Turkish Tobacco and all that shit

I AM AN AMERICAN!

The Sex Magicians Chapter Seven "Time: is it real or illusory?" p. 56-63

Now we're starting to cook. The novel has begun its crescendo in full with the Mama Vibe being firmly manifested by Miss Welch and much of our company assembled at Sput's party. And by the end of the chapter Buffy Sainte-Marie's "God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot," a recurring leitmotif in the latter half of The Sex Magicians, has put in its first appearance. 

I took three things from this chapter when I first read it in 2012 or thereabouts online: using "Turkish tobacco" as a euphemism for cannabis, a fondness for "God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot," and occasionally ending sentences with "...and all that shit." I'm pretty sure I've sounded as crude to people as Stella does to Dr. Prong, because there's a snowball's chance anyone ever knew the source of that charming phrase. Yet, in my opinion, it is both a concise and comprehensive way to end a statement. Really, I find Stella "Only" to be one of the best characters in the novella- her charming lexicon and shrewdness endears her to the reader. (And it now occurs to me I also took the habit of Stella's to occasionally perform pranayama while smoking, which does seem to increase the pleasure of Turkish tobacco.) All of this is to say: there's a lot to take from this chapter. 

I believe that the Buffy Sainte-Marie appearance is one of the few times that Wilson, aside from a handful of references to The Beatles and MC5 in Illuminatus!, mentions a contemporaneous musician. I'm sure some of my erudite readers could correct this impression and I'm curious if it bears out. I could simply be missing some other references as Wilson certainly does spend much more time discussing and referencing classical music in his work. As someone whose musical tastes are rooted in the Sixties and Seventies, preferrably in the realm of psychedelia, I always appreciate when Wilson does mention something that's more up my alley. (I will also note that most of what I know about classical music is derived from Wilson.) 

In light of recent events, I think there's something to consider in Sput's spun-out speech about freedom and the Pussycat empire. Sput is echoing Hugh Hefner's real-life libertarian bent while he speaks about increasing the total freedom in the world and getting rich along the way. When do the concepts of freedom and wealth start to contradict each other? Is it when wealth is steadily siphoned to a very small percentage of people while the masses struggle? Is it predicated on how you make money? There have been a handful of exposes of Playboy and Hef over the years since Gloria Steinem became a Playboy bunny to see what it was like- does a commitment to freedom seem more hollow when it is based on (at least some) exploitation? I'm afraid we're finding out that the world is far too interconnected for Sput's brand of philosophy to be taken to its extreme, and we just might continue to find that out until certain parties are persuaded to pay attention. Perhaps. 

Also speaking of expenses, how good of a deal does fifty bucks for an ounce of premium sound nowadays? That's inflation for you.

So we end with another one of Sput's perfect orgasm-exclamations as he ejaculates into the mouth of Stella/Mary Poppins and Dr. Prong slipping from reality into fantasy. We're in for more smut and our meeting with the titular sex magicians as well as a great payoff to Markoff Chaney's cameo in this chapter. 

(As a house keeping note, it appears that the posts will either appear on Tuesdays or the weekends. I apologize for the erratic pacing, but angels know nothing of time.- A.C.)

Our most revered creative acts: The Moon and Serpent Bumper Book of Magic (a review)

The Moon and Serpent Bumper Book of Magic by Alan and Steve Moore (illustrated by John Coulthart, Kevin O'Neill, Ben Wickey, Steve Parkhouse, Rick Veitch)

I’ve been dithering and dawdling over writing this review partially because I know that it isn’t going to be as “good” or comprehensive as I wish for it to be. It won’t sum up even a fraction of what is in The Moon and Serpent Bumper Book of Magic, nor will I communicate everything I want to say. For this to be even semi-adequate, it would take the months-long process of writing, discarding, writing and rewriting, discarding, staring at a wall, beginning again and finally coming up with something I’m okay with that I have gone through for my Hilaritas-Wilson essays. I’ve already lingered long enough that this review isn’t as relevant as it could have been. The other self-limiting factor is that I know that this essay will be, like some of the drafts of my Hilaritas-Wilson essays, overly-personal and self-referential. To that point, my apologia: the only perspective of any unique value I can add to this is my own as an aspirant to/adherent of The Moon and Serpent Grand Egyptian Theatre of Marvels since this book was announced. I have lived half my life waiting for the release of this book: I now feel that I have also been trying to read the book since it was announced in Spring 2008- in a manner, I was successful. 

