diary
Friday
Today I arranged to meet up with an old university friend, who I’ve barely seen since he began to persue various career opportunities while finishing off his degree. I spent the morning sitting on the railing outside my room, pontificating with Harry, watching him rant and elucidate while I guided the conversational rudder through Lovecraft, Ayn Rand, the horrors of my refrigerator… The cellphone buzzed, and I had to gather my daily miscellaneous and run to the bus stop when I realised it was almost 12, and Pete was on his way. Aotea Square was suspiciously busy, crowded enough to be a Saturday. Could it have been some public holiday? I paced up and down the Imax steps, idly watching the fellow lurkers start with recognition and zero in on their targets… when I almost fail to notice Matt, his hairiness shaved, his look now curiously Hitler Youth… It’s always good to see an old friend you haven’t seen in years, but Pete turned up too soon, and Matt departed with promises of future engagement. Pete and I walked nowhere in particular, talking about everything; his future aspirations for a brilliant series of fantasy novels… his thoughts on Witi’s Creative Writing class… his ideas of my own writing. Half an hour later we ended up in the Domain and his watch said half past four. He was kind enough to give me a lift back to Kingsland. I couldn’t think of anything better to do, so after a couple of hours of doing nothing, I pulled out the Dracula essays and stared at their pages. I got some amount of information through osmosis. Re-watching the Browning and Coppola film versions seemed far more interesting, and I got a lot more out of them than I did from essays with titles like “The Occidental Tourist” and “Kiss Me With Those Red Lips”. I grew tired of academic wit. I noticed “Gravity’s Rainbow” on the shelf and went back to it, as I do every couple of weeks or so. I treat it with the same trepidation as an alcoholic weaning himself off the bottle. But now and again, he can’t resist that singular taste, that ultimate satisfaction… so now and then, when I’m frustrated with the world and it’s terrible literature, I read a few more pages of the Rainbow, and sigh contentedly again…
Saturday
Woke up ridiculously late. Afternoon sometime, I think. This evening I’m to journey to the North Shore, to stay with Bob, but before I get there, I desperately need reading material. I go to the library in the vain hope that they have a new book that really, really grabs me. But I haven’t found anything at all that I consider a great new novel since Danielewski’s “House of Leaves” last year… oh well. I like books enough that I will at least try. Harry bumps into me, moping out of my room, and he’s waving the latest copy of Stormwatch, and I’m ordered to read it. The tightly clad - or barely clad, as the case may be - superheroes and hideous villains on the cover don’t really excite me, but to be polite, I express enthusiasm. And, why not? Isn’t Pekar’s “American Splendour” now considered art? When I get to the library, I sail over to the New Book section. Silently rejoice at the hardcover of “Agape Agape”, but I’ve read it. The other books look and sound dull, but one catches my eye. It’s simply called “Q”, and I decide that for it’s title alone it’s worth a try. I go to the graphic novel section and grab the biggest book I can find and hurry out of there, lest I miss my bus.
