite him hip and thigh.’

‘You didn’t ask me about my son.’ He interrupted Bert who was launching into his ‘Melancholy Baby’ story.

‘…had a hand…you have a son? How is he?’

‘He’s dead.’ Yisraeli blurted out for dramatic effect but came across as a macabre comic. ‘I had a son, past tense, I no longer do. He was murdered by a pervert.’

‘You don’t say. Sliced him up; shot him?’

‘No, worse than that. He was forced off the road at high speed. It was horrible. His head was buried up the shoulders in the mud of the ditch.;

‘Oh, horrible.’

‘Yes. He was the only son I had.’

‘Well, his killer is probably rotting in jail now.’

‘No. It was a deserted road and the lousy cops said there wasn’t enough evidence to bring the son-of-a-bitch to justice but I know.

‘You know what?’

‘You mean who. It was this dirty little pervert by the name of Dewey Trueman.’

‘You mean he was a pervert because he ran your son off the road?’

‘Oh, no, no. No! This guy is bad seed all the way. Insanity has been in his family for generations. I’m sure. His old man is rotting in the Michigan hospital for the criminally insane at this very moment. I helped put him there. Everybody knew Trueman was going to do something we just didn’t know what or when. Kids from broken homes are all like that anyway. They’re just bombs ticking away. You will hardly believe how depraved he is. He was caught in the act of giving a row of guys blow jobs outside a roller skating rink.’

Bert Torbric was horrified as he well should have been.

‘Umm, a monster and a pervert at the same time. He should be put away, in an insane asylum, like his father. I agree with you that stuff is hereditary.’

‘Yes. He should be put away.’ Yisraeli said seizing on the idea. Knowing his own mental anguish it would, the thought, be a great balm to his emotions if he could know that Trueman was serving his time as a surrogate.

‘You won’t believe this Bert.’ Yisraeli said in his most heartfelt tone. ‘But, he’s not only in San Diego but your son will be contaminated by serving on the same ship he’s on.’

‘You can’t…the Teufelsdreck?…mean that!’

‘I can and I do. There must be some way you could help me punish him and save your son from contamination at the same time, isn’t there?’

‘Gee, I don’t know what I could do…wait a minute…maybe there is something.’

‘What?’ Yisraeli’s eyes glistened with hope.

‘Well, a fellow I went to school with, Gerry Godwin, got a Ph.D in psychiatry. He’s got the right job. Asylum for the criminally insane at Atascadero…’

‘Oh, yes.’ The idea took Yisraeli’s breath away. It would be better than killing Trueman. He knew his own mental turmoil, felt his anguish every minute of every day, there might be considerable balm if he could put Dewey away in an insane asylum. Just as Yisraeli was trapped in his own blighted mind and couldn’t get out, Trueman would be trapped in an insane asylum with dangerous maniacs unable to get out. It would be a living hell…and…Yisraeli would know exactly where Trueman was every minute of every day and be able to dwell on it. It was too perfect.

‘…but, even if you got him in, he would be AWOL and the Navy would just come and get him out.’

‘That’s not necessarily so. Nobody need know where he is except for us. He gets put in under a different name, maybe if he did come visit my family…’ Bert said, projecting a scenario, ‘but, he left, say on Saturday, never returned and we haven’t seen him since. He’s just AWOL. Who could ever find him? They wouldn’t know where to look.’

‘Ohhh, yeah. Yes. That would be a perfect crime.’

‘Crime? I thought you said he deserved it.’

‘That’s what I meant, the punishment would perfectly fit his crime. Can I count on you to do that?’ Yisraeli asked eagerly.

Up to this point Bert Torbric had just been talking. He now realized how serious Yisraeli was. If there is money in it he thought, I’ve got a windfall worth more than ‘Melancholy Baby, ever was.

‘Sure. It could be done, but there’s expenses involved, you know. I can’t spend my own money for your benefit.

‘It would be for your son’s benefit too. Well, listen.’ Yisraeli said trying to first get something for nothing. ‘I’m starting a record company. Showbaby will be with me and I could use a guy knowledgeable in music like you. There might be a good paying job in it for a guy like you.’

‘Might be a job, but the expenses are certain, Yehuda. I might be interested in helping you direct this record company that you might start but I would have to cover my expenses.’

‘How much do you think your expenses would be?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Torbric said studying Yisraeli’s potential. ‘I would think two thousand dollars.’

‘Two thousand dollars? What would you have to do other than drive up to Atascadero and back?’

‘Say! Listen, Yehouda, I got the contact, I got to ask for a big favor, maybe it’s a big favor, I don’t know. Besides it takes planning for Chrissakes. I can’t just collar this bozo, throw him in a car and take him up there. That’s kidnapping. He’s gotta volunteer. I gotta involve my son. Rome ain’t built in a day.’

‘Uh, huh, well, you know, I’m starting this record company on a shoestring. How about a thousand?’

‘No. I’ll need a thousand for me and five hundred for my boy.’

‘Oh geez.’ Yisraeli said, rocking back and forth on his stool in agony. ‘You’ve got a point. I don’t say you don’t have a point. But gosh, how about twelve-fifty. I don’t know how I can come up with more than that. I don’t even know how I can come up with that much.’

Tory Torbric wasn’t going to get anything anyway so Bert assented. Twelve hundred fifty dollars to put a man in an asylum for the criminally insane for life. What a bargain.

The men shook hands as Bert studied Yisraeli in an effort to determine if he was for real. Ascertaining that he was he sat back deciding to await the issue.

Yisraeli shortly after excused himself to drive home in an exaltation of pleasure to work out the details for Trueman’s incarceration.   He would be there on the pier when the Teufelsdreck was welcomed back to the States by the dependents.

I  The Vampyres Of New York

A Novel

Clip I

By

  1.  R. E. Prindle

 

The years add up.  It was when my total was approaching eighty that I took stock of my life.  All the things I had put off to some distant future now loomed important as I now realized I was in the only future I had left.  The future was limited.  Any day now in all probability.

I had been dissatisfied with my appearance for some time.  Time had passed and I hadn’t kept up with it.  I was dressing as I had thirty or forty years ago.  It was time to invent a new persona, get a new haircut, buy some new clothes.  As improbable as it may seem I fixed on the persona of Cary Grant as he appeared in the old fifties movie To Catch A Thief.  Of course my looks were nowhere near Cary Grant’s at that time still I was slender and not totally homely, besides clothes make the man and you can buy clothes.  I offed to LA in pursuit of the perfect garb.

While I found the perfect outfit, plaid jacket, a couple pair of pants and a cravat I did take what would turn out to be a short sighted view.  I should have selected a wardrobe rather than an outfit.  Nevertheless as I returned home I thought I was passable.  It would take a while to get comfortable in the new persona but I thought the cat was in the bag and the bag was in the river.  I was passable for the old hometown but I had my sights set on New York City.

I had always wanted to spend a year in NYC and environs to enjoy all the cultural attractions.  The Sixties in which period I had devised the desire no longer represented The Big Bagel as some people now call it.  Then in that impoverished city you could rent a loft of 3000 square feet for fifty dollars a month not only in a deserted building but a whole dilapidated neighborhood.  Today in the same areas condominiums are going for tens even hundreds of millions of dollars.  Whole neighborhoods have been razed to build enormous buildings.  There was that expense I now had to consider.  An apartment in a building I considered suitable might go for anything from fifteen to twenty-five thousand dollars a month.  While I was not exactly down to my uppers I quailed to think of spending possibly three hundred thousand dollars for a year’s worth of shelter.  Call me a piker.

I’d rather abandon that particular item on my bucket list but then I remembered that some people needed house sitters while they were off perhaps on an extended tour of the world.  I didn’t think there was much of a chance but I contacted an online agency, filled out the forms and much to my surprise was advised of a situation a month later.  Six weeks after that I was on a flight to The Big Apple, as some other people express it.  Imagine fortune smiling on me like that.

And believe me fortune was smiling.  I had previously emailed a photo of me dressed for the occasion and had received a photo of the guy who would meet me at the airport.  A wise precaution as it turned out.  Leaving the plane the driver and I quickly spotted each other but also waiting to greet me was a guy holding a sign that said Partly Wright.  I don’t know he was but I’ll explain later.  Unless I forget.

My driver was a big fellow who looked like he might have had past.  He took my carry on which was all I had; at that moment I realized how ill prepared I was for a year’s stay.  What was I thinking?  I wasn’t thinking anything, I had subconscious motives as it turned out.  The driver, Ragnar, led me out to one of those white stretch limousines about thirty feet long.  I was the sole occupant in this huge room complete with bar and TV both ofwhich I ignored.

Arriving in the Tribeca neighborhood the limo stopped in front of a forty story condominium building.  I knew from the pictures I’d received that the apartment was luxurious but the reality of the building was daunting, massive, all marble.  Ragnar passed me by the doorman and the elevator carried me to the gold painted door on the thirty-first floor.  Long grocery haul I thought.

Squaring myself away as we said in the Navy I pressed the button.

In the old days there would have been a peephole but now three separate cameras scanned the hallway to ensure the way was clear.  Need I say the photos did not do justice to the apartment?  This was splendor.  Obviously done by an interior decorator.  The ensemble was spectacular, a large entry and living room in quiet warm earth tones, splendid artworks, abstracts, decorated the walls.  Lining the long wall was a magnificent library, floor to ceiling shelves with a little rolling ladder.  No kidding.  Windows looked out over the bay to the East and the views of the Hudson and the wastes of New Jersey to the South were spectacular.

Dazzled beyond comprehension I was only vaguely aware of answering the usual questions about the flight while as it was now six-thirty in the evening I was politely shown to a bedroom to clean up and relax a bit as dinner was to be served at seven-thirty.  This respite was much needed as I was somewhat dazed by my marvelous even unbelievable situation.  Freshened and somewhat less dazed I took my assigned seat at table.

The condo itself must have cost the Carmichael’s tens millions of dollars.  That I was going to live there a year for free flabbergasted me.  The table at which we were sitting was an absolute work of art such as would have satisfied royal tastes throughout the ages.  The graceful chairs were a delight to sit in.  Contrasting those were a plain white setting made in China that appeared to come from Restoration Hardware or Williams-Sonoma; in fact I know they did because I had an identical set at home.  Rather strange I thought.

As I sat staring at the original of Columbus Discovering America I knew I was in the home of intellectual wild men.  Perhaps my eyes were open too wide because the mistress of the table, perhaps some reincarnation of the goddess Diana the Huntress in the disguise in which she entombed the father of us all, Merlin, asked:  Is something wrong Mr. Wright?

‘Oh, no, no,  ‘Mrs. Carmichael, I replied quickly, just a little giddy from the long flight.  You know how they pack us in these days.  If you like you can call me Perry which is what I’m known by instead of Partly or Mr. Wright.  Mother had a sense of humor that used to entertain us all.’

‘I know all about that, Perry.  My given name is Lady, which I do go by, Lady Margaret Carmichael in full that leads to some amusing situations, and this is my husband Miles.  This gentleman here is our friend Lessing Farquhar.  We hope you’ll both be friends.’

‘Oh, I’m sure…’

‘You must be wondering why we chose you to housesit during our absence?’

‘Well, Lady, I was born in the bottom of a wishing well; I just figured my wish was granted.  Sometimes the gods do favor us as I’m sure you know.  But apart from that what were your and Miles reasons?’

Farquhar let out a little smarting laugh, ‘Perhaps you thought you’d died and entered Valhalla?’

‘Something like that.  Was it my charming picture?’

‘That too.  But the three of us are historians or amateurs at least.  Would it surprise you to know we’ve read your writings on your blog?’

‘Not surprise, but shock.  I do have a couple million reads so somebody must have keyed in but one never knows who.  It is only occasionally someone lets drop a hint that they may have; very seldom does anyone own up to it.’

‘You have a couple million reads?’  Farquhar asked surprised.

‘Yes, and what is gratifying is that my audience is thoroughly educated as T.E. Wogglebug characterized himself.  A metric company, Quantcast, that keeps track of these things places my post-grad readership at between 160-220 percent of normal while grads are about 120-150 of normal.  I was somewhat astonished at that.  So while shocked or perhaps amazed that you have read something not really surprised.  Gratified however.’

‘Judging from your writings you are certainly well read.  May I ask what sort of education you have?’

‘Oh sure.  I interpret education in the broadest sense.  As to formal education, High School in ’56, college at California State College, Hayward- now California State University East Bay- some graduate work at UC Berkeley and the University of Oregon but no advanced degrees.  I found college useless although I did learn what I was supposed to do, that is, the method.  I know how to progress around the bases.

But my real education, baseball cards, stamp collecting, comic books, sci-fi and all that, took place outside bricks and mortar school.  Probably the most influential source was that of comic books although I am unable to say what it is I learned.  Some I can, but mostly not.  My comic book education took place from after WWII to just after 1950 when I was force weaned.

If you know anything about comics you know William C. Gaines EC comics.  Originally EC stood for Educational Comics but after Gaines introduced the horrid Tales From The Crypt genre he changed the initials to mean equally preposterously, Entertaining Comics.  They were horrid.  They blasted my brain.  I could hear and feel the crunch.  Those comics were evil.  While reading one I said to myself:  They shouldn’t let us little kids read this stuff.  But I stood in line for the next month’s issue down at the magazine store.  I didn’t realize it then but the store was a venue for what passed as pornography at the time.  Do gooders were there to tell us we shouldn’t read comics.  We knew it but we didn’t care.

Educational bits and pieces.  The comics were almost wholly a Jewish operation.  Gaines himself was Jewish although he has an Anglo name.  All his artists, writers and inkers and whatever were Jewish too although most assumed Anglo names.  Not being aware from seven to eleven when I read this stuff I had no idea of how Jewish comics were.  I recently reviewed an issue of my favorite, Plastic Man, on the internet and was astonished to see that he was a thoroughly Jewish hero.  I had no idea.  Still it was somewhat disguised, nowadays, in the new comics like the X-Men the heros flaunt their Jewishness.  Superman in retrospect was also very Jewish.

But as I say the horror comics, Tales From The Crypt, Weird Tales and that ilk transfigured my brain.  It was only two years ago that I realized the negative influence of Gaines and his filth.  I still don’t understand how I reacted.’

Farquhar interjected:  ‘That’s interesting.  Problems?  What sort of problems were you having?’

‘Mostly pressures in the head.  Not headaches, from which I have never suffered, but pressures; an awareness of the perimeter of my brain, knots and twists in my brain.  For a longtime a big knot over my ear, right side of my brain.  Then later it crossed over to the active or left side.  I had serious electrical discharges.’

‘And you believe this came from EC Comics?’

‘I don’t believe it, I know it.’

‘Well, Lessing is it?, after a few decades these issues came to a head, after an attack two years ago I unraveled the mystery in a dream so that the cause having been recognized the symptoms disappeared.  I am now free of EC, or think I am.  I don’t know that I can ever get it out of mind.’

‘That’s rather extraordinary isn’t it?’

‘Not really.  Basic Freudian psycho-analysis runs through the version of self- analysis of the much despised Emile Coue.  Coue was the ‘I’m getting better every day in every way.’ guy.  Much misunderstood.   It was just really buried, not so much a fixation as a state of mind.  When my brain crunched, which is what I suppose the knots symbolized it just took decades of probing to get at them.’

‘It’s amazing you could do that.’

‘Maybe.  But a few decades ago I read The Divine Pymander of Hermes an ancient self help book in which the demon Poimander approaches the scholar just as he is about to enter the dream state.  Poimander introduces himself to the near sleeping scholarly inquirer to advise him that he is there to help.  He will show the scholar what he wants to know.  All the scholar has to do is keep in mind what he wants to know and Poimander will guide him to it.

This is essentially Coue’s process.  Access the subconscious so that it is working in the direction you want it to.  The power of positive thinking of, I believe, Bishop Sheen in the fifties.  For instance I wanted to remember a girl’s name from high school and it was completely blocked.  I could look at her picture in the high school year book and not recognize her.  Then one morning coming out of the last sleep or dozing, a little bar like from a slot machine dropped in front of eyes with the name Donna Meininger in black and white.  Doesn’t always work quickly but it works.’

‘Freud was a very clever man but I still find psycho-analysis distasteful.  Freud should never have invented it.’

‘Actually Freud didn’t invent it, he collated it from numerous sources while giving it his peculiar cast.  He systematized long known ideas.  He was extremely well read in is chosen field.  He was of the German culture so he had access to all the Romantic writers in the German language.  The Germans were miles ahead of anyone else except for possibly the French.  A universal prejudice against the Germans prevents the translation of much of German literature.

But who I consider one of the greatest writers, E.T.A. Hoffmann was a very astute psychologist from whom Freud appropriated wholesale.’

At this point I saw Farquhar’s ears perk up.

‘Freud himself read Hoffmann as he refers to him and I’m sure he read a great deal of his work giving him much food for thought.  The West, and here by West I mean the US, France and England, doesn’t appreciate Hoffmann the way it should as we have only translations of a few of his more bizarre tales.  A couple things have appeared or have been reprinted recently such as The Devil’s Elixers and the Serapion Brethren that are truly breathtaking, especially The Serapion Brethren.  Astonishing grasp of psychology.’

Farquhar:  ‘You’re a great admirer of Hoffmann then?’

‘Oh yes, but to continue.  Freud was central to understanding the fifties and beyond but the fifties especially.  I was not fully aware of that at the time being too young and dumb but since.  After comic books as an educational influence came the influence of movies, records and finally TV.  The movies of the fifties were obsessed with the hysterical fear of alien attacks from outer space.  This was obviously influenced by the nuclear race.  All sorts of monsters freed from the Freudian Id arose to confront us.  We all knew and loved The Creature From The Black Lagoon, also the giant carrot that came from outer space.

The basic pornography of the comic books, and they were nearly pure porn, became invasive and more influential.  Every week was a new challenge.  As I had been immersed in comic books I became immersed in science fiction, both movies and print.  And sci-fi was great stuff.  Bradbury and Heinlein were my big stars in books although I read so much stuff I couldn’t tell you who the authors were.  In movies Richard Matheson’s The Incredible Shrinking Man was really astonishing, life changing.  I gave up on sci-fi after reading Williams Tenn’s amazing stories.  At that point I decided sci-fi was just a waste of time.

Nevertheless the earlier influence of comics was immeasurably strengthened.  This whole comics, sci-fi was shatteringly presented and encapsulated by a real lie ‘sci-fi- event in late 1958 that really cracked my brain while causing deep resentment against a society that would do such a thing.

I think you people may be old enough to remember if you haven’t blocked it out.  It will come back to you if you did see it.  Israel had been established and the ’56 Israeli and Arab war had been fought and won by the Jews.  Ever paranoid they undoubtedly feared an adverse reaction or, as they put it, a rise in anti-Semitism.  For some reason the Jews found their casualties as the hands of both the Germans and Soviets unjust.  Unable to resist the Soviets and under whose control they were they concentrated on the German camps naming it a holocaust.

On a certain Saturday night in November as I remember they commandeered all the TV networks and independent stations countrywide so that no one could escape watching it other than turning off their sets which solution I’m sure occurred to nobody.  They then showed scenes from the camps that I’ve never seen since.  Totally emaciated nude bodies were piled into a small mountain perhaps thirty feet high and maybe a hundred feet long, I’m working from memory.  A Caterpillar was then fired up belching black smoke as the blade moved into this huge pile.  What the intent of the driver was I don’t know as it didn’t seem possible the driver could move such a huge mass while the bodies would have tumbled down on the driver’s head.  This was truly horrific, exceeding Tales From The Crypt by a factor of at least ten and it made the same impression on me as EC’s tales when I was eight and nine.

In some strange way that viewing closed off my early education and I began the current phase.

Perhaps the generation to which I belonged that was raised on those vile comic books began to come of age in the Sixties so that movies have come to more and more resemble those comic books of William C. Gaines.  I suppose in some weird ways those comics were a major influence informing US history since.  Unfortunately I haven’t determined the exact effect they had on me since as I think the effects were deeply subliminal.

So, there you have it the basis of my education, everything since is just accumulating knowledge.

Farquhar:  ‘My mother wouldn’t let me read comic books so I have no ability to grasp their psychological effect.’

Miles:  My mother also.  As I remember parents were virtually united in opposing them.  I’m surprised your mother let you read them.’

‘She didn’t Miles.  I was in the orphanage in my top reading years and beyond her or anyone else’s control.  Within very elastic limits I did what I chose.  As an orphan I rejected anyone’s authority and that was almost complete.  I roamed and investigated.  I was completely independent; almost no supervision.  I would brook no interference and there was little compulsion although I was feared and hated by the house mothers.  I was as free as I’ve ever been except for maybe now.

When my mother remarried she threw away my two foot pile of comic books for which I have never forgiven her.’

All three people were staring at me for some reason.  Finally Lady spoke:  ‘For all that you don’t seem to show any ill effects.  You are certainly well mannered.’

I realized then that I had probably said more than I need have since all I was asked essentially was whether I had a college degree and from where.  ‘No matter,’ I said, ‘Be that as it may.  Between comics and Freudian psychology I’ve been able to put things in order.  Poimander, so to speak, has shown me the way.  I expect to enjoy New York immensely.’

It was now fairly late and as I was running on West Coast time I was getting fairly tired while it showed.  I was shown to my room and very gratefully dropped off to sleep immediately between very high quality sheets.  It was bliss.

-II-

Having now climbed part way up the mountain I had set myself from youth at the age of eighty I had reached a plateau.  I luxuriated myself in bed until after ten then got up and shaved and showered feeling somewhat like a new man.  This year was going to be my year.

Emerging from my room, itself decorated with beautiful pictures I emerged into the glorious light flooded living room with its wonderful, actually, picture gallery. I was luxuriating in this glow when Lady and Miles entered the room.