That isn’t to say that I’m not going to try to restrain my autobiographically digressive tendencies, but I am going to give some personal context as to the “why” of “why I’m someone whose opinion of The Bumper Book of Magic you might want to consider.” Before I self-indulge and navel-gaze, I can confidently say this about the Moores’ masterwork; it is exactly what was advertised over the past seventeen years. The book is a summation of their exquisitely tempered magical philosophy presented in the exact type of book that, despite the warning FOR ADULTS ONLY, any child would imagine a book that holds the secrets of magic. It is a true grimoire, full of fascination and mysteries, yet one written without blinds. It may be the best single expression of magic in theory and practice extant.

In the beginning, I was fifteen when I read the already aged announcement of the forthcoming release of The Black Dossier, the continuation of the intoxicating League of Extraordinary Gentlemen series by Alan Moore and Kevin O’Neill. Everything about the book sounded like a dream in that it would be a daring mixture of media and an unheard-of progression of artistic and storytelling thrills. It was pushed back multiple times over the next two years and finally was released on a rainy November day, the 14th I believe, and shocked me to my core. I had been exploring magic, tentatively trying to figure out if it was actually what I wanted or needed in my life, for a couple of years by the time the book came out. When I saw the 3D glasses with their eye-in-the-triangle design and read Oliver Haddo’s essay “On the Descent of Gods,” I was convinced that there might be, must be, something to magic if this crescendo of parellelistic fiction could summon such spirits in me. There would be many other waits; one has to remember that at the same time The Bumper Book was announced, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Century and Jerusalem were also proclaimed. It was worth it. 

After vowing to become a magician, whatever that may mean, I dove into everything I could find- I assiduously collected the secondhand-copies of The Moon and Serpent happenings, often listened to during my first forays into psychedelic territory, and obsessively tracked down interviews. But perhaps the most valuable “find” was the essay “Unearthing” in Iain Sinclair’s London: City of Disappearances. It was/is a moving excavation of the life, times and territory of Alan’s mentor and best friend, Steve Moore (no relation). Written in the evocative style of The Moon and Serpent recordings, it not only thoroughly introduced me to a man to whom I owed so much, but dazzled with information. I learned of magical-fictional projects such as Somnium and Tales of Telguuth, which remain favorite holy texts of mine to this day, and also the most visceral depiction of magic being worked by the magicians I held in the highest esteem. Forget Pascal’s night of fire, whatever happened in Moore the Elder’s house in 1994 and Moore the Younger’s in the early years of our century had enough potency to pour fuel onto my own dim blaze. 

I have always considered myself, arrogantly, the “child” of Blake, Crowley and Wilson- but my closest “fathers” would have to have been the Moores. So I primarily blame them for everything that has happened. Magic for me often means frustration, as I have too often lusted for results, and magic has accompanied me through the tumultuous years of adolescence and early adulthood. I have taken it far too seriously for my own good and have probably derailed my life from more profitable or stable avenues for the sake of this tantalizing figment. When I opened The Bumper Book and read the lines at the end of “Adventures In Thinking:” “Welcome, readers. Welcome, boys and girls, to the most wonderful place in the entire of humanity’s experience. Welcome to magic,” I knew I had made the right choice. The rest of the book was a recursive excursion through my past and the deeper, much more accomplished work of my inspirations. 

Q: What is in The Moon and Serpent Bumper Book of Magic? 
A: Everything. 

Much and more might be a more accurate answer, but really- the scope of this magnificently designed book (John Coulthart is a God) goes from the literal dawn of consciousness up until our own ever-uncertain, arguably culturally-corrupt, times. The authors depict pre-history with a confidence born of brilliant interpretation and extrapolation and guide the reader through centuries of technique and thought with a mixture of brevity and playfulness (“Old Moore’s Lives of the Great Enchanters”) and succinct-yet-thorough explications of magical theory (the “Beginners” essays on Kabbalah and Tarot, along with the atlas and bestiary of magical locations and denizens, respectively). Much of this will be known to experienced magicians, but having it collated and expressed by the Moon and Serpent is an experience all of its own. I personally used these sections almost as a checklist; did I learn properly? I was pleased with my self-assessment, although I was surprised by Alan’s strictures and procedures as far as Tarot is concerned. I had never heard of his insistence on reorganizing the deck after each reading, nor did I expect that he would be partial to the Celtic Cross spread- but I am grateful he doesn’t believe in “inverse” cards either. (Someday, I really must share my experiments using the Tarot to “spy on” or scry close acquaintances/friends/family that was inspired by Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber.) 

