When Souls Collide (The Life & Loves of a Failed Misanthrope # 3)

People who know me—and even people who don’t—have commented on how I have become softer, more relaxed and open over the past few years. I have credited this change to my wife, my work in the thrift store, and my association with Dave Oshana. But there’s something else I have not talked about, an event I think may have played an equally important part in opening me up to life as all of these other factors. I haven’t talked or written about it because it felt too serious, too sensitive, and too profound to turn into fodder for my output.

It is now two years exactly since it occurred and I feel ready to share it.

November 8, 2016, was a day that in retrospect changed many people’s lives.  People are still lost in lamentations over it. I recall the following morning, when my wife told me Trump had won. I was taking a dump at the time. I said, “Wow.” I was, I admit, slightly disappointed by the news, not because I hadn’t wanted Trump to win (I had no skin in that game), but mostly because I, like millions of others, had failed to foresee it.

On the day of the election I didn’t lose much thought over it, however; I had smaller fish to fry. Specifically, I had a thrift store overflowing with donated goods and it was time to clear the crappiest stuff out and take it to another, larger thrift store in Chilliwack. We had even bought a used truck specifically for this purpose. Every couple of weeks I made the run. But besides that, it was a day like any other. I had no inkling of what was to come, no forebodings or intimations.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. I was concerned about driving the truck during this period, for the following reason: since I had been delving into the history of organized ritual abuse and trauma-based mind control, I was speaking to experienced professionals like Wendy Hoffman and Alison Miller and becoming increasingly suspicious there was something of the sort in my own past. I was concerned that, if I got too close to uncovering the truth, I might trigger my own “programming” and self-sabotage in some way, possibly terminally. The most likely set-up for a sudden irrational act of self-destruction, I reasoned, was while driving my truck. One wrong move while doing 100 k down the freeway, even a micro move, and it could all be over.

Two days before that day, I had posted at my blog about pedophilia and Satanism in Washington, DC, including evidence suggestive of Peter Levenda’s proximity to a key player in the intrigue (John Podesta). That morning, I watched a video with some very disturbing content confirming my investigations into “Pizzagate.” The video caused a strong emotional reaction in me, a bout of weeping that felt cathartic.

Perhaps related to this, I felt unusually good as I drove out of Hope that morning. I put on a Bob Dylan live tape (there were only a handful of tapes to choose from), feeling clear and bright and in tune with existence. My destination was a large thrift store called Bibles for Missions, located just off Yale Road, which is the main road that runs through downtown Chilliwack and which the highway from Hope turns into. It was an easy trip, and allowed for getting in and out without any fuss.

Although there was no reason to anticipate any problems, I was aware that just getting behind the wheel meant taking my life into my hands. In the past, I have been a reckless driver—I’ve had over half a dozen serious accidents—but I had become increasingly alert to danger on the road, constantly checking every possible angle from which an unexpected element might appear or an accident might happen.

I reached the intersection between Yale Road and Nowell Street, where Bibles for Missions is located. I waited to turn left at the traffic lights, which were green. There were cars behind me, cars coming the other way, and a car waiting in front of me to turn right (his left) the other way down Nowell Street. The lights were about to change and there was a lot of information to process: cars behind me, car ahead about to cross in front of me, cars in the other lane coming towards me and across the intersection between me and my destination.

I was aware of the car turning right in front of me, down Nowell Street. I was aware of the gap in the stream of cars coming towards me, and gauged that there was enough space for me to turn left. As I turned and accelerated, I saw an old man in his scooter moving from my right, straight in front of me, less than three feet away. He must have come off the sidewalk and onto the pedestrian crossing a split instant before I made the decision to turn, and somehow (I still don’t know how), I failed to see him.

The old man turned his head towards me and opened his mouth, as if saying something. Our eyes met. I didn’t hear him cry out, but I am fairly sure we both did. I think we both cried out “No!” Then I hit him with a sickeningly loud crash.

I have had several head-on collisions in my life while driving. What happens, is the immediate awareness arrives out of nowhere that something irrevocable is about to happen, is happening, has happened, all within less than a second. Consciousness goes crashing, literally, from future event, to present unfolding, to past deed. Done. No going back, ever.