‘Good morning Perry.’  They said in unison.

I felt so good.  I broke into a big smile quite uncharacteristically and gave them as good as I got with a bright cheery hello to both.  I did feel good for perhaps only the second time in my life and I’ve forgotten the first, all weights were lifted from my shoulders.

Lady and Miles explained that they too were fulfilling a lifelong dream of spending a year in Europe pointing out the delights they expected to find.  Shifting to me they pointed out many features of New York that I might not have found myself but sad to say as my year was to progress differently than I had planned I never visited any of them.

I gave some indication of my intentions most of which I never fulfilled while reassuring them that their apartment was in good hands.  I assured them I intended to have no visitors as I wanted as few as possible to know where I lived so that they need have no fears.

After viewing the great library with them both I was taken downstairs to be introduced to Ottmar the doorman.  Little did he know that his life was about to enter a new phase.  He looked fiercely protective of his domain which pleased me greatly.  Nothing like a good bulldog to keep the strays away.

Surprisingly they offered me the services of their chauffeur Ragnar and the accompanying limousine as they wanted to keep him employed so as not to lose him to someone else in their absence.  I gratefully accepted.  Ragnar too was about to enter the Twilight Zone.  Free rent and transportation, there was a lifelong dream realized, was more than could be expected.  And so the next morning my benefactors, for what else could they be, left for the delights of Europe such as they might be in this age of foreign invasion and I was left alone in my own little paradise.

I spent the rest of the day at home relaxing, ordering my mind and browsing the wonderful library.  As Lady, Miles and I were roughly the same age I had most of the classics they did although their editions were much finer than mine.  There was a nice selection of history and picture books, really nice art stuff, so I just put my feet up and loafed and loafed.  It really felt good.  Lord, what a wonderful feeling.  May you have such joy yourself.

On Saturday, that is the next day, I called Ragnar to bring his limo around and had him drive me up to the Met to view some more pictures and objets d’art.

Ragnar along with Ottmar were both Germans which pleased me greatly.  Ottmar was older and more regal but with a very fine mind while Ragnar, somewhere, over thirty, was harder looking, seeming to more on the qui vive, perhaps a little shady.  We hadn’t much to say at the moment as I was twenty-five feet away in the back and he was behind the wheel.  I preferred it that way.  It gave me time to think.  We would become more familiar but enough for now.

Ragnar pulled up in front of the Met walking back to open the door for me.  I could have popped out myself and preferred to but I thought it best to give myself maximum gravitas and maintain appearances.  After all, this was New York City.  I can tell you I got great respect emerging from a limo especially as I was dressed in my new persona of grey slacks (when was the last time you heard pants referred to as slacks?) green plaid jacket and princely cravat.  I smiled around benignly at the gapers and mounted the steps.

The museum while not crowded was busy and I drifted from gallery to gallery in a sort of fugue or dream state.  I hadn’t become blasé so soon.  I had stopped without thinking before a Claude landscape.  My gaze was directed at it but almost in a state of self-hypnosis as my mind was occupied with other thoughts.  I wasn’t really seeing anything when a voice as though from a dense fog came to my left ear:  ‘Well, Partly Wright unless I’m mistaken.’

Startled at being recognized I turned to see Lessing Farquhar.  I stammered, searching for his name as Lessing popped into my mind.  ‘Lessing, hello, what a coincidence.’

‘Not really, Perry, I saw Ragnar and the limo on the street.  He told me you were here.  I’ve been wanting to talk to you so I popped in.’

‘And you found me.  I presume you no longer work, then?’

‘No, thank the gods, no.  I chucked that a few years ago.  I made enough, especially in my thirties and forties and have had a couple nice inheritances since so I have no need for a job and no regrets about it.  Lawyering wasn’t that much fun, anyway.  I take it you no longer have your shoulder to the wheel?’

‘Not remuneratively and not that wheel but I do my best to help struggling humanity along.  Being above the fray gives you a better perspective.  I just study and write; keep up the blog.’

‘Seeing the shape the world is in it doesn’t seem you’re having much luck with your endeavors.’

‘I haven’t effected any major changes yet but I may have had some success moving things forward, changing attitudes.’

‘A bold claim.  How’s that?’

‘Well, Lessing, you know that a few years back, a decade or so. The savage Liberals were raging unobstructed as very few seemed to realize the true situation what with Ignatiev calling for the extermination of Whites without a dissenting voice.  I was if not the first, one of the first, taking him seriously and sounding the alarm.  Over the succeeding period I’ve been ahead of the curve in exposing and denouncing the Liberal agenda.  Today it seems that a new awareness, consciousness, of what is being propagated has developed and that consciousness seems to reflect the attitude I’ve been trying to foment so I think, I hope, that my voice on the voter has not been without effect.’

‘Just you and your computer, is that it?  I’ve found your site interesting myself.  Do you have many readers?’

‘I’ve got a couple million reads over the decade I’ve been writing plus a lot of my stuff gets republished on other sites so I have no idea of my true reads.  Suffice it to say I seem to see ideas reflected.  If you’re a reader Lessing I’d have to consider myself a success.’

‘Actually, Perry, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.  I was interested to learn that you’re an E.T.A. Hoffman reader, especially The Serapion Brethren.  I’ve been enchanted by the book myself, so much so that I’ve been organizing a New Serapion Brethren.  I have myself and two others.  I thought you might be interested in joining us.  Instead of writing stories we’re studying history and trying to trace the back stories, the things that get overlooked behind the printed histories.  Do you think you might be interested?’

‘I’d be very interested, Lessing, and flattered by the invitation.  I’m in accord.  You know how I think as you’ve read my stuff so you know the byways I search.  No surprises?  So, yes.’

‘Excellent, Perry, excellent.  I’ll give you a call for our next meeting that should be a couple weeks from now.  I have to go now, have some things to do.  Expect a call tonight or tomorrow.  ‘Till then.’

And Lessing got up and walked away.  Wonderful, there was nothing I wanted more than congenial company to discuss the weighty problems.

After spending a pleasant afternoon touring the Met I went back to my digs, don’t you love calling a thirty million dollar condo, digs?  I sure as heck do.  Be that as it may I went ‘home’ to plan my next moves.

-III-

I spent that Sunday sitting looking out the floor to ceiling windows at the light dancing off the waters and boat traffic drifting around.  I sat musing on how to order my miraculous year.  Obviously one carry on bag of clothes wasn’t going to do me much good nor would one suit of clothes.  Still, I breathed easy, I was content, even happy at the prospect of building a new wardrobe.  What the heck, at eighty what did I have to lose, life is short and what was left ahead of me was even shorter.  I might not even live out the year.  I had enough so I wouldn’t go broke unless I lost all self-control, so what the heck.

From viewing street activity I also realized I would need several wardrobes.  Driving around with Ragnar yesterday I realized what a diverse population, what bizarre costumes Manhattan boasted.  Of course being well dressed was essential but there were neighborhoods in which it might be perilous.  Hell, looking at some areas I saw it might be wise to buy a dress or two and bob my hair.  I must have passed through Tranny Central.  Anyway, shopping was first on my list.  And then I was ravenous to visit New York’s fabulous book stores.

I made the Strand Bookstore my first objective but then when Ragnar pulled up I suddenly decided to go to Harry’s for a haircut and professional shave.  I began using Harry’s razors a few years before, I had always wanted to visit the shop so now was the time.

I could have walked up to McDougal Street but I thought it best to use the limo.  I’m sure the style of my arrival wasn’t unique in New York, still it placed me in a certain class.  Fortunately I was early or I might not have gotten in.  I didn’t really need a haircut; two years previously I had devised my hair style and had gotten those Hollywood invisible cuts to maintain the same appearance at all times.

A couple snips and the haircut was finished, a few more moments for a shave and Ragnar whisked me over to the Strand.  Billed as having miles of aisles the selection was incredible.  You can imagine what New Yorkers could sell as used books.  I actually came away with a couple hundred pounds of books including a great five volume set of Bancroft’s record of the 1893 Chicago Columbian Exposition that I intended to offer as a gift to Miles and Lady.  No home is complete without one.

Well, you know, you don’t cover miles of aisles in a minute or two and I was not even thinking lunch amidst all those volumes so it was four before I called Ragnar around and let him load the tonnage.  New York, New York, what a wonderful town.  Of course I hadn’t gotten to the underside yet.

If you don’t like books you won’t understand the exhilaration I felt the next morning looking at the mound of books sitting on the living room floor the next morning.  I never got enough books for Christmas and always the wrong kind as a kid so whammo!- all the disappointments of those Christmases wiped away in one fell swoop.  That Columbian Expo set was a real delight.  Maybe I’ll keep it and get Lady and Miles something else.

Bedtime found me still flipping pages and fondling covers.  But, too much fun…I still had numerous duties and miles to go.

Lessing had called so I was obligated to write something for the meeting of the New Serapion Brethren two weeks hence.  I decided to devote the day to wardrobe building.  While no expert on New York still back on the Coast I had had my trusty computer with the ability to search.  Oh yes, I ordered a new HP for my stay.  I had visited New York way back in the seventies, but believe me, that was then and this was now so not exactly a novice I wasn’t much more.  The images on the net had given me some idea of what to expect along with reading New York Magazine.  It was almost as though I had visited the stores.

The first thing I needed was some shirts, shorts too, but I figured that if I found shirts I would find shorts and perhaps socks too.  I selected Charles Tyrwhitt for my shirts.  Tyrwhitt was just a block up from James Carter on Madison Avenue.  The latter was my choice for suits.

I was familiar with both stores’ merchandise both from the net and catalogs.  The world at my doorstep and all that.  Picking up a couple dozen shirts from Tyrwhitt didn’t involve any agonizing decisions although there was a moment’s hesitation over a couple ties, I finally settled on five and bounced out of the store.  I noticed a couple idlers as I got into the limo but didn’t think too much of it.

Tyrwhitt is modestly priced while James Carter is on the high side, nothing like Brioni, but respectably high priced.  They consider themselves expensive but fifteen hundred for a jacket is chicken feed compared to Brioni.  If you really want to spend money believe me, you can do it.  I wanted to make an impression at Carter so we pulled up in front while I took a long time getting out of the limo.  As I sat there I noticed the idlers from Tyrwhitt drifting down to Carter’s.

Could have been the limo but then they weren’t that rare in the Big Bagel, as some people call it.

James Carter was high fashion dress.  It was one of these classy stores, maybe three thousand square feet a floor, three floors, lots and lots of what they call negative space.  Of course on a good day these guys could probably do a hundred thousand so I guess empty square footage didn’t count against them too much.  They’d probably have to have ten mill a year to make it.  I was there to help them over the hump.

When it comes to today’s fashions I am no admirer of them either men’s or women’s.  It’s not because I have a long memory although I will confess that as I was going to buy bespoke the designs I had in mind were very close to 1956.  Check out the jacket Ferlin Husky wears on his record Boulevard Of Broken Dreams.  But that involved no nostalgia or fogeyism; I just didn’t like the short jacket too big for your britches look that prevailed.

And that’s all they had on display, these horrid short jackets that look like they’re two sizes too small including the more than tight fitting high water pants that they used to laugh at hillbillies for wearing.  I was study a manikin trying to keep the look of disgust off my face when I was approached by a salesman elegantly decked out, obviously gay.  But then what would expect in a men’s store?  After all, that’s where the boys are.  He wasn’t objectionable just that arch attitude they have.

Nice looking fellow about six-three, slim, trim, and a million dollars on the hoof.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’  He arched.

‘Is this the only style of suit you’re showing?’  I arched back.

‘This is the style of today.’  He replied.

‘Does that mean the only style you show?’

‘This is THE style.  It is what with it men are wearing.’

With it?  I hadn’t that one for a while.

‘Yes.  I’m a very with it guy but I interpret ‘it’ perhaps in a somewhat different manner.  Perhaps I should confer with your tailors in the bespoke department.’

‘That would be second floor, to your right.’

‘Many thanks.’  I said drily.

Then someone who might have been the floor manager swept up and said:  ‘Here, let me show you up.’

I almost said: Lead on MacDuff but I had gotten that one out of my system decades ago; I don’t quote Shakespeare anymore.  To be or not to be is a good workhorse but even that has fallen into desuetude.

I know many of you consider eighty to be a ripe old age but let me say as one who knows, eighty is not as old as it looks.  It may be for some people, but for those of us who have either been lucky or taken care of themselves it is not a problem.  I can walk for miles, believe me, a flight of steps was no difficulty, I could have taken them two at a time although my knees aren’t what they were.

Because of my early childhood I had always played the goof or clown when under stress.  Over the decades using self-analysis and Coue’s auto-suggestion I had cleared out my fixations allowing me to function in a more or less clear state but I had still buckled under pressure.

Apparently there was another kind of conditioning beneath the fixations.  I could feel the stirrings in my undermind but was unable to identify the cause although I would soon experience the effect.  But not now.

While you may think a fitting trivial it was a profound test for me.  It was a question of whether I could avoid being a mark or not.  Men have all kinds of ways of marking each other as to how they will be treated; a great part of it in the clothes line is the clothes one is allowed to wear; another, if you break through the clothes taboo as I had several decades ago was to mark the clothes.  While chance may allow most men to buy good clothes, markings he might not notice are affixed as it were to the clothes.

Unless you pass judgment for instance in suits you will not be allowed four buttons on the cuff.  You will only be allowed three and in some instances two.  Tailoring flaws such as bunching behind the neck and others define your station in masculine circles.  These markings are always honored by others in the industry so that even if you know the markings it is nearly impossible to correct them.

I had always been in the three button class with a bunched neck in the fabric.  I had been successful in my mid-years far exceeding most of my contemporaries thus their anger and resentment at being surpassed by someone they believed their inferior enraged them.  And so I was marked.  To complain about being marked is to no effect other than to give your tormenters pleasure.  You can demand four sleeve buttons or whatever but in no way can you compel the tailors to correct the mark.  There is a code.

The amusing thing is that since tailors are most frequently homosexuals their fellows are given top status in their tailoring so that they can pass other tests.  Now I would not only have to appear as an A man but probably have to beg or should I say, command, a homosexual.  It would be in the stance, the voice, the manner and most importantly in the eyes.  My haircut was good; I had seen to that.  Barbers are tough ones too because they are very astute analysts and excellent markers.  It is hard to get by them.  They don’t go to school either they just learn and assimilate thus becoming supreme judges.

The manager was going to interview me first before I was allowed to see the tailor.  The various marks he exhibited indicated homosexuality.  As I say I had been experiencing subliminal stirring for several weeks indicating deep changes.  I had even had an event simulating a heart attack that had been a significant psychological adjustment.  Since then I had been more confident and much less diffident so I pulled up my reserves and went to work on the manager who gave his name as Steve.

Our eyes locked.  He betrayed the insecurity of the homosexual; I saw and he recognized my recognition giving that appeal for acceptance that I knew so well.  I smilingly overrode him as my eyes acknowledged him and subordinated him but the contest was not settled.  My stance and mannerisms secured my masculinity over his although I began to feel that I was acting the Macho Man and that would give the wrong signal.  Now, if I could control my voice.  My undermind gave, wincing, but didn’t erupt just yet.  I was in control and meant to stay that way.

‘And what can we do for you, Mr. Wright?’  Michael Ignatiev asked.

‘I’m here to buy some sartorial splendor, Michael.’  A little too florid indicating frivolousness.

‘This is the place isn’t it?  That’s a very nice jacket you’ve got on now.  May I ask who made it?’

‘I don’t mind.  This is a Brioni designed by Eric Ross circa 1975.’

‘Nineteen seventy-five?  Really?  I know Brioni of course but I haven’t hear of Eric Ross.’

‘He was a little before your time.  I don’t remember his last name.  Like your James Carter Eric Ross was his son’s two first names just like your founders’ the Osipov’s.  He was Jewish, in love with English styling adapted to US traditions also, like your shop.  He mixed in everything.  He was big on the cowboy look…;

‘Cowboy, eh?  You seem knowledgeable about James Carter. You learned about us where?’

Dewey turned around to show his back.  ‘See how the seams turn toward the shoulders in the back?  Cowboy style.  I almost didn’t patronize Eric Ross because of that.  Once I got started there was no stopping me.  Loved the stuff; I’m so happy are careers coincided.  In answer to your question I studied your internet site.  It tells you what you what you want your customers to think of you.’

‘Oh yes, our internet site.  So what happened with Eric Ross?’

‘I was in a different business but we both epitomized the Sixties, made it through the seventies and expired at the same time.’

‘What happened?’

‘The Sixties ethic wore out at the end of the seventies.  As the saying goes: This too will pass and it did, tragically.  The Sixties weren’t what they were supposed to have been but they were still the Sixties.  Charles Manson was imprisoned for our sins.  Big changes happened too fast while there was no time to adapt.  I was in London in late seventy-eight, looked around and all the peacocks were wearing grey and black.  I realized the ethic was dead.  I rushed back to buy a black straight legged suit from ER and told it him it was over.  The Sixties we loved so much were no longer happening.

The record business I was in collapsed in on itself and changed over to CDs at the same time leaving me high and dry while Eric Ross was caught in the midst of a big expansion, Japan actually, quite like yourself.  Many parallels that drew me to you. ER had a store full of expensive obsolete goods and a container of Brioni suits sitting on the dock in Italy that he left stranded because he didn’t have the cash and couldn’t get the credit.  Boom!  Just like a Stuka dive bomber that didn’t pull out of the dive.

I got some memories out of it although I wasn’t laughing at the time, not even for show.  As I say Eric Ross was rather slavishly devoted to the English ideal.  His son’s initials are ER so he devised his brass buttons after the royal insignia.  My wife and I were visiting the Rothschild estate, Waddington, open to the public we weren’t invited, and I was wearing the blazer with the ER buttons, Elizabeth Regina in England not Eric Ross.  I kept getting these looks while being gently shunned.  It wasn’t until a couple years later that I figured it out.

By the way if you like old seventies movies and TV reruns you will be able to notice ER clothes appearing frequently.   They usually give a shot of the cowboy back.  He was quite the rage.’  My voice and delivery was perfect.

‘That is humorous.  So, you like fine clothes?  Nothing downstairs interested you?’

‘Nice work, wrong styles.  When the style changed to that American Gigolo look back then, if you know that movie, I stopped buying and haven’t begun again till now but I still reject current styles.  They’re offensive.  Looks like someone’s telling you you’re too big for your britches; like wearing a baseball cap backwards.  So, I want something more along the line of what I’m wearing, longer skirts than currently, hate those short jackets.  Of course we can skip the cowboy influence.  I’ll want some different fabrics also.’

‘Yes, we can do that.  I think it will be a pleasure working with you.  How about Tuesday at ten AM for your first fitting?’

‘Of course, that would be fine.’

I should have known about the fitting.  Strange me, expecting to be fitted the same day.

I phoned Ragnar then talked to a salesman before Ragnar pulled up a few minutes later.

As I walked out of the store the idlers were still waiting.  One approached and said:  The Jews gave us monotheism.

I shrugged him off and hopped into the limo.

-IV-

The limo had just pulled from the curb when Ragnar asked if he could talk to me.  I said sure, just park the limo somewhere and I’d come up front.  I didn’t want anyone invading my private space in back.  Unlike Rosa Parks I had no qualms in the back.  Nowadays it is being said that as a Commie she, or they, planned the situation.  If so, I wonder, was the guy who told her to move in on it.  If it was staged was the media in on it?

Ragnar had his ways and means as he drove the limo under a building containing any number of limos.  Money has its prerogatives including private parking lots.  I went up front and slid into the passenger’s seat.

Ragnar hesitantly asked me what the guy had said to me.  I replied:  He said we owed monotheism to the Jews.

‘Why would he say that to you?’

‘I don’t know who he represents, Ragnar, but I assume he was referring to my critical historical essays on the internet in which the Jews are given their true historical roles.  I assume that my criticisms have taken effect but in defense of the Jews monotheism is considered preeminent.  This happens fairly frequently back home.’

‘But how would he know you?  You’re new to New York while being from far away?’

‘This is the internet age, Ragnar.  As the saying goes, you can run but you can’t hide.  Contrary to propaganda society is full of secret societies while with the internet they are effective anywhere in the world.  Did you notice the guy at the airport holding up the card with my name on it?  I have no idea what organization sent him.  If the Carmichaels and I hadn’t maintained internet contact exchanging pictures of you and I, I might have mistakenly gone with him or them.

I might be floating face down on the East River now or perhaps six fathoms down in cement shoes.  When you’re in movement you’re more vulnerable.’

‘You think they would have killed you?’

‘Why not?  I can’t imagine they just wanted to talk to me?’

‘Who are you?  I noticed other people following the limo or showing up wherever you go.  Who are these people?’

‘Ragnar, you’re asking the wrong guy.  I don’t know who they are and don’t particularly care.  I’m sure there is more than one group involved.  Possibly the Feds, possibly Jewish organizations, possibly homosexual groups, some freelance guardians of public morals, Reds of some sort, hard to tell.  I write critical historical articles that ‘offend’ the hyper sensitive.  For all I know they might be admirers who don’t know how to approach me.  I do speak for at least a large minority. That’s the way it is; nothing I can do about it.’

‘And they already know that you’re in New York?’

‘Of course, the internet, Ragnar, the internet.  There’s nowhere you can go without them following you around.  They all have cell phones and post lookouts to track your movements.  Believe it or not they have nothing better to do.  The Jews, for instance, on the fiftieth anniversary of Kristalnacht posted guys on the hill outside my house in case, I suppose, I consecrated the day by bombing a synagogue.  They’re all nuts, crazy as loons, obsessed by their fantasies, reality is just an impediment to their beliefs.  Actually I’m used to them; if they weren’t there I’d be disappointed because they would no longer think I was important.