“Old Moore’s Lives of the Great Enchanters” is interesting and brilliantly, often hilariously, illustrated by Ben Wickey. None of the entries, being one page comic comics, are going to tell you enough about any of their subjects- but they are presentations of the most interesting facts about their life and invite the curious would-be magus to do their own research into the remarkable history of our predecessors. Reminiscent of the Fortean Times’ “Lives of the Great Occultists” comic strips, if more expansive time-wise, this section is overwhelmingly fun and fascinating. These sections also serve as geniusly-situated palette cleansers between expansive essays and soul-rending fiction. There were some inclusions and exclusions that took me by surprise. Considering the general scope of this blog, I don’t think it out of place to mention my disappointment that Wilson was not included. Although given multiple mentions in the last, and in my opinion the most exciting, part of the tome, Wilson is not identified as one of the Great Enchanters. While I know Wilson himself was uncomfortable being identified as an occultist or magician after his Seventies plumb, I don’t think he can escape it. And according to Alan’s elegy for Wilson, recently published in Hilaritas Press’ The Walls Came Tumbling Down, Wilson was in the room of dead magi alluded to in The Bumper Book and more explicitly, if briefly, described in “Unearthing.” (One other small note: Old Moore does have some esteem for a few modern magician-authors, but I also felt that there should have been some mention of Will Parfitt. Parfitt is the author of many texts about psychosynthesis and Kabbalah, and his The Living Qabalah was mentioned by Alan in a decade-old interview as a good introduction to the subject. I feel that a lot of the Kabbalistic description in “Tree Climbing for Beginners,” “Magical Landscapes,” and “The Soul” can be directly connected to Parfitt’s astounding, if seemingly unassuming, guide.) 

The core of the book is obviously the decadent narrative of “The Soul” and the “Things to Do on a Rainy Day” how-tos. The former will be imminently familiar in its DNA to those who have savored Alan and Steve’s decadent poetry and/or (full blown nerd) scholarship, Gebbie and Moore’s Lost Girls, or Moore’s Promethea. Alan, who I believe is the sole- or main- author of this section, follows a Kabbalistic plotline that he adorns with a moving portrait of an unhappy soul. Our protagonist is a grand leftover from the Yellow Nineties-cum-Eleanor Rigby in a frail silver tiara who overcomes her own ennui to become something grand. Ultimately, the story turns out to be a reflection of the reader themselves and a telling guide to the climes that we will all find ourselves in, if we choose this past to “Know Thyself.” It’s also beautiful as fuck. “Things to do on a Rainy Day” is a Promethean gift to all of us from two emissaries from a better world. Many authors have written step-by-step guides to magic and some have worked better than others, in different arrangements, for all of us. While I have greatly benefited from the explanations and explorations of writes such as Lionel Snell, Lon Milo Duquette, the aforementioned Parfitt, Phil Farber, White and Alvarado, and know of others who have followed Hyatt, Hine and Sherwin: this is what I always wanted, comprehensively. These essays are a true bottom-to-top, Kingdom-to-Crown scaffolding and clouds for the Bronze Serpent. I need to reread and consult The Bumper Book many times before I can be certain, but I’m pretty sure we’ve all been given the reason there’s no more excuses to escape from this dull trolley problem of a timeline we’re on. Rick Veitch seems to be in tune with this better world where children are taught maithuna, the yoga of love, as they are on Pala.

The creme of the book is obviously the maniacal narrative of “The Adventures of Alexander” and the recursive excursion of the “Conclusion: The Moon and Serpent.” When Steve and Alan write together, they are fucking riotous- like listening to Peter Cook and the other Moore when the taduki hits just right. We reach a Trinitarian perfection when the (crude) sensibilities of Kevin O’Neill are mixed into the product and we are given a true Philosopher’s Stone- the profane and the profound mixed into something that seems like some pre-adolescent nightmare. (If you found yourself laughing at this part of the grimoire, please read Alan and Steve’s original “The Moon and Serpent Grand Egyptian Theatre of Marvels” in Joel Biroco’s Kaos #14, if you haven’t already.) More than anything, this section convinced me that The League was always a magical project and O’Neill and Moore’s Tempest was some sort of magical livewire and that I will miss O’Neill terribly. It is a fitting goodbye to such a man, but I hate saying goodbye to such a luminary. 