Slap down some coins, grunt the destination, rip the ticket, look in vain for a spare seat, cast your mind somewhere far away from a congested city street… until my sleeve is being pulled, and an amiable, moustachioed face is speaking to me, and I notice he’s dressed almost exactly like me… He’s asking me about my coat, is it military issue… I show him the dead man’s name in the lining, and tell him of his story, how I knew him, how he… Dante is fascinated. Turns out he’s a Celtic Swordfighter, a True Blooded Celtic at that, and very proud, rolling his accent, his nose rising by degrees as he tells me of his Clan… he starts to hint that he’s not doing anything, perhaps I also suffer the same predicament? I do indeed: we get off near Bob’s house and as we walk up the hill, he shows me his ring, an elaborate Celtic design (the symbol of Life?) and tells of the Seven, who will also be gifted the rings, once he has worn them himself, and thus energised them… I’m starting to feel the pinprick of unseen déjà vu, something I recognise but can’t see… “Have you ever heard of the Illuminati?” I say on a whim. His face assumes equal turns Grim, Wise Teacher, and Deranged Paranoiac. “Let us talk of such things far from idle ears.” Do even I believe that I’m not making this up? We make small talk to we get to Bob’s place. I walk inside casually, and after a few moments notice Dante still standing out by the door, waiting to be let in. “I wait till I’m invited in” he says. “It’s just this thing I do.” Well, Bob doesn’t seem to mind my new friend, but after a few minutes of aborted conversation attempts, busies himself in the kitchen, while I sit and watch Dante turn out the lights and insist on lighting all of Bob’s candles. He makes his voice sound as rumbly as possible. “So…” he says, theatrically. “You wish to know about the Illuminated Ones?”. He’s acting like someone telling a ghost story in a Hammer Horror film. “Uh… yes, allright,” I reply. He tells me of Atlantis, ancient utopia of literature, flushing toilets, pacifism, etc. and about the rise of the Gnostics, the Ancient Illuminated Ones, who somehow brought Atlantis to it’s knees, and were almost destroyed, but dispersed throughout the world, forming networks of information and knowledge and power bases to unite the world in, overtly, a dictatorship run by Satan himself through the 33rd degrees of Freemasonry. Although, of course, the truth is infinitely more complex; it is not Satan himself, per se, but a Satan image, a soul, spirit, manifestation as powerful identified as Satan, possessing many of his characteristics but… I’m far more interested in the way he itones. The way he pauses and glares at me with eyes which are, to pardon the romantic expression, burning coals of passion. Nostrils prettily aflare. If I were a girl, I’d probably melt. But I squint through the red candlelight and think I can get a glimpse of something behind the surface, a palimpsest of Dante behind the troubadour, the swashing buckling pirate, the dashing romantic who writes poetry with one hand, slays villains with the other… the image finally forms: he’s the Fool, resplendent in finery, skipping gaily through the mountains to the clouds, and I’m his yapping snowy dog… I stop asking questions at this point: in order to tell me any more, he’s got to draw a circle of protection around us, and I’m not ready to do that. Instead, I hear his own personal experiences with the Illuminati: he’s not ready to tell all yet, but he’s ready enough to tell me about the time he stood against them, looked them in the eye, and they were afraid. He invites me to meet his fellow healers tomorrow morning at a Celtic Swordfighting session held in a park in nearby Torbay, and I’m curious enough to accept. The conversation falters for awhile. What do I say to someone who has stared down the most powerful men on the planet? Well, I said exactly that: “I don’t really know what to say… I’ve always been fascinated by such affairs, but really, what do I know about them, apart from the books I’ve picked up? The Crowley, the Ouspensky, and I’ll admit I didn’t even begin to understand them. Why, “ I’m getting bold here, “I’ve got Freemason ancestry, but hey, that’s about it!” Polite little laugh. Bombshells drop. Dante’s chopsticks plunge. He stares at me. Just stares. I’ve never been afraid for my life like this before. Even Bob is backing away. Even though it’s truly quite frightening, I’m trying to suppress laughter. Where are the cameras? Are they… no, not in that corner… are they? After a while, he says very grimly, “Be careful who you mention that around. Don’t mention it at all tomorrow. You’re not likely to live to regret it.” We make small talk for another hour or so, and then he gets up to leave. Before he goes, he makes sure I’m committed to seeing him the next day, and gave me his email address: Dante_Jerwais@yahoo.com. After he’s gone, Bob beams at me: “Stew, you have to go tomorrow - if this isn’t destiny, I don’t know what is.” Me neither. I still have that feeling of vague déjà vu. The universe opens the door I invoke after months of informal research, half open copies of Illuminatus, Crowley biographies, Secret Societies by Nesta Webster - a lamp I’ve rubbed, out comes Dante, the djinni at the bus stop… well, it’s too perfect, and to pursue paranoia blindly is terribly oxymoronic. I sleep on it.