Sort of like Gloria Vanderbilt who got a lot of press attention when her parents were getting a divorce.  Every morning a gaggle of reporters were waiting outside the house.  She got used to them, one morning when she and her parents were no longer news the reporters weren’t there.  ‘Mommy,’ she said, ‘Where are my reporters?’  I feel the same way.  If they weren’t around I’d have to ask what went wrong.’

‘Watching you on Kristalnacht?  The Jews really give us Germans a hard time.  I’m not so sure us Germans were in the wrong.’

‘Of course you weren’t Ragnar, but Bismarck made a mistake in not occupying and annexing France in eighteen seventy-one.  Instead he settled for Alsace-Lorraine and a bundle of cash.  You Germans paid a heavy price for that in the World Wars and after.  And of course the Jewish war against you continues today and has spread to the United States where the Jews have convinced Americans that they too are Nazis and guilty for their extermination.  Scratch a White person they say and you will find a Nazi.  It’s crazy.’

‘I don’t understand how Bismarck has anything to do with Hitler.’

‘The Interdependence Of Things as your great writer ETA Hoffmann called it.  It’s all connected Ragnar, it’s all connected.  You just have to find the connections.  If Bismarck had conquered the whole of France, incorporating it into a Greater Germany much as did Charlemagne, then sending tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of settlers into France instead of having them emigrate to the US and Russia he would have created a huge country that would have changed the destiny of Europe.’

‘The French would never have tolerated that.’

‘Sure they would have.  When Caesar conquered Gaul Roman settlers flowed in changing the demographics of what was then Celtic Gaul creating Roman Gaul.  The Gauls, however reluctantly, accepted a superior civilization eventually getting comfortable with it.  There might have been more trouble if the Gauls had been superior but then they weren’t.

Later the German tribes invaded, Franks and what have you, that dominated the Gallo-Romans by force creating the country as France, the land of the Franks.  Napoleon wiped out perhaps the majority of Franco-Germans in his wars since he favored the taller Germans over the shorter Gallo-Romans as soldiers.  Still in eighteen seventy-one there was a large body of Franco-Germans who would have blended with Bismarck’s new immigrants.  Sure it would have been a taut situation for a generation or two but the German civilization was superior to the French so as life would have been better under the Germans it wouldn’t have taken too long for the populations to meld.

The result would have been a reuniting of the two western parts of Charlemagne’s empire creating a European super state that would have drawn all Europe into its orbit.  There would have been no WWI and consequently no WWII.  England would have been trapped between a Greater Germany and the US.  How that would have worked out is anybody’s guess.  So as I see it Bismarck not having Napoleon’s vision blew it when he retired back into the newly united German States.

Now, consider the European situation today Ragnar.

The result of WWII that left Europe and Germany prostrated was that the Jews undeservedly scored a huge moral victory.  Having mounted the dais as victorious victims they unleashed a propaganda campaign against not only Germany but the West as a whole that totally morally disarmed both Europeans and Americans leaving the Jews to call the shots.  I think it was one of your German generals who said that peace is war by other means.  Perceptive fellow he.

The West has been bled white of more billions than you can count supporting the failed State of Israel.  Indoctrinaires such as France’s Sarkozy and the dumbest woman on the planet, Angela Merkel, of Germany have worked in combination with the Jews to destroy Europe.  As in Spanish days when the Jews opened the doors to Moslem invaders the three have conspired to flood Europe with Negro and Moslem hordes.

Sarkozy who was unable to pass a law compelling White women to marry Negroes has instead opted to flood France with Africans who will eventually mongrelize Europe.  Merkel has welcomed, indeed, invited millions of Moslems into Germany and hence Europe that has overstrained social, economic and political matters while stressing water and food supplies to the point of exhaustion.  The whole structure has actually been broken down.  The whole of Europe will be impoverished except the Jews.

Unlike the Roman and German invasions of Gaul and France in which a higher civilization did or would have replaced an inferior one the millions of Moslems and Africans now colonizing Europe represent either primitive or medieval inferior peoples.  Africans and Moslems have no hope of maintaining any semblance of European civilization.  Nor can they be taught.  There lies the great tragedy.

All this is the result of Bismarck’s not following through and annexing France into a Greater Germany. Had he had vision all of this could have been avoided.  Europe would have been a happier place.  The Bolsheviks would never have been able to appropriate Russia.  The Jewish people would have of course continued their activities to destroy Europe with what result we can’t see.  As peace is war by other means peace may have favored their plans as much as war.  Perhaps today Europe would have been a Jewish empire anyway.  So, Ragnar.’

-V-

The story continues in Clip 2.

The Vampyres Of New York

Part I, Clip 2

A Novel

by

R.E. Prindle

The story continues…

As I say some sort of subconscious stirring had drawn me to New York.  When I first walked into James Carter I felt stirring in my brain but now there was a deeper agitation foreboding a brain change.  At my age, of course, there was always something happening, your body diminishes a bit while mental adjustments are constant but this felt more like a sea change, a premonition of a brain crunch, going in one door and coming out another.

Over the past decade or so I had had three major crises.  The first was the strongest, a tremendous electrical discharge at the top of the frontal lobe.  My whole power train from brain to genitals lit up, transparent as it were, I had no means to evaluate it nor was I aware of any changes in my behavior.

The second occurred a few year later, the electrical discharge was not so strong only flashing from my heart.  Something had changed but I couldn’t tell what.  The third that happened was only a couple years ago just before my wife died but only disalienating however I did then notice some personality changes as bits and pieces of personality fell into place.  I had greater self-confidence and a bit more forceful personality, I lost my usual diffidence that had been diminishing I now noticed from the first two events.

They say that coming events cast a shadow before them.  In my case that has to be true because I began to ruminate on the notion of dual personalities. I do not mean split personality but dual personality, twins of a sort, both aware of each other, nothing hidden from each.  Biologically speaking the physical structure is made up of two halves, from two separate identities.  That is the sperm and ovum come together to form one organism, two different and unrelated strands of DNA and the two strands retain separate identities as the brain retains two separate halves joined by another organ, the corpus collosum, that allows communication between the two halves.

At some time in the distant past a predecessor organism contained all four sex chromosomes, XXXy, but when sex evolved dividing chromosome in two the male received one X and the y while the female received the other two Xs, but the three Xs are not identical.  So, the male has an X passive right side and the active sperm left side of the brain, hence the celebrated feminine side to the male personality.

The female has an active X from the sperm and passive X from the ovum.

The psychoanalysts Freud and Jung at the beginning of the twentieth century then named the ovum side of the brain the Anima and the left the Animus.  So really the individual whether male or female has the elements of a dual personality.

This fact has always been recognized being frequently portrayed in literature although usually unconsciously. The first representation, although the exponents weren’t aware of the source was the opposition of God and Satan, Good vs. Evil impulses.  There was a conflict between the wish to be good and the reality of being evil.  This was a psychological problem that had to be explained; thus the serpent in the Garden of Eden story and also that of Lucifer being kicked out of heaven.  Thus early civilized man explored the nature of psychology.

Certainly in my early life the whole notion of God and Satan was relegated to the realm of fable.  By the beginning of the nineteenth century in the Western world and the Western world only biology became a source of explanation thus the story of ETA Hoffmann, The Princess Brambilla that is a discussion of the Anima and Animus.

Perhaps the most famous dual personality story of the nineteenth century was Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde.  A story that concerns two aspects of the Animus.  In Stevenson’s story Dr. Jekyll has suppressed a wild aspect of his Animus by emphasizing a respectable persona that he needed to succeed in the world as a physician.  However Jekyll longed for the rough and rowdy days of his youth represented by the other person of Mr. Hyde.  Hyde, to say the least, was uncivilized.

The repression of Hyde was so strong that Jekyll couldn’t indulge him.  This being the golden age of science, while Jekyll was the experimental sort, he discovered a potion or drug that temporarily released the Hyde persona of his Animus or Ego.  This was fine except for with each repeated dosage Hyde become more obstreperous finally indulging his passions in murder.  He was on his way to becoming a serial killer.

Now with police hot on his trail Hyde took the antidote to turn himself back into Jekyll but alas he found the little abyss back too wide to jump over.  He had become his opposite.

Stevenson’s little novelette became one of the most influential books of the twentieth century.  Without fully understanding it the cat was out of the bag although it came in many different colors.

Perhaps one of the most interesting investigations was that proposed by the American writer, the great Edgar Rice Burroughs.  He created one of the fundamental characters of the twentieth century, the great man beast, Tarzan Of The Apes.

Burroughs himself was entranced by Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde.  The idea of a dual personality had a great appeal to him.  Of course the novelette was new at the time presenting a startling idea.  Psychology, specifically psycho-analysis, presented startling findings to the public that had to be absorbed but couldn’t or wouldn’t be absorbed for fifty years or more and then by the chosen few.  Burroughs also had a great interest in psychology.

Concurrent with these developments was the newly risen conflict between civilization and the primitive with their conflicting demands on the perplexed mind of humanity.  The notion was, especially propounded by the anthropologist James G. Frazer in his multi-volume The Golden Bough was his vision that the primitive mind was overlain only by ‘a thin veneer of civilization.’  Scratch a civilized man and the primitive beast beneath would emerge, not too unlike Jekyll and Hyde.

Influencing Burroughs alongside these was Darwin’s theory of evolution.  Mixed and shaken well what came out of Burrough’s mind was Tarzan of the Apes.

As a ‘true’ story of course the novel is preposterous.  Generally speaking the literati rejected the novel for its obvious impossibility refusing to see the allegory of the times which it was.  The story is beautiful in a mythological way.

Tarzan was a thoroughly divided man just as was his model Stephenson’s Jekyll and Hyde.  No less preposterous I might add.  If you set a matrix over the two stories they are the same.  Burroughs himself had two personalities and he believed that all people did to a greater or lesser degree, correctly as it would seem.

Thus Tarzan or John Clayton, Lord Greystoke to give him his real name and title was born an English aristocrat on a voyage to Africa.  Pirates seized their ship depositing them on the coast of Gabon just below the falls of the Congo.  A tribe of great apes, more resembling the Missing Link than any known species assaulted the homestead of the man, wife and child castaways killing the mother and father.  The son would have been killed by the great bull ape except that a female named Kala who had just lost an infant snatched the babe from the cradle running away with it and defying anyone to harm it.

Thus the human Tarzan became a feral child raised as a beast among the Great Apes without acquiring the thin veneer of civilization.  However an Englishman to the bone, a member of the greatest race of the human species, was always an Englishman no matter what the circumstances.  His parents humble but well constructed cabin weathers the elements for a decade or so until Tarzan discovers it and enters to find it well supplied with children’s books thoughtfully brought by his expectant real mother.  He thus discovers that he is not a funny looking ape but something else altogether.  As the picture showed a boy and conveniently put the letters B-O-Y beneath it cleverly putting picture to type or two and two make four as we say he learned that the was a boy.

Teaching himself to read using the convenient dictionary his pop brought along he acquires the thinnest veneer of civilization.  Probably learned chemical formulae from dad’s convenient chemistry text book although that is mere speculation on my part.  At that point he acquired a dual personality.  He was both a beast and a semi-civilized man.  However he prefers the skimpiest loin cloth with tails hanging down front and back to the most luxurious tuxedo.

That’s the way Edgar Rice Burroughs rewrote Stephenson’s Jekyll and Hyde while integrating the latest and most advanced ideas of his times.  Altogether an excellent intellectual achievement.

Stephenson’s idea wasn’t exhausted by Burroughs’ treatment.  Indeed, the idea became a staple of at least pulp literature.  I’m not going to trouble you with an exhaustive study but here’s a few highlights that are very interesting.  The idea of the hero with a day job and an after dark avocation had taken root.

We have The Shadow of Maxwell Grant. Not just a couple dozen novels as with Burroughs’ Tarzan but well over three hundred of them.  Grant was a magician.  No, really.  He was a practicing magician, as such he undoubtedly had an interest in hypnotism.  Grant said that The Shadow had the power to cloud men’s minds so that he was invisible.  That’s hypnotism and there are many more evidences in the novels.

As with Burroughs’ Tarzan some fans come from print others through other media.  By 1930 when The Shadow appears the other media includes, movies, radio and comics that had come into existence.  However the characters created by the movies and other media were much different than what issued from the minds of Burroughs or Grant. (Real name Walter Gibson.)

Thus Grant’s Shadow is composed of interesting dualities.  On the macro level The Shadow represents the Godly mind while the evil criminals he destroys are in the Satanic mold.  The Shadow might even be construed as Godliness’ last stand.  The Satanic model would increase in dominance until in 1966 Time Magazine blazoned its cover in black and white with the question Is God Dead?  That was quite shocking tearing the fabric of society.

In that same year the Jew Ira Levin published his novel Rosemary’s Baby telling of the birth of Satan’s child, Little Andy.  The novel was followed by the Jew Roman Polanski’s horrific film of the same name in 1968 as the Satanic side of the human mind replaced the Godly.  From Rosemary’s Baby flowed the Charles Manson murders.  It’s been hell since.

On the micro level The Shadow himself was the alter ego of a man named Kent Allard who in vampire fashion assumed the identity of Lamont Cranston. We at the time knew only of the radio Shadow and Cranston.  In the novel Allard faked his death in South America removing all traces of his existence.  Returning to New York he terrorized his lookalike Lamont Cranston into allowing Allard to operate in his identity while sending Cranston overseas.  Thus by day Cranston was a playboy around town and at night he was The Shadow, a vigilante fighting evil.  It seems that it would be difficult to be a playboy without a nightlife but Allard/Cranston managed it.  The Shadow is an integral part of my own mentality, perhaps in opposition to the evil William C. Gaines.

By the late thirties Burroughs and Grant were spawning all kinds of imitators.  While comic strips in newspapers had existed since the turn of the century comic books came into existence in the mid-thirties giving whole new dimensions to the dual personality.  Comic books as we know them were created by the character Superman in 1938 first in Action Comics and then in his own name.

The comic book was wholly a creation of Jewish talents pushing a Jewish agenda.  As such, whether we knew it or not the comics reflected the Jewish view of life or Weltanschauung.  The Jews have been described as a peculiar people and indeed their history confirms the evaluation.  The Kent Allard/Lamont Cranston/Shadow triumvirate more or less sums up the Jewish experience.

Twentieth Century US experience in which I lived most of my life was one of discovery for me.  In my childhood that followed the death camps of WWII I never actually knew a Jew as a Jew.  Like Kent Allard they had merged into a new disguise that for a novice or even experienced person was extremely difficult to penetrate.  I knew they existed because I read about them and there was a synagogue in one of the most conspicuous places in town while the only Jew that identified as a Jew was called Sheeny Sheyer and he was a haberdasher.  Beyond that I scarcely knew Jews existed until the really big 1958 Holocaust fest show.  That was my introduction.  Since then, of course, Judaism has been one of the central thread of my studies.

Jews have developed the dual identity into an art form.  As the saying goes:  Sometimes they don’t know who they are.

As they are living in other people’s countries, since 1800 they have tried to adapt by adopting local haberdashery while adopting personal names in the local manner.  Of course in mid-nineteenth century European population pressures compelled the State to order their peoples to assume last names, just as in our day population pressures have forced the adoption of a unique number to identify the specific individual.  Thus there might be umpteen John Smiths in the US but you have to have the right number to identify your John Smith.

In the Jewish case a man might have gone by the name of Isaac Ben Abraham, that is Isaac, the son of Abraham.  Under the new system he had to choose a last name.  The Jews usually named themselves after articles of value or distinction. Hence all the variants of Gold, Silver and precious stones.  Isaac Ben Abraham might become Isaac Goldbladder or Isaac Silvermaster or, Perhaps Heinrich Heine.  Going into the twentieth century then all Westerners had a first and last name and any number of intervening names their parents might choose.

As most of these names were either German or Russian upon coming to the US many chose to translate the name into English; thus Sumner Rothstein became Sumner Redstone.  Sumner itself being considered an assimilative name.  David and Michael are the most popular Jewish first names.  Some, like Edward G. Robinson the actor, anglicized their name more completely, his European name being Emmanuel Goldenberg (Gold Mountain.)  Behind that not unlike Lamont Cranston who might have been Kent Allard was a Hebrew name and that was his real identity.  So a Jew automatically had a dual identity, his public name by which he was known at large and the name with which he was registered as a Jew.

On might say then that he was always in disguise in the broad world, a secret foreign agent reporting, as it were, to the synagogue. His people came first before his ‘adopted’ country.  This is a source of much confusion to non-Jews while Jews lie when they say their ‘adopted’ country is their first loyalty.  Interesting that they adopt a country but the country doesn’t adopt them.

When comic books were developed in the mid-thirties they were almost exclusively Jewish hence expressing the Jewish Weltanschauung.  All the characters had dual identities.

Thus Superman migrated from the planet Krypton and ‘adopted’ Earth as his chosen planet.  His Krypton identity was Superman while his earthly identity was the wimpish Clark Kent.  Capt. America was the Jewish identity while Steve Rogers was his goyish identity.  And this continued with the comic book characters Batman and Robin identities.

Now, the Jew has always felt inferior to the other; Cain was the big strong other while Abel was the lesser younger brother.  Clark Kent was a weak human while the Jewish Superman was a powerful extra-terrestrial.  Steve Rogers was a 98 lb. weakling while Capt. America while lacking true super powers certainly outperformed human beings.

The creators of these characters mostly anglicized their names, Jack Kirby, Stan Lee, but not all.  So these people had multiple real identities.  When you think about it, it is fairly incredible.

When the super characters began playing out in the post-war years the publishers had to search for new themes and they tried everything settling finally into crime but then as Crime Does Not Pay William C. Gaines finally hit the main vein with sado-masochistic horror comics, thus Weird Tales and Tales From The Crypt et al..

That’s where I came in and leave off.  I was surprised to find myself ruminating on this subject like this especially as I am beginning to find movement in my brain that signifies some sort of development.  When I hit seventy-five I began to notice subtle brain changes followed by electrical discharges the significance of which I am just now understanding.  So, I felt some changing was coming but I couldn’t tell when.  I found out; it was imminent.

-II-

What prompted me to ruminate on dual personalities, the Jekyll and Hyde syndrome, was unknown to me but from the rumblings in my brain I knew something was brewing.  Whatever abominable motives I had for coming to New York City were about to out themselves; I sensed that.

I still needed a wardrobe. I had come to the realization that I needed different garb for different situations, that is, essentially, multiple identities.  Ragnar was much more familiar with the city and as his time was at my disposal I asked him to show me around some thrift shops; I needed second hand clothing.

I met him at the building’s entrance where we stopped and chatted with Ottmar the doorman for a few minutes.  Ragnar gave Ottmar an opportunity to look me over and evaluate me.  I put on my maximum gravitas for Ottmar, which I also assumed for the outing with Ragnar.  I was sure I passed Ottmar’s test and while I couldn’t be sure I saw that he was tentatively satisfied.

Ragnar was gifted with an almost perfect knowledge of the city’s streets so I let him lead our two man parade.  While walking along we passed a wig shop, I guided Ragnar in.  The shine was showing through the sparsening  hairs on my own head while I had always been fascinated by Andy Warhol’s use of wigs.  They were good disguises.

There was a wonderful array of wigs.  I picked out a grey one for dignity, a blond one to look vainglorious and a dark one, I suppose for variety but maybe in imitation of Elvis.  I was interested in disguising my own paucity of follicles (God, that’s labored, isn’t it?)  I can’t bring myself to say bald, but like with Warhol, for effect.  An obvious wig draws people’s attention away from your actual appearance making an identification less possible.  So, I was three wigs closer to my objective.

Ragnar brought us up to a block or so of thrift shops.  I began selecting street clothes.  There were any number of styles to choose from, very nearly any time period.  Especially since the Great Migration under Obama’s third term, permanent dictatorship actually, one could buy almost any style in the world, naqibs, dashikis, everything.

The ’16 election ended the ‘democracy’ as you well know.  God, that was a mess.  I was irate when they refused to inaugurate Trump after he had taken a full sixty-five percent of the popular vote and all the electoral votes save New Mexico.  We, of what was dubbed the Outsider Party, were irate but the Insider Party small as it was had the fire power and already controlled the apparatus so there was little that could be done in that surprise move.

At least the battle lines were drawn although little in the way of revolt has appeared yet.  Some very minor skirmishing in places like Chicago and some Southern cities but nothing unmanageable yet.  Remarkably quiet but with a feeling of real tension.  Trump had no choice but to go back to New York City.  Winning by that margin and being denied his office, of course, exposed the Insiders to the world and the mask did come down, both here and in Europe.  Embarrassed the Insiders stripped Trump of his fortune leaving him with a relative pittance, he definitely had to sell his 757.

Even as Trump was returning to New York the Insiders threw down the walls and immigration exploded.  They give us five million as the official number but it is probably ten to twenty million judging from the streets of New York which is where millions landed.  Speaking as the ghost of John Rocker one doesn’t hear so much dozens of foreign languages but that English seems to be missing.

In an odd turn of events on our journey I noticed ‘scribes’ with tables set up for customers who wanted to send a letter back home but were illiterate.  Talk of medieval times; there was no longer an appropriate name for it. I found myself buying strange things.  I got a very nice Lubavitcher outfit, also a perfect disguise, weird hat and all for not too much.  I picked up a naqib or burka that I thought would be a terrific disguise.  You could carry weapons and nearly anything under the voluminous folds without fear of detection.  Plus as an apparent woman you were generally ignored, invisible.