What can I say about “An Evening in the Grand Egyptian Theatre of Marvels?” Talk about recursive, am I right? I can be as flippant as I want, but the beauty, earnestness and pure expression of the section is undeniable. I don’t know how much of it was written down before Steve shuffled at least 384, 400 kilometers away from Alan, but if one takes the labour, the passion and the pure will poured into this volume- one can understand that their conception of such a partnership would never be adequate. Magic requires Will and Love and the love that existed between Steve and Alan is ineluctable. The authors do strive to remind us that magic, as stated by Crowley, is perhaps predicated entirely upon love. The love that I’ve borne for magic and the magical people I’ve met in every sense has enriched my life to an extent I cannot express here. So to the readers, I say savor this section and love one another. It is in our personal narratives, and the result thereof, that magic is alive and god(/s) is(/are) afoot. 

Oh yeah, don’t cut up the temple in the back. It doesn’t work like that. 

Love is the law, love under will. 

Witness my hand:

Note: If you're interested in further exploring the ideas that went into The Bumper Book of Magic, I suggest looking over the suggested reading from this post. 

As Hot and Wet as Cooked Liver: The Sex Magicians Chapters Five and Six

I miss Schlitz. Enjoy the Difference!

The Sex Magicians Chapter Five: What is Property? (p.40-41) 

The main thing that jumps out to me from this very short chapter is the list of individuals Markoff Chaney considers for his "Fraternal Order of Hate Groups," as this gives us one of those windows into Robert Anton Wilson's political opinions around this time. Robert Welch and Robert DePugh were both far-right, anti-Communist "activists," George Wallace was the famous segregationist governor of Alabama who provided us with the iconic photos of white supremacy in the Deep South, Jerry Rubin was the most useless member of the Chicago Seven and later proved himself a moronic hypocrite by embracing the "greed is good" philosophy of the eighties, Ti-Grace Atkinson is a radical feminist and proponent of political lesbianism and Eldridge Cleaver was a leader of the Black Panthers. While I'd argue that Cleaver, despite his criminal activities, had the most legitimate grievance out of this motley crew, Wilson would obviously been less than pleased with the Soul on Ice author, as he had recently held Timothy Leary under "revolutionary arrest" in Algiers after Leary had fled to that country. 

Chaney's meeting with the butler promises an interesting development in our small-statured anarchist's sexual career. Probably the funniest part of this chapter would be Chaney's mistaken belief that "Au revoir, ma cherie" translates as "good-bye to virginity." So at this point we know he is in for an encounter with a rich eccentric with some interesting sexual peccadillos: more on this later. 

The Sex Magicians Chapter Six: Where did the universe come from? (p. 42-55) 

The chapter titles are becoming more gnomic. 

Joe Smith is an unpleasant and unsympathetic character, in my opinion, especially because he reminds me very much of a contingent of people who, earlier this month, turned over our country to a wannabe-dictatorial regime. By the second paragraph of the chapter we know that Smith and his wife are your run of the mill American idiots whose prejudice is born of not being able to see past the tip of their noses and living an extraordinarily unexamined life. I don't particuarly feel anything for Matilda or Smith as the "sanctity" of their marriage is slowly, inevitably sacrificed by the end of the chapter. 

Chapter Six ramps up the pornographic qualities of The Sex Magicians as the Mama Vibe takes over our dumb fuck character's consiousness (and conscience). I will admit that while Joe is walking past the marquees (the funniest bit in this chapter) I did not understand how SHE SUCKS MEN DRY had a double-meaning. Maybe that shows my inherent perversion or the fact that I try to keep finances firmly away from the forefront of my mind. I guess I'd rather think about oral sex than money...go figure. I laughed aloud at FELLINI'S TOM SAWYER and THEY LIVE FOR SEX AND ALLAH. 

The Ore House sounds like a grand place with a curious pun choice for a name. Since gold is heavily associated with Tiphareth in Kabbalah we might be able to stretch the gold centered puns at the topless restaraunt as a sign that the soul of our novella is sex. Sex appears in many different forms as Smith's mind twists everything into references to un-American activities. There's a curious connection between food and sex throughout the chapter, from Smith eating his cheeseburger while being increasingly overcome with sexual delirium, to Briggitte's forsaken steak and accepted peach pie and her display with the bananas. Sex and food are about as far apart as anything can be in my mind- I remember even as a young man being particuarly repulsed by the Seinfeld episode where George discovers the aphrodisiac qualities of pastrami- and that probably made me more uncomfortable than anything else in a chapter where Wilson seems to be deliberately making his character as uncomfortable as possible. 

Honestly, I'm curious why someone as vivacious as Briggitte would see anything of worth in a Joe Smith type of fellow, but some guys have all the (thoroughly undeserved) luck. Joe Smith is certainly stiff and fucked-up and whatever happens to him because of his moment of, admittedly understandable, weakness, I hope it changes him irreparably. Fuck off Buster and to hell with Mayor Daly, indeed. 