There is the sense that this is really happening, combined with the sense that this can’t be happening. Two perspectives fighting for dominance, yet it is no contest at all. Reality has spoken and what it says can’t be taken back.

Moments before I had been feeling happy, at peace, in the flow of existence. Maybe I didn’t live a charmed life, but I at least lived a good life; nothing truly terrible would happen to me, not without at least some warning, surely, some foresight, some complicity on my part, some sort of deserving?

There was no intent, no malice, no obvious irresponsibility or recklessness to my actions immediately before the event. Still, it had happened. The old man had gone down, the scooter sucked under the front of the truck with a hideous crunch of unmistakable and irrevocable finality. And though I braked in the moment I saw him, it was barely enough to reduce the impact.

I lept out of the truck. Apparently I threw off my cap and glasses, because I saw them on the ground later. I fell on my knees in front of the old man. His head had hit the asphalt and a dark pool of blood was spreading outward in a misshapen circle beneath him. I began to take him in my arms, as if to lift him up. Still, there was the desperate hope that, somehow, I could undo what had happened and make it right.

A woman on the sidewalk called out to me not to move him. This was something I had seen and heard in movies. I had been here before; the elements were familiar. There was another bystander, a young man with a bald head, who had looked at me with an appalled expression as I got out of the truck. He must have seen the whole thing, and he looked at me with angry condemnation.

I don’t know what I did then but suddenly, mysteriously, I was surrounded by security officers in black uniforms. I had no idea how these men and women appeared so quickly, as if by magic. It turned out there was a security services building a couple of blocks away, Griffin Investigation & Security, 9300 Nowell St. One of them must have seen the accident and called to his workmates and out they came. And even though it was strange to the point of surreal how instantly they appeared, I didn’t question it until later. It matched the circumstances so perfectly that it was as if my distress had summoned them. I was in a state of emergency.

The security people began to attend to the old man. I could see he was stuck, the scooter partially trapped under the truck, the old man still inside the scooter. I stood close by and could hear them discussing his pulse and his breathing. His breathing was slowing down, one of them said. It seemed like the old man was going to die right there in the road in front of me. Somebody called an ambulance, and moments later another group of professionals arrived, I don’t know from where. These ones were wearing bright yellow-green safety vests and I never found out who they were or who called them.

I was standing as close as I dared to the scene, trying to see if the old man was conscious or not. One of the security staff, a short, pudgy, stocky woman with brown hair, came over to me and asked if I was all right. “Not really,” I said. I was shaking and breathing heavily, obviously in shock. The woman told me to sit down on the curb. I wanted to pick up my glasses and hat, but she was insistent. She said they didn’t want me passing out and falling down, and then guided me over to the curb. I sat down, shaking and panting.

Although I’d had many head-on collisions while driving, there was only one previous experience comparable to this one, when, through my oversight, my mother’s dog was hit by a car in front of my eyes. On that occasion, I’d had to act right away and I was kept busy for some time doing whatever needed to be done to save the dog. On this occasion, all I had to do was sit on the curb and go over what had happened in my mind.

The hideous regret—the feeling of “Why had this happened?”—didn’t last for more than a few moments after the event. There wasn’t much room for regret, because there didn’t seem to be any way I could have avoided it. I simply hadn’t seen the old man until he was right in front of me. How it had happened was a mystery, but that it had was unavoidable. So what exactly had happened, what did it mean? I started praying to the ancestors, to help the old man, to not let him die. I said the Lord’s prayer. I wrestled with the gargantuan awareness of having done such damage to somebody I didn’t even know, for reasons that were utterly incomprehensible to me.

Something this terrible, that comes out of nowhere without warning, is almost impossible to process, because there doesn’t seem any context for it. I had written whole books about how trauma affects us, how it is something too large for our ordinary consciousness to contain and how it fragments us. Now here I was, experiencing it directly, in the present moment.

I replayed in my mind what had happened, gasping and groaning, twitching and cursing under my breath, swallowed up by horror and bewilderment. Then when it became too much to think about, my mind wandered, seconds went by during which I was not thinking about it at all, not experiencing it, just focusing on my body, breathing and talking to myself. Then suddenly I “remembered” again what had happened, and it hit me with all the force of an irrevocable evil that had turned my life upside down forever. It was as if I was processing the event, one chunk at a time.