I also asked Ragnar to get me a couple handguns.  He agreed before he realized what he had admitted but we both let that slide.  I have no idea why I thought he could do it nor did I realize why I wanted them.  We were fully loaded on the walk back to the condo.  Perhaps spurred on by Ragnar’s ability to get guns I asked if he knew martial arts.

‘Oh sure.  That was one of the Carmichael’s requirements.  I also serve as a bodyguard.  I’m Black Belt.  Why?’

I wasn’t sure why.  ‘You look like you can really handle yourself Ragnar.  Good shape, athletic build, just wondered?  Work out?

‘Absolutely.  I don’t bulk up like a body builder but I’ve put on enough muscle to deal with things, get the right weight you know.  May I ask you a few questions?’

‘Sure, go ahead.  If they’re discreet.’

‘A friend of mine recognized you from your picture on your web site.  He says you’re the writer Partly Wright.  True?’

‘Partly Wright Delivers The Truth?  Yes, that’s my stuff.  Your friend reads me?’

‘He’s on the conservative side and says you lay it out as it is.’

‘That’s my goal Ragnar, that’s my goal.  Good to learn somebody else thinks so too.  Is your friend political?’

I was trying to find out if Ragnar was part of some secret political organization but I couldn’t come out and ask without seeming nosy.

‘Is your friend in a political set?’  I asked hoping that sounded like a generality.

‘No, we just talk at the gym about things.’

Talk at the gym?  OK.  There was a possibility.  I let the subject drop for the time being as we were approaching the condo.  We threw the bundles into the grocery cart as I reminded him to be ready for my first fitting at James Carter.

-III-

I woke up next morning and realized that I was due at James Carter for my initial fitting.  I looked forward eagerly to the thought of realizing my desire for a bespoke suit, still, other thoughts crowded my mind.  I wondered what my real reason was for being in New York.  Yes, I was aware of the good reasons but I sensed subliminal  reasons I wasn’t able to articulate.  And then there were the brain stirrings that usually preceded some sort of mental adjustment.  So far each had been more liberating after the trauma while I believed I had cleared out all of the fixations that had influenced my behavior.  At the same time I sensed, or I knew of from study, that there was a level of conditioning that lurked below the subconscious in a sort of basement or foundation of the mind.  Perhaps that was stirring.  I would soon find out.

Alighting from the limo I was greeted on the sidewalk by the manager, a little too effusively I thought; there was no reason to leave the store.  As he escorted me up the stairs to the second floor it hit.  The seventh step up I felt, even heard, the brain crunch as I slightly staggered against the rail.  Fortunately the manager was ahead of me and didn’t see me lurch or whatever grimace was on my face.  I was slightly dazed and mentally unsteady as he brought the lead tailor out to introduce me to him.

I could feel the cold professional appraisal, I knew I was being evaluated for what status I would be assigned.

‘Abe, this is Mr. Partly Wright for whom we will be making several suits’.  He said, adding a few suits I hadn’t mentioned as he saw that Abe was giving me a fishy eye bordering on disapproval or even hostility in an effort to forestall any affront by Abe to drive me off.

‘And Partly this is Abraham Goldbladder our tailor and one of the finest in New York’, Abe growled, ‘And anywhere else.’ ‘I’m sure you to will get along swimmingly, won’t you Abe?’

‘I’m sure.’  Abe said glowering at me, sawing the measuring tape across the back of neck a couple times.  ‘Partly is it?  Come this way and we’ll get started.’

I followed into the work area where Abe turned swiftly and stood glaring at me, uncertain of how to begin.

‘I know who you are Mr. Wright.’  He said sternly.  ‘Follow me.’

‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘This explains who some of the people are who Ragnar noticed following me.  It isn’t that I didn’t think The Tribe mightn’t be tagging my movements but this confirmed it, moved my suspicions from paranoia to fact, so to speak.

Abe led through a corridor or two, down backstairs to a door he flung open with an imperative gesture to pass through.  I found myself in an alley, a dank smelly alley, narrow and confining.  At first I thought that Abe had thrown me out, refusing to serve me but, no, he followed me out and stood confronting me.

‘We know who you are.’  He repeated sternly as though demanding a reply.

I paused a moment gathering my fractured wits about me while trying to assume a commanding but condescending humorously mocking posture.  This confrontation would determine the quality of my stay in New York.  Abe believed that confronting me in amongst the smelly dumpsters in the alley would be an insult to put me at a disadvantage.  Abe had no way of knowing that I had dealt with his tribesmen in a more than somewhat intimate basis in my working years and was quite familiar with Jewish tactics.

I smiled and chuckled at him trying to exude the air that Abe was in his proper habitat and that I was fully aware of it.  I did succeed to his obvious discomforture.

‘I’m sure you do, Abe.  I’m just surprised that you have finally come out into the open.  Am I in your habitat now?’

It was important for me to get the upper.  I knew that Abe would try to get me angry while not being able to imagine any other arguments than the Semitic canards that had come down through the ages forming the basis of his peoples’ minds.  I therefore imagined myself smoking the avuncular or grandfatherly pipe chuckling quietly at the young one’s impertinence.  If I could get Abe steamed so much the better.

Abe flushed a little, losing his edge, when he realized that I had said that he was in his element in the alley amongst those godawful dumpsters.

‘We want to know what you’re here for.  What’s up your sleeve?’

‘Oh Abe’, I chuckled, ‘you’re not going to lay that paranoid trip on me are you?  Do you fear the other that much?’

‘Fear what other?’  He said, jutting out his jaw a trifle.  ‘We aren’t afraid of anyone.’

‘Oh Abe, you know, the ever present fearsome anti-Semite.  Those you have to shut down and silence by any means necessary.’  I took an imaginary draw on my imaginary pipe to keep a steady low.

‘We know from your writings that you’re an anti-Semite Wright, the lowest form of scum on the planet.’

‘By ‘we’ I presume you’re including the American Jewish Committee and Anti-Defamation League, possibly the SPLC, Abe?’

He snorted non-committally refusing to answer.

‘Only in the Jewish mind, Abe.’ I replied to his question with a smile and a knowing laugh.  ‘Anti-Semitism is only Jewish fear of the other in action.  You just can’t face who you are; any criticism smarts so bad because it tells you the truth about yourselves.  The truth is that Jews always live in societies that are superior to you and that clashes so furiously with your fantasies of superiority that it drives you mad.

There is evidence.  Consider the Jews transported from a relatively primitive backwater town like Jerusalem to the stupendous magnificence of Babylon.  The Jewish imagination was dwarfed.  Thus you have madmen like Isaiah and Ezekiel proclaiming Jewish superiority and opening the gates to the Persians.

The same scenario has been repeated ad infinitum throughout history including your opening the doors of the United States to unlimited diverse immigration.  That’s the same thing as opening Babylon’s doors to the Persians or Spanish doors to the Moors not to mention then opening Moorish doors to the Spaniards.  It is incontestable Abe.

Jewish frustration erupts into mass murder.  The Jews attempted to compete with and subject the Roman Empire.  That ended in the complete destruction of Israel and the leveling of Jerusalem and the Temple.  Undismayed your people continued the war finally erupting at the beginning of the second century murdering half a million people in Alexandria and Cyprus under the most barbaric conditions.  A true crime against humanity.

The result of that episode was a manhunt to destroy any and all Jews.  Sixteen hundred years later after the resulting collapse of civilization your Jews again thought to kill all Europeans.  Sabbatai Zevi posing as a messiah thought to usher in the millennium in 1666.  Your Jews in Europe were selling their possessions for peanuts to have a last fling as money wouldn’t matter after the redemption.  The redemption failed and the Jewish revolt never happened.

I’m skipping over a great deal Abe, just the highlights now.  Then in 1914 you instigated the Great European Holocaust that after the terrible wars from ’14 to ’45 has continued to today when you have refused to seat the elected presidential candidate Donald Trump.’

Here Abe lost control a little, I was succeeding. ‘That was only social justice.  I’m sure you know that in 1920 five elected Jewish representatives to the New York legislature were refused their seats and sent back to New York City.’

‘Not because they were Jewish Abe, because they were Socialists.’

‘What’s the difference?’  Abe let slip.

‘In answer to your question, none.’  I laughed as merrily as I could without seeming forced.  I had admired a lesson Marshall McLuhan had given to Tim Leary in the Sixties of the old century that when confronted by hecklers the best reproof was to just open your mouth and laugh them off.  Drives them crazy and it seemed to effect Abe that way who should have known better with his age and experience.

‘But the situations are not comparable Abe.  Of course with the elected candidate refused we still needed a president.  Hillary, the defeated candidate was not possible and there were no alternates legally available so you people set aside all law, all precedent and said Obama would continue as president for life.  And then you had the gall to get your three Jewish representatives on the Supreme Court to declare it constitutional.  Fourteenth Amendment my ass.’

‘That was a problem that had nothing to do with we Jews.’

‘One thousand Rabbis said otherwise Abe.  Deny as you will.  Then out of sheer malice you destroyed Trump.  Stripped him of everything for having defied you.  Took everything, even renamed Trump Towers the Goldman Towers.  Don’t know why you left the other half of the name off.  Everyone knows who Obama’s boss is.

So, really Abe,  I’ve got your number, you don’t have mine.  I know you, you know me.  I’m just here to get some clothes because your company reminds me of Eric Ross.  It gives me some continuity.  You’re going to have to make my suits for me.’

So saying l slipped inside the door quickly throwing the dead bolt.  Abe hammered and shouted to no effect.  Accepting the inevitable he walked the length of the dark smelly alley emerging into the light to the amusement of those watching.  Abe’s planned humiliation of me turned back on him.

Abe had a short discussion with his manager but as there would be a fair amount of money involved he accepted his fate and began my first fitting.

I had won this one but the strain told on me.  My head was rattling as Ragnar drove me back to the condo.  I felt uneasy if not outright sick while the laughter in my head I had experienced in the alley came back.

Ottmar smiled me in and the elevator wait seemed interminable before I got the he thirty-first floor and all the door locks unlocked, rushing into the bedroom to leap into bed.  I had just pulled the covers to my chin when I heard that low chuckle and a voice say ‘Hello.’  There was no one there but the voice went on:  ‘Hello.  Yes it’s me.  It’s Gaines.’

‘Gaines?  Who the hell is Gaines?’  I found my mind answering.

‘You remember me.  Gaines?  The comic books?  Tales From The Crypt, Weird Tales?  Remember?  I’m why you came to New York.’

‘Gaines?’  Oh, I know what has happened.  My own personal Mr. Hyde has shown up.  I had acquired a dual identity.  ‘I just want to sleep Gaines.  Come back later.’  He did cease and I dropped into a fitful sleep.

Continued in Clip Three.

Book I, Clip 3

The Vampyres Of New York

A Novel

by

R.E. Prindle

 

If you haven’t experienced that kind of mental agony you don’t know.  I tossed and turned all afternoon and into the night.  My brain was racked but not with pain.  It was like all the connections had come loose and I had no control of my mental processes.  There was no way to concentrate, to organize my thoughts to possibly think or be rational.  It was like three fevers without temperature racking around in my brain.

I was exhausted and then possibly at one in the morning I heard a knocking.  I sat up in bed wondering who in the world it could be.  Then I heard Gaines again:  Hello, I’m back.  Let’s talk.

Well, Gaines!  Of course I knew what was happening then.  I was at that level of experience and conditioning between the birth process and more conscious experience.  I had already cleared out the most compelling of my childhood fixations at forty-two when I integrated my personality.  That freed me from compulsions and inhibitions but I gradually learned that there was another layer of control or influence yet beyond my reach.  Gaines had now shown up so it was possible to free myself from that psychological layer.  Small comfort at eighty but then few if any become so clear.  Freud and Jung certainly never attained it.  I flattered myself that I could be unique.  The first of the New Men.  Don’t smile, it was a pleasant thought.

This wasn’t the first incident of interior dialogue my mind had spoken to itself.  I heard what they call voices back in my early teens.  Of course like St. Augustine I had been convinced that one could talk to God.  Unlike Augustine I wasn’t crazy enough to persist when God couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know when I asked.

And then back then I heard voices telling me to do inappropriate things like Kill your mother and Chuckles but I shut them up; I wasn’t to going to jail for any reason.  And now, here was Gaines a more or less rational entity who would try to convince me to do evil I was certain.  As in primeval days I was attached to the God Principle while Gaines was representing the Satanic Principle.

He seemed to be lodged in the right hemisphere just behind and above that ear.  This puzzled me somewhat as I would have thought he would have been part of my Animus or Ego that being the male side of the brain; instead he was on my female side.

Then I realized that when Gaines had taken up a primal position in my consciousness I was sitting on the back steps of the Orphanage.  When my mother had put me in the Orphanage and had walked away she had created this space in my mind, this psychological layer.  Gaines and his evil comic books was therefore associated with my mother.  Oh yes, my mother.  Sometimes I wish I had heeded those early voices and offed both her and Chuckles.  Chuckles, that mean assed bastard, was her second husband.  They married when I was ten and I then came out of the Orphanage.

Well, you know, as I always told myself, you have to play the hand you’re dealt.  I think I can say without comment that I played that lousy hand well.  Here I was in New York City, the capital of the world, in a thirty million dollar apartment.  Gaines wasn’t going to be a problem, after all, he was me and I was him.  I had the upper hand with the God Principle on my side while Gaines might as well have been Abe Goldbladder of the Satanic Principle.  I will discuss that more in my presentation to the New Serapion Brethren.

I was inside my skull with Gaines but my mind had cleared up, I might as well get started.

‘So, Gaines, what brings you here?’  A silly question because I already knew the answer.  Still, in order to extinguish him I had to play along.  However I did think it necessary to call in my old psycho-analyst Dr. Anton Polarion as an assist.

Who is Dr. Anton?  I’m embarrassed to say this because then you might think I really am crazy.  But that’s alright, I may be.

Dr. Anton Polarion came around several years ago when I was deep in my psychological studies.  I was working a number of fields of study and I needed someone to handle the psychology for me when I was working another field.  It was then I thought up Dr. Anton giving him the responsibility for memorizing and developing psychology.

I know it sounds kind of crazy but it’s not.  Dr. Anton was and is a memory aide.  If you read up on the art of memory you will learn that in Greek and Roman times people constructed memory palaces of many rooms extensively furnished and then assigned memories to various rooms and objects in order to more conveniently record them, prodigious feats of memory are recorded.  Oh alright, but I wasn’t going to wander around a Memory Palace trying to find various rooms and objects with their assigned memories so I just handed the job to an imagined Dr. Anton rather than a Memory Palace.  You can understand that can’t you?  Seems reasonable enough to me but you never know what other people will think.  Anyway Dr. Anton knows whereof he speaks.  So when it comes to hearing voices it was now two to one against Gaines and I had another Ace or two up my sleeve.

I was loaded for bear and I was sure I could kick Gaines’ ass.  Still, I had to hear Gaines out.

‘So Gaines, as I said, what brings you here?’

‘I’ve got some good advice for you,’ said Gaines.

‘Knowing who you are Gaines I doubt it could be good.’

‘Oh ho, you think you know who I am do you?  Who am I?’

‘This will take some time Gaines but you’ve got as much as I do.  I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.  Your showing up here, now, puts things in place.   I’m going to call in Dr. Anton for support.  You know who he is don’t you Gaines?’

‘Of course, of course.  I know as well as you know me.  Hello Anton, welcome to the conversation.’

Anton:  Hello Gaines.  Well, let’s get started.

Partly:  The key here is the Orphanage and me sitting on the back step reading Tales From The Crypt.  That was one sado-masochistic piece Gaines with a certain portrayal of women.  Strangely that portrayal was reminiscent of my mother.  It is between you and my mother that this psychology revolves around.

Anton:  Yes, your mother transferred her hatred of your father to you after she had put him away and tried to destroy any happiness for you.  It is no coincidence that after she had your father committed to the asylum she committed you to the Orphanage.  Of course, she had ‘good reasons’ for doing so but they weren’t the real reasons.  When you turned eighteen she thought she had you again, enlisting you in the Navy and having you shipped off somewhere where she would never have to see you to remind her of her crime against your father.  Thus the association of your mother, sado-masochism and Gaines.

Gaines also provides your connection to the Jews although that application came later in life.  The content of Gaines’ comics, the sado-masochism, is part of the Jewish Weltanschauung that Freud expressed so well and it is that that Judaicized  you, making the Jewish culture part of your own.  It is that part, this Satanic consciousness that drags your spirit down causing your chronic low depression.  We’ll try to shake it here but it may now be integral to your mentality.

Leaving Gaines for a moment the pre-Gaines component was your mother’s extreme selfishness.  Of course your mother was three months gone when she married your father.  This didn’t create so much guilt as anger.  She held your father responsible preventing her from doing whatever she thought she would be doing later.  You were born in 1938 in the depths of the Great Depression.

Jobs were not easy to come by and although your father was a good provider, that is you had a roof over your head and a shack to live in, even so your father ran out of jobs so he joined the Civilian Conservation Corps and went to work planting forests.  He was a good man; he sent most of his money to your mother.  She unfortunately as you would learn was not a good woman.

It is difficult at this point to retrieve her motivation but she got laid in the back of a Chevrolet in the parking lot of a grocery store as you know well, Perry.  She became pregnant with the little bastard palmed off to you as your brother.  A child of sin he has always remained so.  A point came where the pregnancy could no longer be concealed.

Needless to say the realization made your father angry.  In an attempt to learn the culprit he began to punch her out.  In the way of women she was stout refusing to give up his name.  Your father said things like ‘I am out working CCC to provide for you and you’re out, words that were unintelligible to you.  Do you remember that Partly?

Partly:  Yes I do.

Anton:  Less than two and half and you remember!  What a memory Perry. The bastard was born, your father left and you saw him only once more several months later.  Do you know what happened to him?

Me:  No. Never saw him again after that last time.

Dr. Anton:  Your mother had him committed to the insane asylum and he lived there all his life and died there.

Gaines:  Wait a minute, wait a minute.  You can’t know anything he doesn’t Anton.  Where’s this coming from?

Dr. Anton:  Just as you have been suppressed until now Gaines so has the knowledge I’m now revealing.  It came in bits and pieces and I have put it all together.  Partly is just now realizing it.

Where was I?  Yes, committing him was a sadistic act on the part of a guilty woman.  But it didn’t stop there Partly. To assuage her guilt while indulging her sadism she had removed her husband but you, a reminder of her crime, remained.  She transferred her affection to her bastard and set out to torture and frustrate you.  You remember the nightmares you had in high school where your mother was constantly betraying you?  That was a subconscious recognition of what you wouldn’t allow yourself to acknowledge but still you knew.

The Orphanage was just four blocks from your grandparents house where you were living.  She had to know the effect it would have on your mentality, you certainly did, but just as she had put her husband away in an asylum she put his memory away in another institution, the Orphanage.

Do you remember this Partly?

Me:  Sure Anton, I remember but not as clearly and well organized as you do.

Dr. Anton:  You’d be a better man for learning it although at eighty who gives a shit.  You’ll take it to your grave soon enough.

Me:  That’s alright Anton, I’ll die, as you say, a better man.

Anton:  So your mother dropped you off and you were led away just like in prison or the asylum but with slightly better conditions.  And thus you began to become who you used to be before your personality integration that introduced this current phase of your life at forty-two.

You became quite independent in that harrowing situation of the Orphanage.  Fate left that copy of Tales From The Crypt lying on that little porch and a pain equal to your being abandoned seared your soul again striking through your subconscious to the structural level here.  You were no longer a free man but controlled from, for lack of a better term, your subconscious.  I don’t know how you made it through but here you are.

Your mother’s remarriage to the maniac Chuckles who was a match for your mother’s sadism nearly destroyed you during those eight long years until graduation.  Enough of that for now.  Let’s deal with Gaines here.

Me:  Can we get rid of him?

Gaines:  Hell no!

Dr. Anton:  He is unfortunately part of the warp and woof of your personality but I’m pretty certain we can modify it and reduce his Satanic level considerably.

Gaines:  Over my dead body.

Dr. Anton:  Preferably Gaines, that is what we’re shooting for.

With that I collapsed back into my pillow exhausted but calmer with less of a feverish feeling.  I was breathing somewhat heavily.  I knew that this was a significant psychological event that had not yet achieved resolution and I was afraid to lose the thread.  After about an hour Dr. Polarion returned.  Anton was not an alter ego as Gaines but functioned more as a guardian angel, a good spirit so I welcomed him.

‘We’ve got to handle Gaines Partly.’

‘Yes.  What is your suggestion Anton?’

‘This.  It seems that Gaines is functioning as a node for a constellation of similar events.  The two obvious strands of the constellation are he, that is your Jewish experience, and your mother.  The first step must be to disentangle your mother and put her into her own constellation to be dealt with later.  You already have a decent handle on her.

That leaves Gaines and your Jewish experience which is a distinct constellation which when knowledgeable about it you’ve done a lot a preparatory groundwork but certain resolutions are still necessary.  That constellation has to be distended into its planetary elements so that each can be identified and dispensed with.

In addition there may be other elements concealed within or behind the constellation of which we have yet no knowledge.  Time will tell.

And then there is what Gaines wants you to do which is why he’s made his appearance now.  We’ll have to listen and go from there.  You and I do understand that what he wants is going to be ridiculous and dangerous.

Me:  OK Anton, your analysis is good and I do have a good idea what Gaines wants; I’ve also got my arguments ready and can direct him.  But, God, this is painful.

Anton:  Yes Partly, self-realization can be trying and I’m sure you’re in agony.  You remember Hubert Selby the fellow who wrote his novel Last Exit To Brooklyn?

Me:  Oh sure, Anton.  Very interesting story.  He was probing his mind to write his story.  That once when he came up against a particularly painful remembrance it shattered him so that he had to take to his bed for a week writhing in agony.  I can’t afford the time for that now.  I have things to do and fields to plow.