In honor of the stomach-turning simile that I've chosen as this week's title, here is the late, great Bob Eisenstein telling a joke to Jerry Seinfeld on Curb Your Enthusiasm. 

-A.C.

(Spookah- I've restored your lost comment on the last post.) 

Swallow it, you wire tapper!: The Sex Magicians Chapters Three and Four

I apologize to the readers; things got busy, than existential, than depressing. I'm sitting down and writing this, although I don't have a ton to say, going on the principle of something is better than nothing. So, here goes: 

The real Sput Sputnik

The Sex Magicians Chapter Three: Who will guard the guardians? p. 23-33

This chapter's quote-title is famously from Juvenal and received more ubiquity after being the inspiration for Watchmen's title. I personally believe that the title must refer to Tarantella Serpentine's ministrations to the beleagured Dr. Prong that occur in this chapter. Having Tarantella make her debut in the most explicitly pornographic chapter of our slim volume so far is appropriate since the scene that introduces her in Illuminatus! is likewise explicitly pornographic. Her routine with Dr. Prong can be seen as a repurposing of her scene with George Dorn. These scenes seem to be something along the lines of Wilson's ideal of a sexual scenario designed for the purpose of male titillation and pleasure. 

Note that Wilson's sex scenes are almost always drawn out in ways that the atmosphere can be heightened before the moment of climax. This is not only decent advice for regular sexual activity, but is one of the most fundamental principles of sex magic. Energized enthusiasm and all that shit. Wilson also seemed to have predicted live sex cams as he often incorporates women masturbating in front of men as a way to increase pleasure, as in this scene, or as a way of torture- as happens to the captive Sigismundo in The Widow's Son. 

Other Wilsonian tricks we see in this chapter include his interplay of political beliefs between two characters that he doesn't seem to endorse entirely. The younger, liberal-minded Foxx seems naive and unserious while the more conservative, older Dr. Heyman is a square who banks on the accomplishments of his youth. (Or positioning of his youth since Prong notes he simply worked with Kinsey.) We have bits of self-reference where Wilson denigrates his own plotting and incorporates a quotation from one of his own essays. I had suggested to Rasa that the essay be included in this book, but he probably decided it wasn't relevant enough. It would probably fit better into a collection of essays by Wilson on general culture and entertainment. (Also, if anyone can enlighten me to the meaning of the aufgehoben of the Freudian Id, I'd greatly appreciate it. Everything I found had to do with Hegel, and I find Hegel quite impenetrable.) 

I guess this is as good as time as any to review Fernando Poo; I appreciate the fact that information is so much more readily available today, as I imagine many readers probably weren't sure if Fernando Poo existed when the first book came out. Fernando Poo was actually known as Fernando Po for much of its pre-modern and modern history, named after the Portuguese explorer who was the first European to "discover" the island. It is actually only rendered as "Fernando Poo" in Spanish. Fernao do Po named the island Formosa Flora and it has been known as Bioko since 1979. 

The Sex Magicians Chapter Four: Why is a duck? p. 34-39

As far as I can tell, the chapter's title is derived from the famous Marx Brothers routine, but that is more properly "Why a duck?" and I can't tell exactly what it would pertain to in this chapter. 

However, what I can observe is that in this chapter we have a character that closely resembles one of Wilson's "real life" personas in Josh Dill and we can probably glean some of his actual opinions of working at Playboy as well as his opinion of Hugh Hefner. Just like Sput Sputnik, Wilson has said that Hefner tried, and sometimes succeeded, in being something of a legendary figure in the Playboy offices- however, Sput's ridiculousness might hint at how well Wilson thought that worked for him. 

The list of interview subjects shows some of the mercurial contempt that Hefner had a habit of uttering and therefore nixing ideas that Wilson found compelling. Spiro Agnew is too controversial, Ezra Pound uninteresting because he's a poet and of course there are his hilarious invectives against the imagined Attorney General. I have a feeling that the Attorney General in mind while Wilson wrote this scene was Watergate crook John Mitchell, although by the time of publication the AG was the short-tenured Elliot Richardson. Two scenes in this chapter were extraordinarily striking to me when I first read the novel years ago: the hypothetical effects of hashish and a scene that brought tears of laughter to my eyes. I still love the orgasmic repetition of Dr. Spock's name and the punchline that I've made the title of this week's (and last week's, and the one for the week before...) post and think it is one of Wilson's best fictional vignettes. 