From the moment before it happened, the experience was characterized by the absolute, overwhelming sense of reality. It was as if, prior to that moment, I had been asleep and then suddenly woke up and found myself staring at a terrifyingly unfamiliar reality. The terror underscored the reality, the reality heightened the terror. It seemed like it had to be a dream—it was too vast and too awful not to be. And yet it was not a dream. This was what trauma was like, I realized: so much bigger than my customary sense of reality, of what was possible, that it seemed unreal; and yet paradoxically, it was shockingly more real than what I had taken for reality until then.

Maybe this is what it’s like when men go to war. It changes them. They start to know what reality’s made of. When you see somebody’s head crack open and blood pouring out, and know that it is because of something you’ve done, it changes you in a way that is tangible, permanent.

Predictably enough, by now a crowd of bystanders had gathered to watch. A fire engine arrived and several firemen climbed out and took over tending to the old man. A tall security man—one of the first group—came over and asked me where the old man had been when I hit him: was he on the sidewalk or the road?

“On the road,” I said.

“It was his fault then,” he said. “They aren’t supposed to be on the road with those things.”

For a moment I experienced a rush of relief, as if I had just been given a reprieve, a way out of the nightmare. But then I realized it was illusory. “He was on the crosswalk,” I said.

“Oh,” the security man said.

Probably he was trying to comfort me by putting the blame on the victim, and I was desperate to believe him. I was grasping madly for some way out the nightmare, and if it was demonstrably not my fault, that changed the situation drastically. Even the fact the old man resembled a homeless person, a bum, floated before my panicked eyes like a straw for a drowning man, as if that might somehow make it less terrible, less tragic. The thought did the opposite of comfort me, but only added guilty feelings to my remorse. When you are drowning, thrashing only makes it worse.

The security guard asked to see my license. I only had a British one, which I showed him and explained why. He seemed to understand. The ambulance was taking a really long time to arrive. People kept asking where it was and I heard murmurings about the traffic. When it finally arrived, the medical staff piled out and took over from the firemen. They didn’t move the old man at first either, but cut his shirt open and felt around his chest. I could see the old man moving slightly. I asked someone if he was conscious and they said he was. Apparently he had even said something. I began to feel hopeful.

A fireman came over and checked my license then took my name. I must have been giving off signals of severe distress, because almost everyone was very kind and friendly towards me. I felt supported by the scene. There was at least one exception: a woman who showed up and said she was the old man’s nurse. I was close enough to hear and overheard her say that the old man was a very careful person and that he would never have done anything irresponsible to cause this. It was not what I wanted to hear. I tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look at me. She seemed to be avoiding making contact.

After the old man was carried inside the ambulance and it drove off, the woman said, “When they don’t flash their lights like that, it’s a bad sign.” In retrospect, since the man obviously wasn’t dead, the comment made little sense. Now the old man was in good hands, I was just waiting for the police to show up. Someone said they were delayed because of a string of emergencies in town. Apparently my catastrophe had occurred inside a clusterfuck of catastrophes, part of a tiny local nexus spiraling around inside a much larger collective nexus, that of the dreaded election day.

A bald man (not the same man who had been standing there when the accident happened) came to the sidewalk where I was sitting and began talking to someone. This was a very bad intersection, he said; he had seen this happen a lot before. I looked over at him, hoping to catch his eye. He looked at me and I asked him to clarify: had he seen people get hit here before? He said he had. Another straw for the drowner. Maybe it wasn’t my fault; maybe it was a fucked-up junction and I was the victim of poor government planning?

The police finally arrived. I was relieved to see them, if only to have someone to talk to, to relieve the tension of not knowing. They parked with their lights flashing and sat in the car for some time. That felt ominous and gave me more time to process. An intervention had occurred, like my hard drive had been reset. Somehow, in some unknown way, I had needed this to happen. I figured the police would impound my truck and I would be arrested and questioned, then released a few hours later. I was pretty sure that, if the old man died, barring some extenuating circumstances, I would be charged with manslaughter. I might even go to jail! My whole life was up in the air.