Sunday
I woke up this morning and don’t go to the park. Had a horrific dream involving an octopus, consuming various family members… and one other image; Dante dressed as the Fool, standing at the door, asking to be let in, superimposed over a Boschian creation stretching it’s arms across the threshold to me… the moustachioed face, the long hair. I’m practical enough to not follow that inquiry any further: whether or not that was simply Dante I met or not doesn’t matter. The problem with Dante was that he wasn’t insane: things would be much simpler if he were, but his sincerety… I believe he really has stared down the Illuminati; that he has been doing so for thousands of years; that he has power infinite and unimaginable by a mere Stew such as myself. Such a thing can exist in the conventional, like a frequency within a continuum of sound. I go for a walk to clear my head: through the Browns Bay Market, looking in vain for something worth buying, over to the local Baker’s Delight. They’re giving away free Sunday papers. I take one and wander back vaguely in the direction of Bob’s house, musing about Dante all the way. Bob’s busy saving the world via his computer, so I sit down to read the paper, and am reminded about why I don’t bother to watch the news or keep up with current events, save from breathless anecdotes from friends or desperate conversations with acquaintances… the writing is dire, biased, the stories either depressing or vapid… even the literary section is upsetting, until I notice a short piece about “Q”. Turns out the four writers umbrella’d under the pseudonym Luther Blisset have been nominated for some international writer’s award, and it’s the first time a book has been accepted for it as a translation (from it’s original Italian). The authors are actually named, which makes me wonder why they went to the trouble of the pseudonym, but… so I sit down and read through a few chapters of it, and am pleasantly surprised. It’s quite brilliant. It’s the first book I’ve read to have the readable style of a bestselling thriller while being intellectually stimulating and historically accurate. Eventually Bob’s mother comes home and he stirs from his computer: drops me a few streets away at Carol’s place. She’s just recovered from her operation and has a hideous scar on her neck which she tries to cover by folding up her collar. Mother turns up a while later, and we go grocery shopping. Mother’s rich enough after selling the house to buy me groceries, and so, for once, I have food, real food, not student food, not the sort of food forty dollars a week provides.
Today I arranged to meet up with an old university friend, who I’ve barely seen since he began to persue various career opportunities while finishing off his degree. I spent the morning sitting on the railing outside my room, pontificating with Harry, watching him rant and elucidate while I guided the conversational rudder through Lovecraft, Ayn Rand, the horrors of my refrigerator… The cellphone buzzed, and I had to gather my daily miscellaneous and run to the bus stop when I realised it was almost 12, and Pete was on his way. Aotea Square was suspiciously busy, crowded enough to be a Saturday. Could it have been some public holiday? I paced up and down the Imax steps, idly watching the fellow lurkers start with recognition and zero in on their targets… when I almost fail to notice Matt, his hairiness shaved, his look now curiously Hitler Youth… It’s always good to see an old friend you haven’t seen in years, but Pete turned up too soon, and Matt departed with promises of future engagement. Pete and I walked nowhere in particular, talking about everything; his future aspirations for a brilliant series of fantasy novels… his thoughts on Witi’s Creative Writing class… his ideas of my own writing. Half an hour later we ended up in the Domain and his watch said half past four. He was kind enough to give me a lift back to Kingsland. I couldn’t think of anything better to do, so after a couple of hours of doing nothing, I pulled out the Dracula essays and stared at their pages. I got some amount of information through osmosis. Re-watching the Browning and Coppola film versions seemed far more interesting, and I got a lot more out of them than I did from essays with titles like “The Occidental Tourist” and “Kiss Me With Those Red Lips”. I grew tired of academic wit. I noticed “Gravity’s Rainbow” on the shelf and went back to it, as I do every couple of weeks or so. I treat it with the same trepidation as an alcoholic weaning himself off the bottle. But now and again, he can’t resist that singular taste, that ultimate satisfaction… so now and then, when I’m frustrated with the world and it’s terrible literature, I read a few more pages of the Rainbow, and sigh contentedly again…
Saturday
Woke up ridiculously late. Afternoon sometime, I think. This evening I’m to journey to the North Shore, to stay with Bob, but before I get there, I desperately need reading material. I go to the library in the vain hope that they have a new book that really, really grabs me. But I haven’t found anything at all that I consider a great new novel since Danielewski’s “House of Leaves” last year… oh well. I like books enough that I will at least try. Harry bumps into me, moping out of my room, and he’s waving the latest copy of Stormwatch, and I’m ordered to read it. The tightly clad - or barely clad, as the case may be - superheroes and hideous villains on the cover don’t really excite me, but to be polite, I express enthusiasm. And, why not? Isn’t Pekar’s “American Splendour” now considered art? When I get to the library, I sail over to the New Book section. Silently rejoice at the hardcover of “Agape Agape”, but I’ve read it. The other books look and sound dull, but one catches my eye. It’s simply called “Q”, and I decide that for it’s title alone it’s worth a try. I go to the graphic novel section and grab the biggest book I can find and hurry out of there, lest I miss my bus.