Anton:  You may have more than you think Partly.  Get some rest and I’ll get Gaines back here in an hour or so.  Control your feelings.

With images of Jekyll and Hyde in my fitful dreams was the titanic struggle of the Shadow with evil and the images of Superman and Clark Kent.  Good must triumph over evil although it might not be as clear cut a victory as one might hope.

Just before dawn Dr. Polarion returned and shortly thereafter I heard Gaines’  Hello, I’m here.

Me:  Alright Gaines.  I’m ready.

Anton had already disentangled my mother from the constellational complex so he and I were dealing with just the Gaines/Jewish constellation.  In that obscured constellation other traumas wouldn’t be clear at this time.

‘What’s up Gaines?’  Anton asked quietly with an implied menace that he wasn’t going to listen to nonsense.

Gaines:  Why so hostile Doctor Polarion.

Anton:  We know what you’re up to Gaines.  I have to tell you that we know who you are and where you’ve come from so your Satanic power is negated.

Gaines:  Oh, aren’t we clever.  What is my pedigree Dr. Polarion?

Anton:  Simply this:  You infected Partly’s mind on that stoop of the Orphanage with your sado-masochistic claptrap.  Partly only semi-consciously took in the sado-masochistic sexuality without knowledge of sex, he had to repress your Satanic influence and with some few exceptions he did.  As he knew nothing of Jews and your own Jewishness that puzzling aspect of your Satanity was filed away for future reference.  In the meantime following Jewish propaganda he was conditioned to revere Jews and did so.

Then in winter of nineteen fifty-eight in a fit of sado-masochistic lunacy the Jews pre-empted all TV channels at the same time on Saturday prime time and broadcast the most incredible pornographic sado-masochistic program imaginable.  An hour of graphic snuff films depicting naked dead bodies being pushed about by bulldozers.  The sexual implications were horrendous.  While secretly fascinated Partly was resentful of the Jews for pushing this atrocity on him.  Without articulating it to himself he was fatally disgusted.  Also without noticing it he associated the ‘entertainment’ with you Gaines.

Gaines:  I’m disgusting?

Anton:  Eminently.  Now, there comes an incident that was let slip by almost without recognition.  Partly’s wife, now deceased, came from a Jewish background on her mother’s side; the father was nominally Catholic.  The mother wanted a Jewish wedding while fearing that Partly would object.  The venue was unimportant to Partly, in fact, with his Jewish conditioning he got a little thrill from it.

However to the Jews the notion that a Jewish girl would marry a, what they considered Christian boy, was anathema to them.  Her parents approached all the synagogues in the East Bay but there was only one Rabbi in the East Bay that would consent to marry the couple.  This was brought about by the intervention of his wife’s mother’s sister whose family was a prominent supporter of the synagogue.  Even so the rabbi insisted on an interview with Partly.

As I say, Gaines, Partly had no religious scruples to marrying into a religious family, not quite true, he would never have married Catholic, and thought to be amiable with the rabbi.  Both Partly and his wife were above religion despising them as relics from a primitive age.  While Partly tried to be amiable the rabbi didn’t.  Partly talked to the rabbi man to man while the rabbi as all rabbis do exalted his position believing as a Talmudic scholar that that worthless information placed him not only above Partly or his fellow Jews but all humanity and most of the angels.  Resenting Partly’s familiarity he insulted Partly grievously as not worthy of a Jewish girl while being a Christian dog or words to that effect.  At that point his respect for the Jews, intense conditioning or no, vanished.

This event was constellated with you Gaines and the TV atrocity to negate any positive feeling he had for the Jews.  A couple decades of propaganda was wiped out in an instant.  Partly’s future unpleasant relations with Jews will appear subsequently.

So that’s who you are Gaines.  Satan on a stick.

Gaines:  Yeah, well Dr. Polarion I know where Partly lives.  I know he has suffered insults, injuries and indignities from many quarters including the ones you mentioned and I know this:  He wants revenge.  Who do you go to when you want revenge?  Satan, baby, Satan.  And here I am.

Anton:  True, Partly?

Me:  No.  It’s true I have a lot of resentments but they’re from assholes and assholes can’t help being assholes; if they could they wouldn’t be assholes so one has to ignore them.  It’s their cross to bear and I enjoy watching them be assholes.  If Gaines thinks he’s going to lure me into criminal activity he’s not here.

Gaines:  Kiss my ass Partly.  Social unrest is developing rapidly, exponentially day to day.  There are hundreds of racial and religious, what the authorities are pleased to call murders rather than the acts of war they are happening every week.

I know Partly that you were trained by your experiences to be a serial killer.  You know it.  I don’t know how you’ve resisted up to this time but now is the time to indulge those resentments.  Not only are the cops overburdened trying to deal with all the killing and raping going on but they’re afraid to leave the station.  Whole cities are no go zones for them.  They’ll never identify you, never track you down.  Come on buddy, let your inner Mr. Hyde see some light.  Now’s the time for your revenge.

Me:  I think you’re right about the time being the right time Gaines but remember that Vengeance is mine saith the Lord.  I’ve learned that it is true.

Gaines:  Vengeance is mine saith the Lord?  Listen to this guy.  Are you putting me on Partly?

Me:  Certainly not Gaines, certainly not.  Remember you were kicked out of heaven for the religious offence of chutzpah.  God stuck his boot up your ass and down you came.  You always tempt men to their destruction by exploiting their own weaknesses.  If I were to act in revenge I would surely be caught.  Even at eighty I don’t want to be thought of as a criminal.

Gaines:  No, you don’t want to be thought of as a criminal. Here’s a tip for you Partly…

Anton:  I…

Gaines:  You stay out of this Anton, this is between Partly and me.

As above, so below, right Partly?  God’s will is supposed to prevail on earth as in heaven, right?

Me:  I’m not religious but the Bible does say so.  What’s your point?

Gaines:  As a lawbreaker I was kicked out of heaven, right. If so, then it is God’s will that I be persecuted on earth also, isn’t it?

Me:  Well, you have to believe the Bible.

Gaines:  No, you don’t.  Freud replaced the Bible but as a Jew he follows the Bible’s rhetoric.  Freud and I are one and not only am I part of your mind but Freud is too.  That’s one of my attributes that Anton the so-called psychologist forgot to mention.  So, if it is God’s will that it is to be on earth as it is in heaven then it is permissible to punish Satanic practices as he punished me isn’t it?  As a God fearing person it is imperative that you do so.

Well, there was a thought.  The Jews consider themselves God’s viceroys on Earth and that they are doing God’s will by forcing his, or theirs really on the rest of mankind, punishing those who resist, that is anti-Semites.  It was a tough argument to counter while Gaines had cleverly appealed to my suppressed desires.  Anton was no help at this point.

Me:  To punish is vengeance Gaines and as I say Vengeance is the Lord’s.  Therefore I cannot punish Gaines, however there is the question of justice, lawbreakers should not be allowed the fruit of their crimes with impunity.

As we know God has no temporal means to effect his will on earth so he must use intermediaries as his chosen vessels hence the Jews claim to be that vessel.  However if God spoke to the Jews then he can speak to me.  Thus if like Saint Augustine I were to hear his voice enjoining me to administer His justice on earth as he does in heaven, that is kicking Satan off the earth then I could obey his will and be judge, jury and executioner here on earth as the Jews consider themselves.  Well, Gaines, that is a thought I will have to give consideration.

Gaines:  Yes it is.  Further…

Anton:  Hold, hold it, stop Gaines.  Be gone.  Hold up Partly, we have to think about this.  Later Gaines, later.  Go.

And with a sly wink at me Gaines wandered away.  He would be back, of course.  But he had given me something  to think about.  I knew I was going to think about it too and as Gaines knew I would rationalize his suggestion into reality but only in a ‘legal’ manner.

Anton just looked at me and shook his head.  He knew what was coming.  So did I but neither of us could as yet admit it.

-IV-

 

Once again I lay back exhausted.  Still I had to get to work.  In an agitated state of mind I reviewed the correcting of my piece for the New Serapion Brethren that I was titling The Vampyres Of New York.  I had put some preliminary thoughts up on the internet so I was searching Vampyres Of New York when I was startled to find that there was an actual group called The Vampyres Of New York that claimed to be a worldwide organization.  Its spokesman was some guy calling himself Father Sebastian.  He was a young guy who would have been further ahead claiming to be Brother Sebastian; in another thirty years he might pass for a father.

Anything associating itself with vampirism had to be Satanic while the guy was absolutely touting himself as a religion.  The crude Satanism of the nineteen sixties was obviously morphing into an attempt at a universal religion.  This was a far cry from the historian Arnold Toynbee’s cry for a new universal religion to replace Christianity.  Gaines was obviously right about the Satanism in Freud being a part of me but apparently the drive was to make Freudianism the basis of a new religion.  Thus as Christianity as a Jewish based religion had represented the Godly Principle so Freud as a Jewish based religion would represent the Satanic Principle.

This was a revelation to me that while new I would have to try to work into my essay.  I had to think about it a little so while I was thinking I tinkered around working out disguises.  Having seen street activity for a couple weeks now I was uneasy walking around in my own skin; I didn’t want to become that well known.

So, as I thought I tried out mustaches, wigs, glasses, different outfits, so I could walk the streets so as not to become obvious.  But, time was passing and I was driven back to my writing desk.  I wanted to avoid Gaines as long as possible so I put in some long sessions hoping I would be so tired when I went to sleep that that bastard Gaines wouldn’t be called up.  I was successful for the week left before going to Farquhar’s.

I was a day ahead of the deadline so I went out to get a couple two or three bottles of wine to take along.  Wanted to show I was a regular guy.  I am a regular guy but usually not that regular.  Boy, NYC is an alkie’s paradise.  What a fabulous selection of spirits.  I don’t drink much but in my earlier days I could do a limited justice to the bottle.  In those days I favored brandy.  Really good stuff if you’re going to drink.  Oh lord, if I had known then what New York showed my now I might have been the man who never returned.

I wasn’t after liquor though I wanted wine so I asked for and got bottles of Ramey’s Claret.  Ramey is a good Napa Valley vintner while his claret is moderately priced and more than good enough, excellent in fact.  The vintage was 2014 that particularly dry year and of small berries.  Excellent, I thought it should go over.  I’d had it before and it really is a great vintage.

For dress I wore a 1960 vintage sport coat I bought at a second hand store.  Nothing was ready at James Carter and I had tried Lord and Taylor and other stores but none was showing other than those idiotic short jackets cut small and I thought I looked a heck of a lot better.  Charles Tyrwhitt shirt, one of their higher priced dark blue and white mini stripes, black in a low light.  So what’s a boy to do?  Ralph Lauren had turned ludicrous after he left.

Ragnar drove me and my bottles of wine up to fifty-second street off Madison to Farquhar’s condo, very good, twelfth floor.  As I entered the building an explosion went off maybe three blocks away in some direction I couldn’t determine.  Somebody was acting up, hard to tell who.  It was beginning to happen fairly regularly.  Cops weren’t catching anybody.  So many people and organizations were claiming credit for these things it must have been a nightmare investigating these things using only electronics.

As these things were getting more frequent they didn’t even make the headlines in New York while except for certain sites on the  internet the rest of the country was totally ignorant of them.   The permanent Obama administration was still trying to explain them away as the work of domestic terrorists, actually by now the terrorists were domestic although not so-called White Supremacists.  If by Global terrorists it was only just that we should be bombed as was said and that brought the thought of Gaines back as Lessing was rattling the locks on the other side of the door.

Once that ritual was completed I was admitted into a small foyer with a second door and a number of locks which were only locked at night or when Lessing was away.  The door was now open for which I was grateful.

Through the second door one entered directly into a large living room, perhaps eight hundred square feet cutting straight through the apartment to the floor to ceiling windows that looked into the windows across the street unfortunately.

The room was comfortably decorated with expensive furniture but not the costliest.  The usual New York abstracts, tasteful, were on the wall facing lovely floor to ceiling bookshelves admirably stocked.  Books do furnish a room, don’t they?

I was the last to arrive.  Seated, looking at me with expectant bemused expressions were Max Savings, Mark Giusty and Baron Cammell the other members of the New Serapion Brethren.  Lessing was apparently a bachelor or, as I was to find, a widower.

As I could see I was the oldest of the four.  Lessing was seventy-two but still in his prime.  How well I remember being fourteen and finding the age of seventy incomprehensible as young people still do.  While even people in their thirties and forties expect people of seventy or eighty to be decrepit.  Most of us aren’t.  Certainly Lessing and I were in full vigor.  Diet helps, three or four years earlier I had been compelled to give up my sugar diet, and I mean I love sugar, and that and an improved diet recharged me considerably.

Lessing was more robust than I being taller, probably six-two and bigger boned.  He was filled out but not fat or even heavy looking, his face like mine was unlined while he had a full head of white hair as did I although mine was removable and his wasn’t.  He showed a little surprise as I was nearly bald at our two previous encounters.

Lessing introduced me to Max Savings who was small, perhaps five-six, and slight.  Max was the youngest at sixty-two.  He was dressed like an undertaker, had a slightly weasely face with a pointed nose.  He had a sharp intelligence.

Marc Giusty was Italian standing a half inch or so below me, seventy years old, still athletic looking, spent a couple hours a day in the gym as I was to learn, lean and long headed in the Italian manner, thin mustache and good features.

Last to be introduced was Baron Cammell.  Baron was his first name and not a title.  He would prove to be the most difficult member of the group for me.

By the time I was finished with the introductions Max had a bottle of claret open and the glasses filled.  Well, you know, two fingers.  One sips, this was a cultured group no full water glasses at one gulp.  We accepted our glasses and looking at each other took a sip.

Lessing:  Oh, very nice.

Marc:  Yes.  Haven’t seen the label before.

Baron:  (Sniffing slightly.)  Yes, quite distinctive.

Max: (Smiling.)  Enough said.

Me:  Yes, well, Ramey apprenticed for many years in France before setting up in Napa.  I like Bordeaux style blend and claret hits the spot for me after reading all those old English novels where claret and wine were synonymous.  I like this one.  So, we’re all ETA Hoffmann admirers, um?

Lessing:  Yes, we are that.  By way of curiosity Perry, how did you come to Hoffmann.

Me:  Oh, you want my origin story as the comic books say?  OK Lessing, I’ve got one.  I’ll do this in the best comic book style.  It was a dark and stormy day back in the middle of the last century when a thirty-six year man shoulders hunched against the cold and rain looked into a shop window.  Perceiving it was a book store he being a bibliophile pushed the door open.  A blast of warm air hit him as heads turned to look at the stranger.   The man glanced casually about at the few inside, mostly help, with no particular object in mind.  His attention was caught by a slip cased set of two.  Always a sucker for so-called special editions he picked it up to examine it.  ‘Hmm…’ he mused to himself, ‘Selected Writings Of Hoffmann?  Hoffmann who?’  Extracted, Vol. I read from the title page, E.T.A. Hoffmann The Tales.  The man had heard of ETA Hoffmann spoken of most highly and of course he knew of Offenbach’s opera Tales Of Hoffmann.  Twelve dollars and fifty cents.  OK.

Tucking the parcel under his arm under his coat and lowering his head against the blast he proceeded down the street.  I was that man.

Me:  There you go Lessing and an identical copy can be found on your bookshelf right over there.

Ha, ha, ha came as a chorus from the four men:  Nicely done, Perry, nicely done.

‘The lad shows promise, doesn’t he?’ said Lessing.

Max Savings:  This could prove interesting.

Me:  And since then then I’ve added a dozen volumes filling out, I think, what’s available in English except for that magnificent nineteenth century volume you have on your shelf.’

Lessing:  That one.  I’m quite proud of that find.  I tramped London looking for that one.  But you have never reviewed Hoffmann on your site Perry, how come?

Me.  I don’t feel adequately prepared Lessing.  I have added a number of Romantic writers to my library in the last four years, Kleist, Tieck and like that but nothing in the way of critical reviews so I don’t think I’m prepared to speak authoritatively.  And I still have to read Goethe, the key Romantic.  If you’ve read my stuff you probably are aware that I speak without concern of contradiction.  I can’t do that with Hoffmann yet.  So, if I may ask,  give me a thumbnail of yourselves.

Lessing:  I’m host so I might as well go first.  The salient point is that I spent my career practicing law, mainly real estate and financial issues.  That is an area where much of the money sticks to the lawyer and I am in a comfortable situation as you can see having made my share or more of the money stick to me.  Although remunerative I found the law and its cases fairly loathsome so as soon as I felt financially independent I left all that behind and turned my attention to what I loved much as you have Perry.  Much more rewarding.

Max Savings:  I’m not quite so financially independent as Lessing and still at my desk at Chase.  I certainly am not so accomplished literarily as you and Lessing but I squeeze in time in an effort to keep up.

Marc Giusty:  I was a university prof all my working life, loved it at Columbia uptown here.  History was my subject.  Unfortunately I was just a yeoman and not a star.  I wrote a few papers for academic publications and a couple slim volumes that disappeared down the memory hole but allowed me to keep my position.  By the way, this is a nice wine.

Me:  Glad I chose to your taste.  And you Baron.

Baron:  I’m somewhat of a polymath, expert in several fields.  I’m working on a unified field theory to arrange the liberal arts in a chronology with commentary.  That’s all you need know of me.

Me:  Quite so, quite so.  Now that we’ve been introduced and had a little wine what say I begin my presentation?  I’m anxious for your opinion and hope to please.

Lessing:  That sounds right.  What is the title of your presentation Perry?

Me:  I call it The Vampyres Of New York.

I noticed a little uneasiness in the Brethren at the title.  Lessing spoke:

Is this a vampire story, Perry?  I thought the understanding was that we present historical essays.

Me:  Exactly Lessing.  But lesser known aspects, other sides so to speak and that is what mine is.  Don’t let the title throw you.  By the way as you’re not looking at the paper I spell vampire v-a-m-p-y-r-e.  I chose the spelling to indicate a difference from a Dracula type blood vampire.  My essay will concern what is known as psychic vampires.  When I was searching Vampyres Of New York on the internet to see if my first couple of posts had registered yet I was surprised to find that there is actually an organization called The Vampyres Of New York, spelled with a Y.

I was further astonished that it claims to be worldwide although the claim seems a little dubious.  At any rate the possible leader is a guy calling himself Father Sebastian who divides his time between New York and Paris.

As you know since the first Disney version of Star Wars a recent religion has sprung up based on the concept of the Force and whatever.  It seems probable that the Vampyre organization is a type of Satanic religion too.  This brings to mind that after the challenge to the Jewish religion in the West after the Scientific Revolution following the Enlightenment the Western Jewish religion under the Scientific challenge dissolved into a number of splinter religions seeking a center.  The center of course came from the East and was called Zionism so that Judaism with some atavism and Zion are one.

Christianity has taken longer to find a new center but under the influence of nineteenth and twentieth century Satanism we may be seeing a jelling into some form of a universal Satanic religion.  It is something to bear in mind.  So my historical investigation is concerned with the Jewish and Christian religious disintegration of the previous two centuries under some sort of vampiric influence.  Is that alright?  It won’t offend any sensibilities?

Lessing:  If it is historical we have no objections.

Me:  Alright.  I’m pretty sure this will be a different approach to what you’re used to so I have a prologue explaining the difference between a Dracula type Vampirism and psychic Vampyrism which will concern us.  This is longish but not hugely long so fill your glasses and sit back.  It is written out so feel free to interrupt at any time for explanations or comments, discussions or whatever.

OK?  I begin:  The Vampyres Of New York.

 

Clip 4 following contains the text of Vampyres Of New York

Vol. I

The Vampyres Of New York

Clip 4

by

R.E. Prindle

 

Now, Gentlemen, to make myself intelligible I should clear up two things: one is the ages old conflict between the Aryans and the Semites that continues into the present, and second, the meaning of vampirism.

I find it necessary to set the stage for the first argument by a rather lengthy quote from the father of history, Herodotus.  I use the Landmark Edition:

Herodotus of Hallicarnassus here presents his research so that human events do not fade with time.  May the great and wonderful deeds- some brought forth by the Hellenes, others by the barbarians- not go unsung; as well as the causes that led them to make war on each other.

Persian authorities of the past claim that the Phoenicians were responsible for the dispute.  This is because, after they had come to and settled the land which they still inhabit from what is now called the Erythraean Sea, they at once undertook long sea voyages and brought back cargo from Egypt, Assyria, and elsewhere, but more importantly came to Argos.

At this time in the land we now call Hellas, Argos surpassed other places in all things, and when the Phoenicians reached Argos they set out their cargo for sale.  On the fifth or sixth day after their arrival, when they had sold almost everything, many women came down to the sea, in particular, the king’s daughter.  Her name, according to what the Hellenes also say, was Io daughter of Inarchos.  The women were standing by the stern of the ship intent upon their purchases when the Phoenicians, inciting each other, rushed upon them.  The greater part made their escape, but some were seized and carried off.  Io herself was among the captives.  The Phoencians put the women on board their vessel and set sail for Egypt.

This is how Io came to Egypt according to the Persians (thought the Hellenes disagree), and this was the beginning of grievances.

Then much later Jason abducted Medea followed by the Trojan abduction of Helen and so over the millennia the war between the East and West has continued as it does today.  Egypt was not part of Asia but of the West.

Alexander followed by the Romans conquered Asia and so it remained until the Semitic Arabs annexed North Africa, Spain and most of the Middle East, that is Asia.

The Jewish diaspora began in far distant time taking definite shape in Roman times when using the diaspora the Jews attempted to subvert and conquer the Roman Empire.  When that attempt broke into open war in the first and second centuries AD the Jews were crushed but the Roman Empire had been undermined by the Jewish War.