The policeman was neither friendly nor unfriendly. He asked to see my license, and didn’t seem to care that it was British. He took down my data and then asked me to describe the accident. At first, my voice was trembling and broken, but it gradually became clearer and firmer, almost robotic. There was no reason to mix my grief with business, not unless I was angling for pity. The policeman told me to sit down on the curb again and then went and took a bunch of pictures of the accident. I found this slightly disturbing. Although he hadn’t treated me like a criminal, he was treating the accident like a crime scene. I felt my dread rising.

He came back then and asked if I could drive. I hesitated. I realized that he was done with me and that he expected me to just leave! After the accident, one of the thoughts I’d had was that I might never drive again. Now I realized I had to drive just to get home. I was slightly stunned the police were letting me go so easily, but I didn’t want to say anything about it. The policeman took my silence as uncertainty, and asked if there was someone I could call. I told him I only needed to get to Bible for Missions right now, half a block away. I could at least make it that far.

He nodded and said he needed me to back up the truck so they could extricate the scooter. As I reached the driver’s door of the truck, I saw the old man’s cap lying on the ground, a brown cap with a red poppy in it, Armistice Day. The sight of it cracked me open. I climbed into the truck, got behind the wheel, and started sobbing uncontrollably.

I was aware of the policeman in the road, waiting for me to stop crying and move the truck. I knew he would understand. I carried on crying as long as my body needed, releasing the grief in body shakes and sobs. Once I had started to settle down, the policeman asked if I was sure I could drive. I said I could and started the truck.

I didn’t want to shut down the feelings of grieving completely, just enough to function properly and do what needed to be done. I backed up the truck and the scooter popped out from underneath it and righted itself. It didn’t even look that damaged. The policeman smiled broadly at me and nodded his head.

I waved goodbye to him and drove very slowly down the street, towards Bibles for Missions. I turned into the parking area and parked. There was an Oriental man outside the back door. “Store crosed,” he said, as I climbed out of the truck. At that moment, an old woman opened the back door of the building and saw me and my truckload of crap.

“We’re closed,” she said.

I told her I hadn’t been able to get there on time, because the road had been blocked by an accident. I didn’t mention having caused it, because there was no reason to complicate things. She looked at the stuff in the truck, boxes and boxes of it, and said something about how they were all leaving now and didn’t like to leave stuff unsorted. I could tell she didn’t want to take it; I knew the feeling well enough.

She was still making excuses when a young guy came out the back door and saw us. He cheerfully offered to take the stuff, saying he would gladly sort it in the morning. The old woman agreed.

I felt a weird relief. As trivial as it was under the circumstances, it offered a strange kind of reassurance, like a tiny glimmer of light in the darkness. Life goes on, it seemed to say. As catastrophic as the day had been—as hideously, hopelessly irrevocable—still, it hadn’t derailed the purpose of my trip. Despite it all, I had accomplished my mission, even if at a terrible cost.
Maybe my life hadn’t come off the rails either?

After unloading the stuff, I got back in the truck and left. As slowly and painstakingly as I could, I drove back to Hope to tell my wife what had happened.

22 thoughts on “When Souls Collide (The Life & Loves of a Failed Misanthrope # 3)

  1. Jasun,

    From the occultist perspective, it is clear that the old man was a blood sacrifice for you, a literal scapegoat for your sins of whatever kind — and now, because of the putative deep occult significance of this event, I must become a stickler about the date and ask you to review your memory of the events and correct the discrepancy.

    You write that the accident happened on Tuesday, November 8, 2016, which was Election Day in the USA. You also write that, earlier that same morning, your wife had told you about Trump’s stunning upset of Hillary Clinton. That timing is impossible because the moment of Trump’s victory was not definitively established until 2:30 AM EST on Wednesday, November 9.

    And therefore, it had to be the ext morning of Nov. 9 when your wife told you about Trump’s election.

    So did you strike the old man on Tuesday Nov. 8 or Wednesday, Nov. 9?

    Such a discrepancy is important to correct because of the possibility that you may have experienced tawdry acts of petty sorcery aimed at you by Peter Levenda, who may or may not be still possessed today by the demon (or is it just his “Alter?”) of Simon Necronomicon.