Slap down some coins, grunt the destination, rip the ticket, look in vain for a spare seat, cast your mind somewhere far away from a congested city street… until my sleeve is being pulled, and an amiable, moustachioed face is speaking to me, and I notice he’s dressed almost exactly like me… He’s asking me about my coat, is it military issue… I show him the dead man’s name in the lining, and tell him of his story, how I knew him, how he… Dante is fascinated. Turns out he’s a Celtic Swordfighter, a True Blooded Celtic at that, and very proud, rolling his accent, his nose rising by degrees as he tells me of his Clan… he starts to hint that he’s not doing anything, perhaps I also suffer the same predicament? I do indeed: we get off near Bob’s house and as we walk up the hill, he shows me his ring, an elaborate Celtic design (the symbol of Life?) and tells of the Seven, who will also be gifted the rings, once he has worn them himself, and thus energised them… I’m starting to feel the pinprick of unseen déjà vu, something I recognise but can’t see… “Have you ever heard of the Illuminati?” I say on a whim. His face assumes equal turns Grim, Wise Teacher, and Deranged Paranoiac. “Let us talk of such things far from idle ears.” Do even I believe that I’m not making this up? We make small talk to we get to Bob’s place. I walk inside casually, and after a few moments notice Dante still standing out by the door, waiting to be let in. “I wait till I’m invited in” he says. “It’s just this thing I do.” Well, Bob doesn’t seem to mind my new friend, but after a few minutes of aborted conversation attempts, busies himself in the kitchen, while I sit and watch Dante turn out the lights and insist on lighting all of Bob’s candles. He makes his voice sound as rumbly as possible. “So…” he says, theatrically. “You wish to know about the Illuminated Ones?”. He’s acting like someone telling a ghost story in a Hammer Horror film. “Uh… yes, allright,” I reply. He tells me of Atlantis, ancient utopia of literature, flushing toilets, pacifism, etc. and about the rise of the Gnostics, the Ancient Illuminated Ones, who somehow brought Atlantis to it’s knees, and were almost destroyed, but dispersed throughout the world, forming networks of information and knowledge and power bases to unite the world in, overtly, a dictatorship run by Satan himself through the 33rd degrees of Freemasonry. Although, of course, the truth is infinitely more complex; it is not Satan himself, per se, but a Satan image, a soul, spirit, manifestation as powerful identified as Satan, possessing many of his characteristics but… I’m far more interested in the way he itones. The way he pauses and glares at me with eyes which are, to pardon the romantic expression, burning coals of passion. Nostrils prettily aflare. If I were a girl, I’d probably melt. But I squint through the red candlelight and think I can get a glimpse of something behind the surface, a palimpsest of Dante behind the troubadour, the swashing buckling pirate, the dashing romantic who writes poetry with one hand, slays villains with the other… the image finally forms: he’s the Fool, resplendent in finery, skipping gaily through the mountains to the clouds, and I’m his yapping snowy dog… I stop asking questions at this point: in order to tell me any more, he’s got to draw a circle of protection around us, and I’m not ready to do that. Instead, I hear his own personal experiences with the Illuminati: he’s not ready to tell all yet, but he’s ready enough to tell me about the time he stood against them, looked them in the eye, and they were afraid. He invites me to meet his fellow healers tomorrow morning at a Celtic Swordfighting session held in a park in nearby Torbay, and I’m curious enough to accept. The conversation falters for awhile. What do I say to someone who has stared down the most powerful men on the planet? Well, I said exactly that: “I don’t really know what to say… I’ve always been fascinated by such affairs, but