- A.C. 

The Sex Magicians Chapter Three

 

Sorry, friends- I pulled my back Sunday and was out of commision until yesterday. Been playing catch up at work. I'm hunting up a new post right now. I have to host trivia tonight, so I'm aiming for tomorrow. Until then, Happy All Hallow's Eve Eve.

The Sort of Man Who Will Add Stature: The Sex Magicians Chapter Two

 

The AI wouldn't add "HAT."

The Sex Magicians Chapter 2: "Are you drinking the water or the wave?" p. 14-22

The week's chapter's title comes from John Fowles' The Magus, a book that seemed to tap into some of the zeitgeist of the Sixties and which is referenced by Wilson a few times over the course of his corpus. So, even if the line is older than that, I'm betting Fowles' novel is the source. I've never read John Fowles' The Magus because I ended up with a copy of it instead of a copy of Francis Barrett's The Magus, which was a little harder to find in those days, and that really pissed me off. (I did, rest assured, secure a lovely copy of Barrett's The Magus.) Perhaps because the phrase doesn't come up as the old chestnut that gives Chapter 1 its vaguely masturbatory title, I read into this one a little bit more. I think it is a reference to Markoff Chaney's existential fit of pique, of course, but I also think it might be a bit of a message whose transmission seems uncannily timely. But it's been a long day, so I might just be loopy and overly reactive to my fancies. 

Before getting into all that, there are some points about details in the chapter I'd like to cover. Naturally, this chapter has a few instances of language that is no longer acceptable; I'm going to stop making this note after this post as it will get repetitive and I don't have any brilliant commentary that I think would add anything aside from acknowledgement. So bringing this up time and again would be like circulating through a party, saying "hi" to someone and nothing else each time you orbit-pass. If I think of some two cents about something further in the book, you know I'll add it. It is also interesting but ultimately somewhat pointless to ponder over the cross-pollination between this novel and The Illuminatus! Trilogy; are all the similar elements just altered bits borrowed from Illuminatus!'s manuscript or did any of the ideas spring forth here and were then worked into the fabled Trilogy? Wilson always claimed that the book was more-or-less completed by the end of '69 and that he and Shea were forced to cut hundreds of pages before publication, so...who knows? 

It wouldn't be surprising for there to have been pornographic tarot decks floating around during the 70s, but after some light research I couldn't find anything published before 1981. While it is very probable I just didn't look deep enough into the Internet, I can also see where such a tarot deck would have been a very small publishing affair. Michelle Olley talks about how this book itself would have been a small publication and only sold "below the shelf" in what few shops that stocked it, so it is quite possible that there were tarot decks that were gloriously nude, but they might be lost to history, attics or to assiduous collectors. It should also be kept in mind that tarot was nowhere near the industry it is today, where there is a veritable cornucopia of pornographic tarot decks to choose from (although most of them use the Caspar Milquetoast euphemism of "erotic tarot"); even Crowley and Harris' masterwork Thoth Tarot wasn't published until 1969. At first I thought that Wilson was having Markoff Chaney lay out a Tree of Life spread because of his contemporaneous reading habits, but I'm now convinced it was the author giving his character a more expansive tableau. 

Now I'm going to read too much into a character in a porn novel. 

Wilson repeatedly describes Chaney's campaign against the world as "surrealist" and accordingly his second signage assault upon regularity is reminiscent of Andre Breton's placard at the first Surrealist gallery: "DADA IS NOT DEAD. WATCH YOUR OVERCOAT." Markoff Chaney's life sounds miserable- consumed with hatred, in some ways his short stature is a pun on being a "small man." Now Wilson, in a way that can seem both empathetic and stereotypical, has Chaney's considerable chip forming because of the height of his shoulders, and you can see that he has put parts of himself into his antihero. The idea of a world of graphs, regularity, petty authority and bureacracy is incredibly frustrating and the push forward towards a joyless world where people are numbers hasn't been fun, by any stretch. In some ways Chaney's crusade is sympathetic and understandable; it's just how it consumes him makes him a somewhat tragic figure. However, because of his unpleasant aspects, down to his vomitous diet, Chaney spends most of the book as a pathetic if effective character, rather than one who evokes true pathos. 