The Jews as a hostile alien element in Europe lived what was considered  a parasitic life on the Europeans but in our term might be described as vampiric.

So, now, what is meant by vampiric.  I’m sure we all agree that true or blood sucking vampires do not exist nor have they ever existed.  As George Sylvester Viereck, the early nineteenth century American writer, put it in his novelette, The House Of The Vampire: Our gods are ourselves raised to the highest power.  So our gods and demons are merely projection of our desires.  By their deeds shall you know them.

God the highest on one hand and Satan his diametrical opposite but both are the products of our imaginations.  Who you going to follow, your best or your basest desires?

The human mind personates those desires and expresses them.  Previous to the emergence of the creator god, that in itself says something about human desires, the Earth was enchanted, filled with imaginary beings that personated nearly everything.  As it was thought that nature abhorred a vacuum the very air was filled with spirits, nixies, pixies, elves, elementals abounded without limit and this was very satisfying to the human intellect.  Then as Europeans evolved and reason took over from superstition all these imaginary beings could no longer be justified and vanished.

But, as nature abhors a vacuum, humanity missed its imaginary beings so they were bodied forth in another way.  The very person this literary group was named after was present at the death of the old world and the birth of the new.  That is essentially the context of his stories.

Even as Hoffman was straddling the two periods a band of the younger generation was summering in Switzerland, Byron, Mary and Percy Shelley and Polidori.  Is it an amazing coincidence that the party bodied out two of the great myths of the modern world, that is Frankenstein and the Vampyre as its author John Polidori styled it.  Thus the new scientific world was given its key myths while the Vampyre gave a presence to a psychological type.  These two would later by joined by the great myths of Jekyll and Hyde, The Phantom Of The Opera, and Tarzan Of The Apes.  The whole space opera epic as well as Flying Saucers and many other myths that while imaginary filled the mythological needs after the downfall of Napoleon.

No myth has been more fully explored than that of the Vampyre.  Dracula, the actual bloodsucker who appeared in Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel of the same name is the most famous although the psychic Vampyre is best portrayed in George Sylvester Viereck’s House Of The Vampire and is the type of Vampyre I’m concerned with in this essay.

Perhaps the best example of this type of Vampyre is in the history of the Jews in Spain.  Tax farming was the old style of collecting revenues.  In this guise the kings, in this case in Spain, would lease out tax collecting.  He would commit the tax farmers to return X amount of revenue and anything they could collect above that was theirs.  This amounted to a license to steal.

Thus as the Spaniards forged their way from the French border to the Mediterranean against the Moors there was a constant need of revenues.  Spanish citizens found it difficult to collect being one with the taxpayers so the Jews stepped forth and said that they could collect with no trouble as they were a different race.

And so a system of exploiting the Spanish that lasted for hundreds of years began.  Every year at Harvest time the Jewish tax farmers descended on the Spanish farmers collecting not only the king’s quota but whatever they could extract leaving the Spanish near destitute.

As the farmers were now broke the Jews leant their own money to them against the next year’s crops thus insuring that the wealth of Spain should flow into their pockets, or purses as it was then.

This system was a great grievance to the Spaniards who would endure it as long as they could before attempting a revolt.  Such revolts were styled anti-Semitism.

Now, as the Jews were properly resented they had to create fortified positions in which to remain unmolested.  These were actual forts into which they retreated at night for their own safety.  In later centuries these forts would be styled ghettoes in which Spaniards forced them to live.

When Spaniards assaulted these forts these assaults were naturally styled social disturbances.  The Jews called on their employer the king to defend them.  Spanish troops were then called out to disperse the Spanish ‘anti-Semites.’

This obnoxious system was ended by Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492 when the last Moorish enclave was expelled from Spain at which time the Jews (and Moors) were given the choice of being expelled or abandoning their Jewish identity and religion and ‘become’ Spaniards.  Idle dream that.

As the Spanish method was characteristic of Jews everywhere they were nowhere welcome being expelled not only from Spain but from all other places.

It is impossible to act in their manner without being noticed and characterized.  Before the rise of the Vampyre myth the Jews were called parasites as their wealth depended on exploiting others but after Emancipation by the French Revolution they were increasingly compared to Vampyres and the myth of the Vampyre become the dominant myth of Western civilization and that is how I will use the myth.  It is real on the psychological level but not on the physical.

So, does that answer my use of the Vampyre figure?

Baron Cammell:  I’m not familiar with your interpretation of the Jews in Spain.  Do you have any authority for that?

Me:  Ben-Zion Netanyahu tells the story in his History Of The Jews In Spain along with many other details.

Max Savings:  Is Ben-Zion Netanyahu any relation to Bibi?

Me:  Yes.  He is Bibi’s father or was, he died about five years ago.  Old man though, survived innumerable wars and death camps.  Long winded book.

  1. If that’s it now that we have those two points cleared up let us advance.

As this is actually a brief history of the conflict between Jews and Europeans it is necessary to give some account of the period between the Spanish expulsion and the emancipation of the French Revolution.  Contrary to current opinion that all people are one we are not all one.  We do not all think alike, believe alike or act from the same motives seeking the same results nor is it likely we will in any conceivable future.  Freud, who we will become very familiar with further along, posits the existence of group psychology.  Group psychology posits that groups are at least subject to some motivation different from other groups.  It is absolutely clear that Jews and Europeans have not and do not share the same motivations.

Nobody shares Jewish motivations hence they have been expelled from every society within whom they have settled.  Hence they were expelled from England in 1290, France in 1307, various German States over the centuries and Russia.  These expulsions completely exasperated the Jews instilling a deep and abiding hatred of Europeans to the point they wished to exterminate them.  Remember the Amalekites.

The Catholic Church with whom the Jews were in competition kept them in check until the French Revolution and Emancipation.  With Emancipation the woes of Europe began in earnest.

As an allegory of the situation the twentieth century US writer Charles Beaumont wrote a story entitled The Howling Man that was later used as an episode for The Twilight Zone.  The story describes a monastery of monks that has captured Satan and imprisoned him.  It is their duty to make sure he doesn’t escape to plague the world; hence they allow no one in the monastery.  However a traveler having lost the way begs the monks to put him up for the night.  There is a time for Christian charity and time for none.  This was one of the latter times.

Over the night Satan howls and howls bringing the traveler to his prison door.  Persuaded by Satan that he is being justly imprisoned the ignorant traveler releases him and Satan is once again loose on the world.

This is symbolic of the situation between the Jews, the Church and the Revolution.  Within a little over a hundred years after Emancipation the European Holocaust of 1914-1950 began and European civilization was damaged beyond recovery.

While at the time of the Spanish expulsion society was considered static by the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries it became dynamic.  That is the European mind evolved and from that evolution a scientific understanding of the world at last arrived.

Contrary to what everyone has been told the Jewish mind remained static.  Over the centuries the majority of Jews occupied that stretch of land from Baltic to the Black Seas between Eastern Poland and Russia.  That land became known as the Pale of Settlement.  Its culture created by the Jews is the true face of Judaism.  It was based on the Talmud and its commentaries hence it was essentially superstition unaffected by Western science.

In the West the English expulsion was rescinded during the time of Cromwell while the European emancipation began in France and spread East from there over the nineteenth century.

When Napoleon attacked Germany in 1806 the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassell gave the Jews an incomprehensible break when he entrusted his fortune to them rather than be looted by Napoleon.  This was an immense fortune.  The Landgrave had been renting out his male subjects as mercenaries, hence the Hessians of the American revolution.

He had converted these revenues into loans and mortgages on vast numbers of properties throughout Europe.  The Landgrave entrusted this incredible fortune to the court jeweler Meyer Rothschild.  Rothschild had five sons among which he distributed this fortune sending Nathan to England, James to France and the others to Berlin, Vienna and Naples.  Situations were not so propitious for the others or they were not as capable but James and Nathan were able financiers who became preeminent in their countries while making the Rothschilds the richest family in the world.  We no longer hear of the Landgrave of Hesse.

Remarkably within just a few years the Rothschilds had an organization that could manipulate the affairs of Europe.  This would imply a preexisting organization.  During the Peninsular War in Spain Wellington might have been defeated by Napoleon’s armies for the lack of money to carry on.  Nathan whose immense fortune was then unaccounted for volunteered to loan the English government the gold and deliver it to Wellington in Spain.

This was done by smuggling the gold into France and transporting and delivering it overland to Wellington in Spain under the nose, as they say, of Napoleon.

No mean feat.  How did they do it?  Obviously in possession of the Landgrave’s wealth they were able to use a preexisting covert Jewish network.

Thus also after the Battle of Waterloo when the outcome was unknown in England Jewish couriers got the news of victory to Rothschild quicker than the authorities got it allowing him to speculate on securities and augment his fortune considerably.  Thus the Jews became an autonomous, or nearly so, nation within the various European States.

With the rise of the Jews came the rise of the myth of the Vampyre.  As noted Polidori’s story appeared in 1816.  It was not long before vampire stories began to flood the market.  Aiding the Vampyre idea was the discovery of hypnotism by the Viennese doctor or proto-scientist Anton Mesmer.  Once that cat was let out of the bag the way was clear for the means to control whole societies and even civilizations.  This fact has been insufficiently realized but it has been the main tool of Vampyres.

Once in the money led by the Rothschilds the Jews were able to control almost all the commodities while becoming important in railroading both in Europe and North America.  They sent a very effective agent named August Belmont (assumed name) to manage their affairs in the US.

With emancipation and the vast wealth created by emerging technologies and the rise of modern financial institutions of course, what Jews call anti-Semitism  arose in reaction to what Europeans called blood-sucking.  Thus the Jews were perceived as sucking away the very vitality of Europe and Europeans.

It was necessary for the Jews to conceal what their intentions were which were, indeed, the destruction of Europe and ‘Christianity’ their term, or Europeans in ours.  The hatred generated over the centuries only increased in virulence as, indeed, the Jews sank allegorical fangs into the neck of Europe.

As I said, the Jews were divided between the East and the West.  Those of England, France and Germany were bowled over by the rise of Science.  Scientific thinking invalidated all Jewish claims to supremacy over Christianity.  Religion became irrelevant.  It no longer served Jewish interests.

Long had Jews considered their vision of God, that is, themselves magnified to the highest power, as supreme while denigrating Europeans as Christians whose religion was grafted onto the main root of Judaism, following Ben Zion Netanyahu’s explication of the two peoples.  Now, in one fell swoop those claims were negated to nothing while European Science stood incontrovertibly towering over Talmudic superstition.  Yes, the Talmud, the rock of Judaism, was reduced to no more than possibly amusing nonsense.

The Eastern Jews sunk into barbaric forms of antiquated Jewish fictions was nearly oblivious to the rise of Science in the West and would remain so until those Jews in their millions emigrated to the United States.

As the Western Jews thrashed around trying to devise a religious answer to Science whole thousands abandoned the faith of their fathers for the rational West.  The West made giant strides in the understanding of the world.  What were the Jews to do?  If Science couldn’t be overmatched, and it couldn’t, then it would have to be subordinated first to a level with ‘Jewish knowledge’, that is the Talmud, and then below.  How was that to be done?

Here we have a first glimmer of the theory of relativity.

All systems would become relatively equal in value.  Nothing would be better or worse, just different.  It would be proposed that Jewish knowledge was equal to European knowledge; they would both stand on pedestals of equal height.  Thus the Talmud was disguised as ‘Jewish knowledge.’  A mighty task to realize but the Jews have been equal to the task.  How did they achieve it against seemingly impossible odds?

Baron Cammell:  I’ve never heard anything like this.  Do you have anything to substantiate your views?

Me:  Baron!  I thought this was a group brought together for discussion of lesser known issues, backstories.  That’s what I am providing.

Here I had to suppress any reference to Cammell’s ridiculous co-called unified field of knowledge.  I almost gagged when he’d mentioned it but in the spirit of fellowship I passed over it.

Baron:  Well, yes, but all this conspiracy twaddle about the Jews!  Come, come, haven’t these people suffered enough?

Lessing:  The fellowship, Baron, the fellowship.  Moderate your discussion.

Me:  Thank you Lessing.  Baron, do you deny that the Jews function as an autonomous people or, at least, a self-interested group?

Baron:  I think that diversity is a key virtue of the American system. That’s the kind of people we are.

Me:  That, in itself implies a distinct identity within a plurality, does it not?

Baron:  Perhaps so, but…

Me:  Then so.  In the Freudian sense they are a cohesive group and can be examined as such and that is what I’m doing.  On the other hand I’m dealing with what Freud would perhaps call meta-psychology.  The creation of mental archetypes or myths, if you will, so how the human mind deals with ill understood or unpleasant ideas or those realities that can only be discussed allegorically and hence in mythological figures such as Vampyres.  At this point in history that is the Mauve Nineties.  This period, as you are aware I’m sure, was a very critical period in European history not least because it was a period of intense reaction to the disenchantment of society by Science as well as the rising threat of Semitism.

Baron:  That’s what I mean!  Is it necessary to consider the Jews a threat.

Me:  Necessary or not, the Jews were considered a threat.  Need I remind you that the intensely nationalistic creed of Zionism conquered the minds of the East Jews at this time.  The Englishman George Du Maurier wrote his magnificent allegory of Trilby exposing it at this precise time.

The reaction to Science was also intense.  All kinds of fantastic notions were relaeased.  The esoteric ferment was expressed in the rise of the cult of the Golden Dawn that was taken over by the notorious Aleister Crowley that continues as a significant influence in Satanic thought to this day.

The Englishman George Du Maurier wrote his magnificent allegory Trilby at this precise time creating the menacing figure of Svengali who is still today nearly a household name.  He is secondary perhaps to Dracula but on the same level.  Indeed Svengali was a type of psychic Vampyre who is portrayed as Jewish and representing the Jewish people.

I don’t know how many of the fellowship have read Trilby but it is quite a landmark in literature.

Max Savings:  I read your review of the book on your website and found it quite interesting.  Lessing has also, haven’t you Lessing?

Me:  Thank you for your reading.  I feel compelled to go on.  I don’t think Baron has and probably not Marc.  Has anybody read Du Maurier or Trilby?  No?  Hmm.

Du Maurier wrote three books all in the nineties.  Trilby is the most famous but his superb Peter Ibbotson is almost as well known as Trilby while his last The Martian may be unknown to most although I have more reads of my review of it than I imagined I would.

As you probably know the artist Whistler was caricatured by Du Maurier in Trilby who knew him during their Bohemian days in Paris.  Whistler forced the excision of the caricature from the book version so most copies lack that literary portrayal however WH Allen issued a complete edition in 1983 including the excised parts under the title Svengali.  I might add that the back cover blurb describes the book as ‘one of the great myths of fiction so, Baron, I am not alone in crediting these ideas to mythology.

Now, Du Maurier is clearly in reaction to the feared takeover of European civilization by the Jews.  Remember the Dreyfus  brouhaha was raging in France at the time and the result of the Dreyfus incident was the breakdown of French resistance to Semitism.  Once again the rise of the Zionism that produced as its textbook The Protocols Of The Learned Elders Of Zion was written at or near 1900.

Trilby, or Svengali, then expresses a deep anxiety.

Du Maurier himself is a very interesting person.  The end of the century was a period of the Neo-Romantics or a re-enchantment of Europe of which Du Maurier was central.  He was a man who loved his life, every scrap of it.  He was born in Paris in 1834, dying in 1896.  Thus he became aware in France at the tail end of the Romantic period but its literature would have been and was a powerful influence on his intellectual development.  Crucial to his development was his French and English experience that appears in all three of his books.  He was destined by his father to be a chemist who set him up in business in London.  At his father’s death he threw over chemistry returning to France to study art and living the Bohemian life as depicted by Henri Murger in his memoir of that golden age of Parisian Bohemia.

He eventually returned to England where he became an illustrator ultimately finding a place at Punch Magazine where he would become celebrated.  He in turn celebrated the social milieu around him.  The times where a high point, perhaps the high point, in English culture and Du Maurier loved it, as why not. In retrospect it looks like a wonderful period.  He seemed to know how  magical the period was and he gloried in being part of it.  Sort of like our Sixties actually.

As the old guard at Punch shuffled off George was passed over for the editorship he thought he deserved and so he bid adieu to the magazine.  While always comfortable, enjoying a genteel Bohemian existence.  He was not rich but that would change in the last few years of his life when he found terrific success as a novelist, Trilby being the key to his financial success.

When he took up his pen he romanticized not only his own life but the whole history of his times from the Romantic period to the New Romantics of which he was a leading example.  If the Enlightenment disenchanted Europe Du Maurier worked hard to reenchant it.  He was in sync with the New Romantics.

Trilby was a rewrite of two Romantic novels.  The first was the charming novelette by the French Romantic Charles Nodier also named Trilby and the second the Bohemian novel of Henri Murger.  I find Nodier’s Trilby OK but it obviously entranced Du Maurier.  In Nodier’s version Trilby is a Scot fairy just past the edge of belief in the Little People.  He nevertheless appears to the heroine, a girl named Jeannie.

Jeannie mistakenly talks about Trilby who only she can see so that the more enlightened post-Romantics are alarmed.  She is subjected to ‘re-education’ in the process losing her zest for life.

Du Maurier in emulation of Nodier takes the same story transposing it into post-Romantic terms.  He transposes the sexes making Trilby female and Jeannie male.  Thus the heroine Trilby O’Farrell is a sort of free spirit in the Bohemia of Paris.  She is really sort of transvestite frequently appearing in men’s clothes while the hero ‘Little Billie’ is a fairly effeminate sort although with no taint of Homosexuality.  He is the same character as William Makepeace Thackeray’s poem Little Billie.  Du Maurier took him whole.  Billie is pretty close with his two roommates while falling in love with Trilby.

As George’s story opens Billie and his two friends are a sort of Three Musketeers with Trilby being a sort of D’Artagnon.  This is sort of relevant in explaining Du Maurier:  He loved his memories and couldn’t believe that such wonderful memories disappeared after death.  In a wonderful way he incorporates literary tribute memories in his work.  He even mentions works by name that had a major influence on him.

Into this mix comes the arch villain the evil Jew, Svengali.  He might be based on Lady of The Three Musketeers.  DuMaurier doesn’t go into a lot of detail concerning Svengali’s background but he was an Eastern Jew, a wandering Jewish type known as a Schnorrer, that is an impoverished ne’er do well not too dissimilar from the American hobo of the period.  You didn’t really want to see him coming.  Svengali has all the arrogance of the Schnorrer.  Even though penniless he arrogates the attitude of the Prince to himself.  Chutzpah on a stick.

He himself is an accomplished musician familiar with qualities that could make a great vocalist.  Prying Trilby’s jaws apart he examines Trilby’s oral cavity making the determination that the configuration of the cavity was the needful for a great vocalist.  Unfortunately Trilby can’t find notes or melodies although she does render Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt for the amusement of the boys.  Svengali is not to be deterred as we will learn.

Trilby and Little Billie hit it off so that he proposed marriage to her.  However Trilby is an artist’s model and models were notoriously sexually lax even being thought of as a prototype of prostitute.  Billie is of a higher social status so when his mother visits she is horrified at the prospect of the union  drawing Billie back to England scotching the marriage.  This might be compared to Jeannie’s reeducation in Nodier’s version.

Trilby suffers tribulations, just as Jeannie did, finally ending up on Svengali’s doorstep.  He takes her in because of her marvelous oral cavity.

The pair disappear into the wilds of the East.  Svengali is not only a great musician but an unscrupulous first rate hypnotist.  Hypnotism was a hot topic at the end of the century.  Du Maurier and a friend actually practiced the art on girls back in the 1850s.

There is no hope of teaching Trilby to sing in her natural state but Svengali discovers that he can, as it were, project his musical knowledge into Trilby while she is in a hypnotic state.  Hypnotized she made Jenny Lind sound like an amateur.  The only problem was that she could only sing when Svengali was making direct eye contact with her.  Apparently George is indicating the supposed Mesmeric magnetic fluid of the hypnotist flowing to the hypnotized.

Having organized his repertoire Svengali creates a magnificent career for himself and Trilby taking Europe by storm.  Thus we have an allegory of the Jewish exploitation of Europe while Svengali functions as a psychic Vampyre.  While not drawing blood he usurps Trilby’s life force as we will see when she is in her death throes.

Svengali arrives in London for shows where Billie and his friends will see her.  Svengali hates Billie with more than passion.  Conducting Trilby he glances up to see Billie thus breaking eye contact while dying from an apoplectic fit.  Trilby’s career is ended.

Svengali dead, Trilby who had been under total hypnosis for years can no long survive on her own.  Thus while Little Billie sought to fill Svengali’s shoes he fails miserably; Trilby’s dying words are Svengali, Svengali, Svengali.

In this unassuming but amazing novel Du Maurier demonstrates Europe’s relationship with the Jews since Emancipation.  He demonstrates perfectly psychic vampirism whereas others used terms to describe the Jews as bloodsuckers or parasites.

It is significant that DuMaurier uses the metaphor of hypnosis.  Even as Trilby was taking the world by storm, it is described as the first modern bestseller, the ultimate Jewish Vampyre, the Great Satan himself was finding his future career in Vienna, Sigmund Freud.  Freud was the West’s real Svengali.

After Anton Mesmer unleashed Mesmerism, also known as Animal Magnetism (meaning humans as magnets as opposed to iron) certain disciples improved on the principles while developing them into a system.  As a new phenomenon Mesmerism was rejected by the academy.  Hypnotism became a stage attraction used to amuse an audience.  But then one of the first great psychiatrists, a Frenchman by the name of Jean Martin Charcot  who presided at the Salpetriere  women’s asylum in Paris associated hypnotism with hysteria in women and began using it thus legitimizing it.