really, what do I know about them, apart from the books I’ve picked up? The Crowley, the Ouspensky, and I’ll admit I didn’t even begin to understand them. Why, “ I’m getting bold here, “I’ve got Freemason ancestry, but hey, that’s about it!” Polite little laugh. Bombshells drop. Dante’s chopsticks plunge. He stares at me. Just stares. I’ve never been afraid for my life like this before. Even Bob is backing away. Even though it’s truly quite frightening, I’m trying to suppress laughter. Where are the cameras? Are they… no, not in that corner… are they? After a while, he says very grimly, “Be careful who you mention that around. Don’t mention it at all tomorrow. You’re not likely to live to regret it.” We make small talk for another hour or so, and then he gets up to leave. Before he goes, he makes sure I’m committed to seeing him the next day, and gave me his email address: Dante_Jerwais@yahoo.com. After he’s gone, Bob beams at me: “Stew, you have to go tomorrow - if this isn’t destiny, I don’t know what is.” Me neither. I still have that feeling of vague déjà vu. The universe opens the door I invoke after months of informal research, half open copies of Illuminatus, Crowley biographies, Secret Societies by Nesta Webster - a lamp I’ve rubbed, out comes Dante, the djinni at the bus stop… well, it’s too perfect, and to pursue paranoia blindly is terribly oxymoronic. I sleep on it.
Sunday
I woke up this morning and don’t go to the park. Had a horrific dream involving an octopus, consuming various family members… and one other image; Dante dressed as the Fool, standing at the door, asking to be let in, superimposed over a Boschian creation stretching it’s arms across the threshold to me… the moustachioed face, the long hair. I’m practical enough to not follow that inquiry any further: whether or not that was simply Dante I met or not doesn’t matter. The problem with Dante was that he wasn’t insane: things would be much simpler if he were, but his sincerety… I believe he really has stared down the Illuminati; that he has been doing so for thousands of years; that he has power infinite and unimaginable by a mere Stew such as myself. Such a thing can exist in the conventional, like a frequency within a continuum of sound. I go for a walk to clear my head: through the Browns Bay Market, looking in vain for something worth buying, over to the local Baker’s Delight. They’re giving away free Sunday papers. I take one and wander back vaguely in the direction of Bob’s house, musing about Dante all the way. Bob’s busy saving the world via his computer, so I sit down to read the paper, and am reminded about why I don’t bother to watch the news or keep up with current events, save from breathless anecdotes from friends or desperate conversations with acquaintances… the writing is dire, biased, the stories either depressing or vapid… even the literary section is upsetting, until I notice a short piece about “Q”. Turns out the four writers umbrella’d under the pseudonym Luther Blisset have been nominated for some international writer’s award, and it’s the first time a book has been accepted for it as a translation (from it’s original Italian). The authors are actually named, which makes me wonder why they went to the trouble of the pseudonym, but… so I sit down and read through a few chapters of it, and am pleasantly surprised. It’s quite brilliant. It’s the first book I’ve read to have the readable style of a bestselling thriller while being intellectually stimulating and historically accurate. Eventually Bob’s mother comes home and he stirs from his computer: drops me a few streets away at Carol’s place. She’s just recovered from her operation and has a hideous scar on her neck which she tries to cover by folding up her collar. Mother turns up a while later, and we go grocery shopping. Mother’s rich enough after selling the house to buy me groceries, and so, for once, I have food, real food, not student food, not the sort of food forty dollars a week provides.