I don't think I caught it the first time I read the book, because it stood out to me when I was rereading the manuscript before writing my essay, but Wilson humorously lays the chaos of the end of the Sixties and the Seventies at Chaney's feet. His surrealist assault is responsible for riots and bombings...which is eerily reminescent of the joke that has been floating around since 2016 or so that Project Mindfuck has worked a little too well. Amidst the general horrors of war and climate change, our society is churning towards November 5th; the aftermath of which, no matter what happens, will see heated rhetoric and a very good probability of greater social unrest/violence. Our society has had chances to change course and unify, to take it down a notch, but it seems...nothing doin'. At least for the foreseeable future. Is it possible that there the MGT is out there, setting off chain reactions that led to this? (Is it Tom Jackson?) Did Markoff Chaney invent the Internet? Considering Chaney's surrealist bonafides and the rise of theocratic-fascism in my home country, I was reminded of a quote from Alan Moore's recent novel, The Great When: 

"After two hours and another cuppa each, they came to the conclusion that all the surrealism of the 1930s had a lot to answer for, and so had Hitler." 

But, with my own worries turning into bitterness all-too-often, I think I might need to ask myself occasionally whether I'm drinking the water or the wave. I'm still not going to read the fucking misleadingly titled John Fowles novel though. 

M.O.Q.: The Sex Magicians Chapter One

 

In the thrall of King Kong.

The Sex Magicians Chapter One: "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" pg. 3-13

Apologies and obligatory reminder of Swedenborg's dictum: "angels know nothing of time." That dictum is spoken by Swedenborg's pilfered head in The Great When and mentioned a few times over the course of The Bumper Book of Magic. In some ways, I feel as if I've been on drugs with two such important titles coming out with only a breath/the breadth of a week in between them. I also timed my return to school on the worst possible day and ended up going back in time for conferences which saw me arriving home at 8pm. But here we are, and hopefully we can all agree- better late than never. 

The first chapter of The Sex Magicians introduces us to arguably the primary protagonist of this slim volume of smut, Dr. Robert Prong. Prong is the first incarnation of Dr. Frank Dashwood in The Schrodinger's Cat Trilogy. Dashwood, named after the founder of the most infamous incarnation of the Hellfire Club, and Prong both hold the enviable, if somewhat challenging, position of head of the Orgasm Research (Foundation). As exact as Phineas Fogg and as hellbound-determined as Macbeth,  Prong is imbued with a lot of humor by Wilson. His names for the various dildos made me snort, as did his assistant's name when I read it the second time. Humor aside, Wilson wastes little time in filtering some of his own fascinations through Dr. Prong as he references the Foundation locating the "original" Cuban Superman, a fantastically real if-much-fictionalized performer in the sub-tropical sin-paradise (for the tourists and the elite, at least) of pre-Revolution Havana. Wilson has an entry on the Superman in his Playboy's Book of Forbidden Words and explains that he was a performer who performed in sex shows where he was known for his his ability to couple with multiple women, ejaculating with each partner, and still keep the show going. Wilson notes, with what seems to be a little disdain or dissapointment, that succesor or imitation Supermen were not able to replicate the original's act and instead used Novocaine to dull their members. He ends his entry with a bon mot wondering about the Superman's fate under Castro's socialism. 

The original Superman performed at the Teatro Shanghai, an infamous club in a city of racey entertainment, and his true identity remains a mystery. He was a mystery of a man who seemed to be a well-loved neighbor, who might have practiced Santeria and was most likely gay. Evidently, even during the hayday of his performance, he was often only known to tourists by the enigmatic title "The Man with the Sleepy Eyes" and to locals as "La Reina" as a crude allusion to his true sexuality. A recollection of the show from journalist Robert Stone, excerpted from this excellent and highly-reccomended essay, recounts some of the less appealing aspects of the Superman spectacle: 

The Superman Show, Stone recounts, featured a blond performer “whose deportment was meant to suggest wholesomeness, refinement, and alarm, as though she had just been spirited unawares from a harp recital or a public library.” The other performer was a black man “who astonished the crowd and sent the blond into a trembling swoon by revealing the dimensions of his endowment.” Stone continues, “Suffice it to say that the show at the Teatro Shanghai was a melancholy demonstration that sexism, racism, and speciesism thrived in pre-revolutionary Havana.”

The Cuban Superman was probably such a tantalizing bit of salacious folklore (really, read the essay) for Wilson because he represented what Wilson considered to be an almost-impossibility amongst men: multi-orgasmic longevity. Indeed, Wilson's admiration and envy of women's ability to acheive orgasm multiple times in a single session is one that comes up throughout his fiction and nonfiction works and Prong's similar obsession is the inciting incident for the creation of the Mama Vibe. One can balance this portrayal of women's sexuality, filtered solidly through the male gaze, with the dual truth that many women aren't educated or empowered to understand what makes them orgasm- especially during the benighted, if seemingly liberated, pre-Internet age. While I'm certainly not arguing that the web is a great source of sexual education in general, if used judiciously and with a sense of responsibility, one can find a plethora of informed articles on many aspects of the seemingly unlimited spectrum of human sexuality. During Wilson's age, hearsay and pornography were often the only sources of information about what I'm going to call "the sexual other," namely people who didn't tick like you do. 