About the time Du Maurier was putting Trilby in order Freud was visiting Charcot in France.  Freud had begun as a research biologist.  He was consumed by the ambition to be a great man; he soon learned there was no future for him in biology or medicine so he thrashed around to find a field more open to manipulation.  He teamed up with a physician who dabbled in psychology, hysteria in female patients, Joseph Breuer from whom he saw the possibilities in the field that was in a nascent state thus being open to seizure.  He made his pact with Satan.

Satan was of course a pre-enlightenment mythical figure like God and actually, the Vampyre.  Unlike the God principle that sought the best in mankind Satanism indulged the worst passions.  As Freud was as consumed with hatred of the European as his fellow Jews he set out to exalt the Jews and demean and destroy Europeans.

Freud made few if any original contributions purloining from Charcot and Charcot’s great student Pierre Janet among others.  Guilty of what amounts to theft or psychic vampirism Freud then had to destroy Janet’s et al. reputation and bring them down and bury them which he did.  He, for instance talks about his discovery of the unconscious.  In a masterful way he hypnotized the world into believing that he had discovered the unconscious whereas Mesmer had exposed the concept and others had worked to develop it over the nineteenth century.  Freud merely developed a pernicious version of the unconscious and managed to impose that version on the world.

Now, the Jews had been busy seeking to undermine Science in an effort to lower the value to that of the Talmud- what Barbara Spectre calls Jewish knowledge- to make Jewish phantasies equal to Aryan thought.  Darwin’s concept of Evolution had been the intellectual Atom Bomb of the nineteenth century.  Few ideas have been so stoutly resisted as that of Evolution.  An Earth millions, even billions of years old, completely discredited the supposed creation of the universe less than six thousand years ago by the Jews.  If science was right then the Jews were fantastics living a lie or at least fictional view of history.  It is easy to understand their need to overturn Science.

Quite simply Jewish views were exploded.  A tedious Jew by the name of Henri Bergson sought to inject creationism into Darwin’s biology.  While this effort has never been an unqualified success it has strengthened the religious argument thus undermining science.

While Einstien’s reputation has been pumped up into amazing proportions his physics seem to have come from the back of his neck.  Nevertheless he has confused the discipline while as a sainted Jew few wish to challenge his ‘thought experiments’.  You all know that one about the elevator in space.

So Franz Boaz attacked the discipline of Anthropology injecting religion into it. To attack this notion could discredit one as an anti-Semite while losing your credibility and job.  Blacklisted, as it were.  And the keystone of the Jewish attack on Aryan Science has been Freud’s theories of psycho-analysis.

Freud was said to have abandoned the use of hypnosis very early by the year of 1900 presumably because he was an inept hypnotist.  This is really throwing dust in our eyes.  Freud abandoned the hocus-pocus of hypnotism because he found it wasn’t needed.  He understood more perfectly the role of suggestion in influencing behavior.  Thus it was possible to hypnotize whole crowds, even peoples, by suggestion, then indoctrination and finally conditioning.  By 1915 he had his system worked out and from that date on was busy putting it into effect.

Part of his success was effected through the disorientation of Europeans through constant innovation and change.  So-called common sense had been proven ridiculous by the overturning of not only long held beliefs but seemingly incontrovertible beliefs.  The very notion of the Eternal God of Jewish legend had been proven false for those with eyes to see.  Nothing challenged the notion of the Eternal God more than the theory of Evolution.  Old beliefs die stubbornly and none more stubbornly than that of God the Father and Creator.  Not surprisingly the search for proof of life after death, the most cherished of all beliefs, became of central importance.  Those who could tolerate the absence of God also refuse to give up the belief in eternal life after death.  Du Maurier was representative in supposing that his works proved life after death.  With his ‘proofs’ he was content to die and disappear into the sun.  That’s how The Martian ends.

Doubts about God gave impetus to other suppressed religious beliefs such as the occult science and Satanism.  When God ‘died’ in our Sixties the son of Satan was born in the movie Rosemary’s Baby.  It is not coincidental that Satanism after having been suppressed for millennia began its rise toward its current status of primary belief of today.  Nor is it coincidence that Freud and his Jews would be primary propagators.

Equally unsettling to the psyche and as I believe as the importance of Evolution was the Wright brothers discovery of how to keep a heavier than air plane afloat in the ether.  The achievement overturned all beliefs making anything believable.  If men could fly than nothing was impossible or maybe even improbable.

And for the Jews their discovery of a New World in the nineteenth century was fortuitous indeed.  Apart from a few Portuguese Jews in the seventeenth century the vanguard of the Jewish invasion arrived in the wake of the failed revolution of 1848.  This contingent rapidly established itself quickly acclimating and taking advantage of all the fabulous technological achievements of nineteenth century Aryans while being aided by European Jewish fortunes.

Prior to the nineteenth century people’s clothes were hand made.  Aided by the sewing machine and the development of cities a whole new industry of the needle trades developed.  When Eastern Jewish immigration began in the 1870s the needle trades were appropriated by the Jews while large numbers of Eastern Jews were directed to this industry.

Thus the Eastern Jews found a relatively easy access to American life.  There was no resistance to speak of in the United States while to the enterprising person opportunity to acquire wealth was nearly unbounded.

As most of the Jews chose to remain in New York City, then the commercial capital of the US, and as Jews comprised twenty-five to thirty percent of its population and therefore of the labor pool obviously Jewish infiltration of the cultural life of the US was immediate and pervasive.

New York City then became the Jewish capital of the US and, indeed, the world. New York City became a competitor of Washington DC as a governing body.  The US was a safe haven from which Jews could direct the subjugation of Europe.  Jewish hatred of the Russian Czars that led directly to WWI was managed from the US.  Jewish machinations caused the diplomatic break with Russia.  The idea was apparently to draw Germany into a war with Russia in an effort to destroy the Czar.  Thus was achieved by the assassination of the Austrian Grand Duke at Sarajevo.

Research indicates that the assassination was planned and directed from the Grand Masonic Lodge in Paris which means the Jews.

Perhaps the War in the West was not in the planning but an inevitable result once the war began.  In any event the Jewish hatred of Europeans resulted in the Great European Holocaust or what some call the Second Thirty Years War.

 

Continuation in Clip 5 continues

Vol. I, Clip 5

The Vampyres Of New York

A Novel

by

R.E. Prindle

 

Baron: Perry, I really must insist on more substantiation then you’re presenting. So far all I’m hearing is mere speculation.

Me: No, not mere speculation Baron. But, bear in mind I’m not a mere chronicler nor am I merely recording events. I am after motivations, the reason why, how it was done. I’m dealing with the unconscious part, underlying agendas.

I have read tens of thousands of pages of Jewish history and literature and even more Euroamerican. This is interpretive history not a monograph. An essay.

Besides source material has grown exponentially and now includes tens of thousands of songs, millions of hours of movies, TV and radio. What was once ephemera has now been captured and reproduced on a permanent basis. With the internet I can hear actual speeches, see the original performances by the original stars. Not only can I see the movies I can own them for a pittance and study them carefully. New and important sources that didn’t exist until the nineteen thirties such as comic books. Many of them have been issued in bound volumes. The amount of information is beyond comprehension.

My reading, my sources must of necessity be very different from yours even though we may be covering the same topics. Nobody can possibly have read everything. Nobody is really qualified to write histories and yet it must be done.

Some guy named Peter Watson tried to write Ideas: A History. One big problem with his history is that he doesn’t have a clue as to what Freud was writing about yet he gives a long reverential chat about ‘that great man.’ The guy was in over his head. I commend the effort but deplore the result. So perhaps with me. I have no hopes of persuading everyone yet as far as it goes my account is as close to the truth as anyone else will get.

Still, as I say, I haven’t read all the auto-biographies and biographies and they are absolute essentials. I never will read them but then nobody else will either. And then there’s the question of depth and breadth of mind. How powerful is the mind doing the interpreting? How extensive and intensive is his experience?

Lessing: Yes. I quite agree. It is impossible to write the so-called definitive history. Perception changes with time. A lot depends on what you want to emphasize. It isn’t necessary to accept anyone’s account at full face value but I’m getting something out of Perry’s account.

Max Savings: Hear, hear Baron. I think it is obvious that Perry is well read. He has a depth in certain areas that I don’t have and I’ve done my reading. I actually know very little about Freud so assuming Perry knows what he’s talking about, and I think he does, I’m getting food for thought.

Baron: Well, I’ll defer my judgment till later.

Me: Alright, now where was I? Alright. One of the first things the Jews did when adequate numbers reached the New World was to set up their own fraternal Order. Fraternal Orders were big in the US so one more came unnoticed.

While the other Orders were all ecumenical except for perhaps the Catholics the Jewish Order of B’nai B’rith was purely Jewish as the name that might be translated The Circumcised Brethren indicates. No gois could be in the B’nai B’rith but Jews could be in all the other Orders. The B’nai B’rith was founded in 1843 and over the years as the number of Jews in the US increased the Order grew and became international in scope. Hitler expelled the Order in 1939.

A lodge was established in Vienna the home base of both Theodore Herzl who founded Zionism and Sigmund Freud who founded Psycho-analysis. Freud joined B’nai B’rith in 1895 attending the weekly meetings until the Nazis closed the lodge. It is important that Freud joined the lodge because he thought they were like-minded to him, that is, they also desired the destruction of Europe and Europeans. Therefor some major plotting against Europe must have taken place at those weekly meetings. I don’t know whether Herzl ever joined nevertheless the Zionist ideas circulating in Vienna must surely have been a major topic at the meetings. Now, Baron, to meet your objections, I am blending provable history with speculation. That is cause and effect. If something happened certain prior conditions must have existed and certain consequence must have ensued. The consequences are clear but the connections are hazy.

The first problem for the Lodge was how to disarm the enemy. A method to subvert and confuse. This warfare was asymmetrical. This is Jewish conspiracy conducted by Jews posing as nationals of the various European States and those of North America. There must have been communication between the various national operatives. Activities had to have been and were, thus as Ford claimed, an international Jewish conspiracy.

The primary target was the Czar. The Jewish fixation was to eliminate the Czar, kill him, obliterate him and all his works, remembering the Amalekites, and this is what they did. Then where was the center of operations? Obviously Vienna. The city was close to the transit point of Brody though which the majority of Jewish emigrants passed on the way to the embarkation point of Hamburg.

Thus 1895 is the year Herzl originated Zionism and Freud joined the B’nai B’rith. Thus Freud joined a group of accomplished Jewish conspirators. I’m guessing but it would seem probable that the infamous Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion were worked up there with Freud’s very important psychological help. They would have been written during the lead up to the First Russian Revolution of 1903-05. This revolution was an international affair coordinating American, European and Russian operations along with the Japanese.

That revolutionary attempt, a wholly Jewish affair, was a truly international operation involving the war between Russia and Japan. Both the Czar and the Japanese needed money to conduct the war. Thus, the Rothschilds and Parisian financiers prevented anyone from lending money to the Czar while at the same time in the US Jacob Schiff of Kuhn Loeb and the American Jewish Committee looted the Equitable Assurance Society of two hundred million dollars that he loaned to the Japanese allowing them to wage the war against Russia. However amid the Russian disasters of the war the revolutionary attempt failed.

It was certain that the Jews would be accused of fomenting the revolution so, perhaps, to confuse the issue the Protocols were given to a noted anti-Semitic priest, Sergei Nilus. He published them but they went unnoticed until they were revived as needed after the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917.

One can’t be certain with the available information but that or something very close to that happened.

After 1905 Freud wrote his Three Sexual Theories that was meant to overturn European God centered morality in favor of a Satanic morality. Freud would further the Satanic principle in subsequent writings.

The Jews having discovered America much preferred it to Russia. Thus never known to observe any other laws but their own will they then disregarded all US immigration laws organizing a mass removal of all Russian Jews to the US. That was to have begun in 1914. Hatred for the Czar prevented this from taking place. The assassination of the Austrian Grand Duke at Sarajevo is said to have been planned and organized in Paris, that means by the Jews.

The assassination then pitted the Russians against Austro-Germany. Germany became the Jews horse until he Czar was murdered. Although courted by the Allies from 1914 on to assist them the Jewish government backed Germany so long as Russia was in the war. With Russia first seized by the Jews, it must never be forgotten that Kerensky was a Jew, in February in October the Bolshevik Jews completed the seizure. The Jews then extorted the Balfour Declaration from England as the or a price for throwing their support to the Allies.

It would be interesting to know what they would have done if the Allies had said: We don’t need you anymore. That would have left them hanging with no influence. As it was accepting their help gave them power over defeated Germany and a place at the Peace negotiations. As the war had removed the Czar in Russia so the defeat of Germany eliminated the obstacle of the Kaiser leaving the German people seemingly defenseless. Thus Jewish revolutionaries flowed back into Germany from Russia secure in the belief that they would seize that country and consequently the whole of Eastern Europe. Indeed Bavaria fell and was rescued by the army while there were numerous attempts in Berlin and other cities.

The Jews were foiled by the millions of German fighting men who were in no mood to accept Jewish Bolshevism already proving a disaster in Russia at the hands of these very Jews and it would get worse, much worse, Satanism on a stick.

The Revolution of course was the success of Marxist Communism. Marxism was then central to European politics and Freudianism was now established in the Jewish psyche so that the two ideologies began to be fused into one deadly combination.

Freud lived to a great old age before committing suicide in 1938 so he was still very active in the years between the wars as were his fellows. The Frankfort School in Germany worked up Critical Theory beginning in the early twenties that sought to undermine Western thought patterns and thus institutions. The Da Da Movement, an attack on mores, had begun in Switzerland during the war years. It evolved parallel to the Frankfort School.

The war had changed things or at least saw them brought to maturity. In Freud’s own camp a disciple by the name of Wilhelm Reich had brought Freudian sexual theories to their logical conclusion and it was a whopper. Freud was so horrified at the monster he had created in the image of Reich that he expelled him from the Order, placed him outside the Pale, an Outlaw. Like all good cranks and perverts Reich migrated to the United States.

He was no more welcome in the US than he was with the Freudians. It takes a lot to find rejection by the US; the country has taken in some amazing crazies. Wilhelm Reich was too much. After a series of lunacies he was arrested and imprisoned while his books were collected and committed to the flames. Yes sir! A book burning right here in the good old USA.

The authorities didn’t get them all however; some made their way to Greenwich Village so that Satanic Reichian sexuality became the backbone of the sexual revolution. Scary stuff.

During the thirties the whole of the Frankfort School and Freudian Order fled Germany and Austria infecting the US like some horrid virus. Freud himself held out until the Order cleared out then being the last to flee turned out the lights of Europe committing suicide shortly thereafter.

So at various times in the United States the Freudian presence increased in its virulence. The conquest of the country was the goal. Americans were unsuspecting. Of course psycho-analysis was taken seriously so that Freud and Freudianism was thought of as purely a medical or academic approach to psychology. But the name Freud was legitimized. Its political aspects were ignored.

Freud’s nephew on his wife’s side, a fellow by the name of Edward Bernays lived in the US. Bernays is associated with the founders of the Public Relations business. He received his early training during the war with George Creel’s Committee of Public Information. The CPI was critical in transforming America.

The CPI was a total blitz on the American psyche to stifle all opposition while conditioning it to accept any government direction. The CPI was a tremendous Pavlovian experiment. This was psychologically devastating.

Bernay’s experience taught him how easily the public mind could be influenced to accept anything with the proper suggestion, indoctrination and conditioning. As Freud’s nephew he visited the Old Master in Vienna receiving hints and directions, perhaps being informed of the whole plan.

In 1913 the B’nai B’rith organized its terrorist unit in the US to do ‘God’s work’, the infamous Anti-Defamation League. Note the words carefully. There was no league in the general sense although the word means non-sectarian; it was part of the Jewish conspiracy to silence any criticism allowing them to function in the open undisturbed. The term anti-defamation was meant only against Jews while its other purpose was to defame and blacklist any who spoke up. While in the twenties and beyond whispering campaigns were the method when extended into today the method is open denunciation and deprivation of livelihoods along with black listing. People have lost careers, had ‘sacred’ contracts cancelled and in many cases hundreds of millions of dollars in future income lost. How’s that for instilling terror?

I mention Freud because as I mentioned back in 1895 Freud began attending weekly meetings of B’nai B’rith that he never missed for the rest of his life. By 1913 Freud was as accomplished a psychologist as he would ever be. I think there can be little doubt that Freud’s contribution to the formation of the ADL was paramount. The ADL was immediately effective and very aggressively employed.

Thus Bernays and Freud’s intent must have revolved around the subversion of the American psyche. Post war Bernays became an advertising consultant. While today probably few people have heard of Bernays he is considered one of the ‘fathers’ of modern advertising. At the time advertising was limited to print, that is newspapers and magazines, and radio as it became truly commercial in the thirties.

Print was made more effective by improvements in color lithography so that really dramatic ads could be presented. They were really great ads too. The twenties and thirties were a newspaper and magazine paradise. Magazines routinely sold millions of copies an issue while they were studied closely. I loved the ads in the forties and early fifties. TV introduced after the war put many magazines out of business but was a better tool for suggestion, indoctrination and conditioning.

Bernays was responsible for American Tobacco- Lucky Strikes- ads so he produced some stunning layouts. As Lucky Strike was trying to expand their business by inducing women to smoke Bernays produced ads displaying beautiful hyper-chic women with cigarette in their hands, thus the suggestion that it was Ok for women to smoke. The women also looked easy or sexually promiscuous so the suggestion was also an attack on sexual morality. The indoctrination came from the slogan- reach for a Lucky not a sweet- while the conditioning came from repeated exposure. By 1950 Lucky Strikes was way out in front, the leading cigarette. So Bernays showed how easily it could be done without the subject knowing he was being manipulated. The ‘elite’ were surely in control.

In the thirties then, with the advent of Hitler that alarmed the Jews, Bernays acting then as a psychologist led the defensive and offensive maneuvers of the Jewish establishment.

The Jews as voiced by Bernays realized, or thought they did, that the public was irresponsible. It not only did what American advertisers led them to do but in the equally effective hands of a master propagandist like Hitler the public could be led where Jews didn’t want them to go.

Hence as Bernays expressed it, it was necessary for a responsible elite to guide the public in the direction they wanted it to go. See the Irving Berlin song introduced at this time: God bless America, stand beside it and guide it…a masterpiece of propaganda. The Jews selected themselves as the psycho-pomps of the American psyche using the more and more effective forms of media.

To back track a bit for political purposes: The German Jews of mid-century – nineteenth that is- took a paternalistic role in relationship to the medieval Jews of the Pale of Settlement. These latter Jews however came to the US in their millions. Their way was paved and eased by the US German Jews who consequently formed the majority of the Jewish political cadre in the US to the end of the two world wars when the Jews of the Pale assumed leading roles more or less melding the two groups.

There was therefore a body of two or three dozen German Jews who guided the destiny of both groups. These were very influential men who are edited from all general American histories then and now. Bernard Baruch has been described as the most powerful person in the Roosevelt period yet you will seldom hear his name mentioned and he has been all but forgotten in non-Jewish circles while I’m certain most Jews are either in the same boat or have only a very dim idea of who he was.

It would be a serious mistake to believe that Jews in general are well informed on their history. My wife’s aunt who was a Jewish activist during the Sixties and Seventies had never even heard of the American Jewish Committee until I mentioned it to her. This is almost inconceivable to me but there you have it.

Baruch was a Wall Street speculator around the turn of the century, perhaps the most famous bear pre-1914. He was despised as such. He is thought to have been worth a million when WWI began. Appointed the head of the War Industries Board by Wilson he controlled all US industry; it is thought that he was worth two hundred million by war’s end.

As a further example of his money making ‘skills’ FDR’s son-in-law Curtis Dall in his memoir says that at one point before FDR’s inauguration Baruch told him that he, Baruch, owned five sixteenths of the visible silver in the world. Dall was impressed but didn’t get it. Several months into the administration Roosevelt arbitrarily raised the price of silver from ten dollars an ounce to twenty dollars an ounce. I don’t know how many tens of millions or even hundreds of millions that meant to Baruch who was influential in getting FDR to raise the price but surely it was princely.

In possession of this vast wealth Baruch was prodigal in its use. FDR remarked that his efforts were circumscribed by Baruch who owned, Roosevelt’s word, sixty congressmen. I don’t know what their prices were but the cost probably nicked Baruch more than somewhat. Thus he persuaded FDR to finance his own opposition.

During the same interwar period the Louis Brandeis-Felix Frankfurter combine was organizing Congress along other lines. Frankfurter is said to have been the second most powerful man of the period. Brandeis died in the mid-thirties but Frankfurter having developed whole cadres of operatives while a law professor at Harvard had at least dozens perhaps hundreds of operatives filling roles in all the branches of government. Alger Hiss was one of what were known as Felix’ Happy Hot Dogs.

The first twenty years of the century were spent in creating organizations such as the American Jewish Committee, the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith and the NAACP among many others: that is, vigilante outfits controlled the social scene as the politicos controlled the political scene.

Numerous rabbis were active posing as great humanitarians seeking to root out ‘injustice’ while attempting in conjunction with the others to subvert Anglo-American mores. The attempt was to cut the ground out from under the American psyche. The whole was guided by the Great Satan Sigmund Freud under the ‘scientific’ guise of psycho-analytical ideology.

Having witnessed Baruch plundering America in his role at the WIB Ford, the Dodge Brothers and other industrialists had sharp words with its administrator creating post-war conflict. Ford took the matter into his own hands sounding the alarm through his international newspaper the Dearborn Independent. He published ninety some articles demonstrating the Jewish displacement of Anglo-Saxon mores.