For instance, when we first read The Illuminatus! Trilogy together, my lovely wife noted that Wilson and Shea seemed to think it was very easy for women to reach orgasm. Wilson also seemingly overestimated the ability for women to achieve orgasm through vaginal intercourse; or, at the very least, he embued his fictional characters with the right combination of nerve endings to do in ways that would be statistically improbable in real life. Aside from these very heteronormative misconstruings of "the sexual other," Stone's recollection and assessment of the Superman Show and details found in Wilson's description of ACE-via-HAL's voice remind us that the 20th Century was an era of misconception and ignorance, not too unakin to our own, but enough so that the atmosphere can occasionally stifle. I can move through those patches pretty quickly, but that's my experience- your mileage may vary. 

On the other hand, I found the following excerpt to be strikingly modern in its reflective humor on racial anxiety:

"It was Roger's habit to talk in racy and slangy terms on occasion when addressing foundation employees. 'It relieves the tension,' he would explain if a visitor was upset. 'Call a spade a spade,' he would add emphatically, unless the visitor happened to be black."  

The joke concerns the dictum, "call a spade a spade" which pre-dates the usage of the term "spade" as a slur and rather refers to the gardening implement, and is actually a mistranslation (attributed to Erasmus) of an older Greek idom "call a bowl a bowl." The fact that Prong finds the statement to be sufficient for most visitors except when faced when a visitor who might, quite rightfully, interpret it differently seems like something from an Iannucci-produced comedy. (Perhaps of some interest, while I intially believed that the idiom was referring to the playing card suit as a kind of "anti-cheating" dictum as its origins, it does not. The origin of the slur does refer to the playing cards and was first used in the 1920s, long after the mistranlated idiom had entered into the vernacular.) 

Finally, we arrive to the man of the hour, if we are to conceptualize man's true self as his dick: the appendage chosen by Miss Josie Welch to have attached to ACE, King Kong. Wilson was fascinated by the sexual subtext of King Kong and brought it up intermittently throughout his oevure: the obvious lustfulness in Kong's attitude towards Ann Darrow, the sexual jealousy that palpably existed between Kong and protagonist Jack Driscoll and the question of exactly how the mechanics of such a coupling between beauty and beast would play out. This is made all the more interesting when we consider the biological reality of a gorilla's stature to penile length does not measure up to the chthonic belief that Kong, whilst erect, would become some sort of ithyphallic deity. I will admit that, in the throes of sexual development, I had wondered about this as well- long before reading Wilson, so I can't even blame him. A quick Google will show you that other brilliant and discerning minds have entertained the same series of ruminations, calculations and self-effacing emasculation. So this thrust of ideas is what is prepared to enter Miss Welch on the interior original cover, and it's even bigger than it looks. Like God's dick, famously pondered upon by Wilson in his inaugural The Realist article, King Kong's dick, if properly conceptulized, would defy the dimensions of the imagination. We leave the chapter with the priapic version of St. Anselm's ontological argument running in and out of Josie Welch, taking her into a sexual reverie verging on an astral incursion, and Prong about to throw away his hard-maintained scientific credibility. He's saved from this ignominious, A.M.A.-condemned fate by a phone call. 

With the congruent release of The Moon and Serpent Bumper Book of Magic and the embarkation of the actual matter of Wilson's first published fiction, I think it is apropos to point out that Dr. Prong's apprehension of his seemingly-damningly materialistic approach to his art sounds strikingly similar to Steve and Alan Moore's understanding of consciousness; as far as it is outlined in "Adventures in Thinking," the opening essay of The Bumper Book, and reinforced throughout the grimoire, that consciousness itself is profound and demonstrably endless: 

"Since these psychological intagibles were- as Dr. Prong sometimes wittily remarked- "both psychological and intangible," there was no end to his research." 

Next week we'll meet the novel's secondary protagonist/antagonist whose legacy is a chain of characters that dangle well into the then-future of Wilson's fiction. I will make sure we're back on schedule for Tuesday evening. (I'm also working on a review of The Bumper Book of Magic, but it is going to take a minute. I'm trying not to make it too much of a navel gazing memoir. Probably going to be anyways.)