In 1906 a US sociologist by the name of Graham Sumner published a book demonstrating how mores were developed and changed. The book is called Folkways. Perhaps both Ford and the Jews studied it because they both seem to have understood it well.

Ford’s challenge was taken seriously by the Jews who spent the next seven years 1920-27 attempting to destroy Ford. The battle ended in a draw with Ford receiving the odium. The battle would be renewed by the Jews in the thirties who combined with government and labor power through FDR to destroy Ford while capturing his grandson Henry Ford II as the administrator of the surviving rump of Ford Motors and the fabulously wealthy Ford Foundation.

On the European side Hitler became German chancellor. Even as the US Jew Samuel Untermyer declared a Jewish war against Hitler and Germany Hitler was making it plain that Jews were no longer welcome in Germany. This was disastrous for the US. The entire cadre of Freud’s subversive Order uprooted and fled to the US, primarily New York City and Los Angeles. Thus the US became Freudian occupied territory in 1940.

Hey boys, I’m getting a little dry. Could we take a short break before I resume?

Lessing: An idea whose time has come. It will also give us time to probe a few of your ideas.

Me: Oh yeah. You want to know where I cribbed it from right? You’ve got quite a few of the books in your terrific library, Lessing.

Marc Giusty: An excellent selection, there are more in his study and bedroom too.

Max Savings: You don’t happen to live at the Strand do you Lessing?

Lessing: Among other stores. NYC is a wonderful place, a real book lover’s heaven.

Baron Cammell: Perry, you paint with rather a broad stroke. I wonder what depth you have?

Me: Depth? There’s more than one kind of depth Baron. If you mean am I deep into monographs of minutiae in any particular topic, I’m rather light on the monographic side. I’m more interested in the flow so I try to find books on topics from several different viewpoints and analyze them that way. Given your unified field approach Baron I’m sure you understand that the material available is incomprehensible. No one is ever going to come close to being able to claim to be adequately prepared.

For instance, to have been able to have tracked down and read all the biographies of the Jewish participants in America from 1900 to, say, 1950 along with other necessary reading is impossible in itself; however the broad outlines are touched on by each writer with some separate detail so you get a sort of consensus and then compare to writers of other opinions on the subject to get a pretty good idea of its direction.

On the other hand I have plumbed the Ford-Jewish relations in its minutiae as well as its associated relationship with the Protocols of Zion. It wasn’t necessary to bring that up here but I could go on for a few hours on those topics if the situation called for it.

Marc: Very well Perry, but I believe you think that the Jews are comparable to the Vampyre motif Aren’t you afraid of contradiction?

Me: No. I’m fearless, Marc, absolutely fearless. But, seriously, we must always be prepared to answer challenges. Arnold Toynbee who I thing makes a good case for his interpretation of history which is undoubtedly not faultless, but then it doesn’t have to be invulnerable at every point to be generally true nevertheless has been savagely attacked by what I consider inferior minds.

I expect to be challenged when I state my ideas positively but I’m satisfied that I can defend any invulnerabilities, chinks in the armor you see.

Max Savings: I should think you had been savaged by the Jews you criticize so severely by now.

Me: No I haven’t. The Jews will never attack me directly. Several of my pieces have been posted on the ADL site noting ‘the rise of anti-Semitism’ and I might add without any notification to me or to allow me any defense from their charge of what they call anti-Semitism and what I call critical thinking. They will never allow anyone who can defend themselves the opportunity they merely resort to ‘dynamic silence’, defamation and black listing.

They will never challenge your thinking or its expression, merely defaming you as an anti-Semite. If I were still employable I’m sure I would have lost my job long ago. As it is I am a social outcast.

Baron: But how can you justify the charge of Vampirism. Isn’t that a little extreme?

Me: Well Baron, as I say, one reads all points of view whether forbidden books and authors or not. Very frequently in European literature the charge of being ‘blood suckers’ appears frequently as well as other blood related metaphors. I don’t ever recall ever having heard of them specifically referred to as Vampires although Du Maurier’s Svengali is a perfect description of a psychic Vampyre and that can be demonstrated by their deeds, methods and mythology. And thus rather they are authentic or not you have the evidence of the Protocols of Zion. They can deny and deny but there it is today backed up by Jewish control of the entire media. Nothing gets published or made without their consent and if something does get by they force its recall.

Baron: Oh, that old canard.

Lessing: Oh Baron, I think it is perfectly obvious today that Jewish control of the media is a given. Most Jews I know don’t even deny it, they’re quite proud of it and smug about it.

At this point I began to look askance at Cammell. Even in a group of five at least one or two are going to be spies. I once attended a meeting where I could identify more than half as agents. As a matter of fact I knew some guy who was trying to establish some Communist unit of some kind. He was the one in his small group that wasn’t a spy. I marked Baron down as one.

We chatted on for several minutes until Max said: Time is flying, it’s already after one. Not that I’m rushing you, Perry, but can you give us an idea…

Me: Oh Max, I think we’ll all be able to have breakfast together but to keep your spirits up I’ve got a prescription for Obetrol here if you like.

Marc: Obetrol? Isn’t that the stuff Andy Warhol took?

Me: Yeh. That’s why I got the prescription. Part of my research. I wanted to see how it worked.

Max: How does it?

Me: Great if you want to speed along in a most pleasant way. A quarter tab and you guys will be all attention. You might even think I sparkle.

Max: It’s not addictive is it?

Me: I don’t have an addictive personality. When I said it was research it really is. Obetrol is like booze, a little goes a long way. If you’re not alcoholic there’s no worry.

Lessing, Marc and Max: OK, I’ll try a quarter tab.

Baron: I’ll abstain.

Me: Alright. There’s a tab. Divide it up. I’ll get back to my essay. As a reminder there is nothing different or exceptional about the Jews. They are just another people pursuing their own ends for their own benefit. They have no concern for anyone else but themselves. This is natural however. By the clever use of hypnotism developed by Sigmund Freud they have the ability to cloud men’s minds something like the fictional Shadow.   The main weapon in that particular arsenal is the ability to destroy the Other by the mere whisper of the charge of anti-Semitism. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is a tool for terrorism. The Other has been conditioned to shake in his boots in fear of the accusation. Indeed, the term has conferred great power on the Jews who today can blacklist anyone, get them fired from lucrative or even dream jobs, by the mere pointing of a finger. They have conferred this ability on their favored Negro auxiliaries using the term racism. This is tolerated and embraced by the Other. One may say that the Other is so hypnotized that they have no will of their own.

That being said, the advent of Wolf Hitler was the best thing that could have happened to the Jews. As I said earlier Freud’s nephew Edward Bernays, the public relations man, said that in order to prevent unruly human nature from expressing anti-social, that is anti-Jewish, behavior it was necessary for an elite, that is the Jews, to devise means of conditioning minds to honor Jews above all others including themselves.

Thus Hitler gave them the means to denounce anyone they didn’t like as a Fascist if they couldn’t nail them as an anti-Semite. A sort of hierarchy of name calling was developed. This was augmented by newspaper and magazine writers together with influential radio commentators such as Raymond Gram Swing who, while important then, is unknown today. Even such a household name then like Walter Winchell will receive stares today.

Their fierce ad hominem defamation campaigns were carried on in a fight to the finish. Chief among their victims were Henry Ford, William Randolph Hearst and Charles Lindbergh. The Communist legions were turned loose on Ford making several attacks on his River Rouge plant while infiltrating the assembly lines sowing discontent and sabotage requiring the Service Department to spy, that is detect the Communist agents. This in turn was then portrayed as industrial tyranny. Very trying for Ford, I can tell you.

W.R. Hearst was a victim of the expropriatory taxes fostered by the Jews. As one who indulged his desires to the fullest Hearst could no longer indulge his royal life style that collapsed on his head forcing him into near bankruptcy while he in fact lost control of his empire.

In his heyday Hearst had been the reigning power in Hollywood even calling shots for Louis B. Mayer and his transcendental MGM. Hearst who foisted the career of his mistress, Marion Davies, on MGM had compelled Mayer to build a special house on the lot for Davies. Stripped of his power by the expropriatory taxes, Mayer discovered that he had the upper hand compelling Hearst to remove Davies’ house from the lot. Hearst had the house cut in two so that it could be moved through the Hollywood streets. As an extra humiliation one half of the house fell off the truck mid-Hollywood. One can still hear the laughter on the MGM lot.

Shortly thereafter Orson Welles shot his mockumentary of Hearst called Citizen Kane to add insult to injury while elevating the level of merriment.

That left Charles Lindbergh to destroy. Another movie called Keeper of the Flame was made that as Citizen Kane had demeaned Hearst, defamed Lindbergh. The Great Hero of the Atlantic Flight was portrayed as a Fascist megalomaniac. I will say that if today you don’t know the movie was meant to humiliate Lindbergh it would be hard to guess who was meant. In many ways Lindbergh’s persecution is difficult to understand. His father was a congressman and dissident. It is not impossible that he may have said or done something to offend the ever-sensitive Jews. Thus the sins of the father may have been passed to the son. Other than that, as an aviation pioneer Lindbergh was the first to fly solo from the US to Europe for which he became a huge American hero and celebrity. Perhaps it was mere envy that made him a target.

Other than that, when asked by Roosevelt to survey German aircraft in the thirties Lindbergh gave an objective report rather than a subjective condemnation that the Jews preferred. Being objective apparently marked him as an arch anti-Semite in Jewish eyes hence by the late thirties he was singled out as a Nazi sympathizer, even as a secret Nazi hence the movie Keeper of the Flame. Then in 1940 after the creation of the America First Committee that was dedicated to keeping the US out of the war so ardently desired by the Jews Lindbergh led them in their effort. Of course the Jews were the leaders in seeking to involve the US hence the America First effort frustrated Jewish goals thus confirming their hatred of Lindbergh.

But where was the handle to discredit him? In a very strange campaign they sought to portray him as a Hitler acolyte seeking to establish a Nazi dictatorship in the US.

Even though the campaign began after FDR’s third election in 1940 when it was impossible to believe that Lindbergh sought to be president the Jews persisted releasing their defamatory movie. In 1941-42 Keeper of the Flame scripted by the Communist Donald Ogden Stewart was released that depicted a great American hero who was a secret Fascist. Even though the protagonist died in a car crash when a bridge he was to drive over was sabotaged the movie was still supposed to refer to him. The theme would be reanimated nearly sixty years later in Philip Roth’s novel The Plot Against America.   Apparently the Jews love to beat a dead horse.

Once FDR led the US into the wars the Jews compelled him to round up all the anti-war dissidents who were held for trial in 1944 as Fascists agents. Thus the whole pre-war cadre of peace advocates were removed.

While having had FDR under their thumb, when Roosevelt died shortly after beginning his fourth term Jewish influence was greatly diminished as Anglo-Americans fought for control.

By this time the members of the Freudian Order were firmly established in NYC and Hollywood where their influence was greatly felt. Thus by the mid-fifties psycho-analysis became a dominant social force making ‘insanity’ acceptable. Along with the Freudians came the whole Jewish Frankfort School of Critical Theory. The formidable combined attack on the mores of a tolerant unsuspecting citizenry was received as an intellectual discipline hence they attempted to adjust to it. Idiots like Theodore Adorno and Herbert Marcuse were accepted as intellectual prodigies. The ‘boring’ fifties would be an intense battlefield if you were alert to it.

To recover 1945-56. It is not recognized that the Jewish holocaust had nothing to do with Jewish wishes to exterminate the German people. Those plans began at the very latest in the thirties. In 1940 before even a hint of the holocaust one Theodore Kaufmann of New Jersey published a book receiving wide national publicity calling for the elimination of the German people in toto. That is, he advocated genocide of the Germans. This attitude was continued in the so-called Morgenthau Plan that called for the elimination of Germany as a political entity and the genocide of the German people. According to Curtis Dall FDR’s son-in-law the plan was actually drafted by Harry Dexter White Morgenthau’s under-secretary. Despite his quintessential Anglo name White was Jewish. It is unlikely that he was the ultimate source. In layers of subterfuge masking the origin of the source it can probably be traced back to Bernie Baruch as part of the cabal. The plan was actually put into effect, or at least its beginnings, by Eisenhower until Truman pulled the plug firing Morgenthau.

Following their defeat the Germans were put through hell by Russians, British, French and we Americans. Eisenhower’s treatment of Germans was draconian. While it is very far from common knowledge Eisenhower was another acolyte of our Bernie Baruch. Eisenhower said in 1956 that he had sat at the feet of that wise old man for twenty-five years. It would seem likely then that he was following Baruch’s direction in attempting to eliminate German soldiers through exposure to the elements and starvation during one of the coldest winters on record.

When elected president he was still Baruch’s man. So from 1933 to 1960 with the possible hiatus of the Truman years the US was more or less under direct Jewish control or direction. In addition hundreds of thousands of Jews were admitted to the US in the years following 1945 regardless of US immigration laws.

While Wolf Hitler was the figurehead for German hatred allied hatred was directed at all Germans and Germany. Dissident Germans like Admiral Canaris tried to broker a ceasefire but were ignored by FDR.

Like it or not the Germans were the most intellectually advanced branch of the overall human species. No other could compete with them. WWI was fought as much as a trade war than any other. Quite simply none other could compete with them and this includes the Jews who consider themselves a race apart and above.

In recent Jewish comic books they express the opinion that they are a mutation endowed with superior abilities. The facts show otherwise; by their deeds shall ye know them as the Bible says.

Finance ‘capitalism’ in many ways is the key to the animosity directed at Germans. Under Hitler the Germans were opposed to the debt finance of International Finance. They repudiated it. Themselves stripped of the means to participate in world commerce by the draconian Versailles Treaty they developed a barter approach exchanging goods for goods that involved no debt thereby threatening finance capitalism. The Germans seriously penetrated South America virtually removing the area from finance capitalism. Not only that but South America and Germany prospered throughout the Depression. There was no defense against the German system but to destroy Germany.

I don’t know about you fellows but the rest of America is unaware of this because those who write the history books fail to mention it. To do so would be to admit guilt. To ensure that the Germans didn’t recover and challenge their system once again the Germans were punished more violently than any nation so large had been before. As the West expresses it they were brought within the Western (France, England and the US) normative system. Even under that system the Germans have created the most successful ‘normative’ economy in Europe. Once gain they were pre-eminent; the backbone of Europe.

Then what happened. The Jews directed the US attack on the Middle East. All this weapons of mass destruction crap in Iraq that at most might have threatened Israel. From that attacks were fomented on all the Moslem countries around the Mediterranean. And then they hit on the rock of Syria that disrupted their game. This in turn created a lot of displaced people that Israelis encouraged to invade Germany. Three million immigrants later and Germany is now a basket case.

With those millions displaced from Syria and Iraq those populations were decreased allowing the Israelis to invade those exhausted bombed over areas thus partially realizing their dream of a Tigris-Euphrates to the Nile empire.

So now Germany is reduced and Israel is enlarged. All from the fear of being called anti-Semites. Oh well, beside the point.

To go back: The Jews finagled Palestine away from the Arabs. Using European methods while as ex-Europeans knowing which products for manufactures Europeans desired they were able to establish a viable but not independent economy. Vampire like since 1948 they have sucked tens of billions of dollars if not hundreds of billions from Germany, Europe and the US. This undeniable fact will be denied of course.

On another hand the Jews were devastated by the so-called holocaust. While they believed themselves the most beloved people of the world they found rejection on every side. No one really wanted them while all refused to whole heartedly accept them as refugees. Remember the Amalekites.

By the 1950s the Jewish-German expatriates had firmly installed Freudianism as the dominant intellectual influence in the US. The Fifties were a very interesting period in US history. As is usual the first interpretation of social conditions was presented by literary figures. A truly amazing and astonishing production ensued. At this point traditional print culture was joined and assisted by a whole new genre of movies, that of science-fiction or fantasy pictures.

Like comic books these often puerile but still thoughtful movies were ignored by the older population. But even then they shaped American attitudes. I transited easily from comic books to the sci-fi movies and literature. These books and movies were almost a shadow educational system behind the schools. These were fantastic while being constructive unlike the destructive comic books; not that many of us understood all the subtexts of the stories. Oh, of course, some of them were obvious but a lot more weren’t.

The preachy ones like the movie The Day The Earth Stood Still seemed to be easily understood but there were subtexts that weren’t. These were the heydays of UFOs and visitors from outer space. In this case a savior lands in a really nifty flying saucer and the emissary from ‘above’ Klaatu slips out along with his Iron Man bodyguard named Gort. Klaatu’s mission is to find out whether earthlings are ready to join the interstellar confederation of peaceful planets. Remember, this was after WWII and as Korea was firing up. Needless to say Klaatu discovers we are an unruly quarrelsome lot not even fit to live together let alone function with the ‘perfected.’   He and Gort climb back into their saucer with a heidi-hi-ho and ‘We’ll be back when you get it figured out, if you ever do.’

Thus the idea was imprinted on the world mind that humanity was hopelessly bad with no redeeming features. The suggestion was repeated over and over to the point where people would kill you if you disagreed; probably proving Klaatu’s point. Thus it was an article of faith that if you met a spaceman he was peaceful and wouldn’t hurt you. And as you fellows probably know there were people who expected to meet a spaceman any day not to mention the itinerant time traveler who was also lurking out there. People talk about the Fifties like nothing was exciting. Incredible.

Along with the flying saucers and peaceful spacemen came the atomic mutations transformed by radiation. They were many and fantastic especially the many that came from the atomic testing grounds in the Pacific, Eniwetok and Bikini. A giant crab came forth. Giant crabs were OK but a little passé, nothing like the terrific Creature From The Black Lagoon or even the amazing Incredible Shrinking Man. We were being conditioned to accept almost anything; the most ridiculous being the giant carrot in, I think, It Came From Outer Space. In a way our minds were prepared for anything, not that we understood it.

Bubbling beneath this pseudo-reality that existed side by side with everyday life was Jewish paranoia equally not understood. Perhaps they had guilty consciences as few gois knew what they had been up to and if any did they knew what was good for them and kept their mouths shut. But Hollywood had terrified them especially when the wild misstatements and exaggerations about concentration camps began to circulate. The Jews projected their fears on all White people. They sincerely believed that death camps in the US were imminent. They saw a Hitler in every face they met. Check out the movie The Boys From Brazil.

William Paley of CBS came back from Europe in a cold sweat. In order to save a few Jews from the supposed American death camps he conceived the notion of packaging the future careers of as many Jewish entertainers as he could. He sold shares to their future to gois. That’s why there was this parade of Jewish comedians passing through TV during the Fifties and early Sixties. They had to justify the investment. What a blessing the advent of TV was. Thus the projected future earnings of the entertainers were divided into shares and sold to gois who would protect their investment and keep the entertainers from the death camps. Just like shares from General Motors.

Thus when you saw Milton Berle, Red Buttons, Jack Benny and the others on TV or elsewhere their pay was going into a fund to distribute to shareholders. Even higher comedy than Uncle Miltie. The tragedy was there never were or never would be death camps for the Jews in the US. I haven’t learned how well shareholders did but I would like to know. ‘That’s my boy up there.’ had real meaning.

In that light the post-war travails of Wilhelm Reich must have had Jews running for the safety of their orgone boxes.

While Reich’s books were burned they didn’t get them all, some survived to reach Greenwich Village where they began to insidiously undermine sexual morality. Much of the sexual activity of the Sixties was derived from Reich’s writing. Thus Reichian-Freudianism sexual subversion transformed society beginning in the Sixties. New York was, of course, the first to fall.

To not be promiscuous was to be repressed so that what Freud called inhibitions had to be discarded or, actually, repressed; that is, the lawlessness of the unconscious had to be released much as the traveler in Charles Beaumont’s story had released Satan from his cell.

Graham Sumner’s book on mores titled Folkways discusses the sex impulse this way:

The sex passion affects the weal or woe of human beings far more than hunger, vanity or ghost fear. It has far more complications with other interests than the other great motives. There is no escaping the good and ill, the pleasure and pain, which inhere in it. It has two opposite extremes- renunciation and license. In neither of these can peace and satisfaction be found, or escape from autogenetic impulses. There is no ground at all for the opinion that “nature” gave men an appetite the satisfaction of which would be peaceful and satisfactory, but that human laws and institutions have put it under constraints which produce agony. The truth is that license stimulates desire without limits and ends in impotent agony. Renunciation produces agony of another kind. Somewhere between lies temperance, which seems an easy solution, but there is no definition of temperance which is generally applicable, and whatever the limit may be set, there, on either side of it the antagonistic impulses appear again- one of indulgence, the other of restraint- producing pitfalls of vice and ruin, and ever renewing the problem of right and duty. Therefor regulation is imperatively called for by facts of “nature”, and the regulation must come from intelligence and judgment. No determination of what the regulation should be has ever yet been found in law or ethics which does not bear harshly on great numbers, and in all stages of civilization numbers are found who violate the regulations and live outside of them.

Freudian and Reichian psychology merely repudiates temperance coming down on the side of libertinism hence the Satanic sexual mores of Greenwich Village and the general sexual corruption of the West. As one can see Sumner’s discussion is intelligent while Freud’s, probably because he himself leant toward libertinism, unbalanced and ultimately destructive.

This unbalanced view of sexuality has become the norm in the US and Europe.

Added to this libertine view of sexuality was the promotion of drugs which combined with libertinism is totally destruction of the conscious mind and reason. Freud himself was a cocaine addict. As late as his forties he was pushing it on all as a panacea. He says he gave it up but I doubt it.

This potent cocktail of sex and drugs would erupt in New York City in the Fifties and Sixties when the Feelgood doctors became prominent.

Clip 6 follows