    Let me copy the link to your blogpost where you added as a postscript on Sunday November 6, 2016, the infamous “rogue’s gallery” photo:
    https://auticulture.com/blog/2016/11/06/here-come-the-designer-fascists-the-perception-managers-last-hurrah/

    Postscript.
    I wrote this last night (Nov 5th). This morning I found this pic posted at a couple of threads I was following on Facebook (oh, the irony!):

    https://www.reddit.com/r/UFOs_Notebook/comments/57vcba/dotsphoto_of_tom_delonge_john_podesta_peter/

    I call attention both to the occult significance of a 3 day period and to the specific 3 day period from November 6 to 9.

    What does November 9 signify? The Nazi’s Kristallnacht in 1938. Trump’s election was made known to all on the 78th anniversary of Kristallnacht. A Trump card? Consider 78 as the number of Major Arcana (22) and Minor Arcana (56) in the Tarot deck.

    Now consider the date writing conventions of North America vs. Europe. We write M-D-Y while a German would write D-M-Y.

    Thus 9/11 for us Yanks is September 11 while for the German it is November 9 which he would write as 9.11.

  2. ‘Das Rettende’
    Mind Controlled Turd Trumps are
    Chilliwacked bythe Crash of the
    Old Man’s Black Gryphons, then
    Poppys Ambulatory Cease Fire gave
    Rise to a Biblical Mission ending in
    Orientally youthful optimism before
    Home to Mrs H’s
    Hopeful Wisdom

  3. Wow. Not as easy to read as the Drummer Bob stuff, but thanks for sharing.

    Vehicle trauma. I remember being in a rollover accident as a passenger in a Lincoln Town car when I was 19. The car rolled once and landed back on it’s wheels. It only lasted 5 seconds in real life, but because the trauma of the accident had pushed my awareness out of my physical body it seemed to be a timeless moment. I still remember doing the classic “floating above my body” thing and watching the accident like it wasn’t even happening to me. When the car landed back on the pavement, I landed back in my body.

    But in some ways it was nice to have that experience for context, because in my early 20s the trauma of a serious dose of psychedelics produced the exact same results. Really makes you think..

  4. A very affecting piece. I really felt (and felt for) your anguish in that moment—in part because I have a rather synchronistic correspondence in my own experience at around that exact same time that I’d like to share.

    The week of the election my partner and I were relocating from the Northwest back to the Midwest. On the night of 11/8 we were in Lincoln, NE watching the election results and wound up having to call the police on an apparent domestic violence situation in the adjacent hotel room—very surreal.

    But anyway, on the Saturday night prior to the eighth (11/5), as we were leaving Utah and about to cross into Wyoming. We were driving down a dark, winding stretch of interstate seemingly devoid of all other traffic, where out of nowhere around one of the bends appeared a full-grown Buck with an impressive rack standing right in the middle of the road. I was driving at highway speed—100km/h at least. So it was a predicament. I started pumped the brakes and bore slightly to the right hoping he’d go the other way, but he didn’t and we wound up colliding, not head on but with the driver-side corner of the automobile into his chest and front quarters. I locked eyes with that animal in much the same way as you describe, in the split second before impact. Thankfully we were the only car on the road in that particular area that night… I pulled over, and I wept and we hugged each other, knowing it could’ve been much worse. We were fine and the car wasn’t too badly damaged, so we weren’t stuck. I got out and saw no sign of the animal—I assumed he had ambled off into the woods somewhere, probably to die. I felt just awful.

    Not quite the same experience, I know. I can only imagine the feeling of hitting a human, but the fact it happened at virtually the same time period made me want to share—something in the air at that time perhaps. The fact that it was a tall proud buck gave the experience the tinge of the mythic or unconscious ritual that Tom referenced up there.

    Did you ever find out if the man survived? Or are you saving that for further entries.

    • thank you, that was a moving account and yes I will write a follow-up to this piece, the aftermath, which to some degree continues…

  5. I knew him and was exposed to brain scrambling harassment via his espionage partners. It was unbelievable. I wrote this poem

    Dark Muse
    To my dear insouciant sin(ist)cere inspiration Mr. L. Cohen
    By LaFlamme Supliay
    Like chill smoke billowing from an anthill
    alluring art seeks to sting, stun and kill
    They were two brief moments strung together
    hoping it wouldn’t last more than forever
    There he was speaking elegant songs
    sad sweet tunes that were so for long

    On the dark stage in a pin striped suit
    accompanied by violin bass and flute
    His lyrics ripped hearts somber and cold
    He was devious more clever than bold
    His devoted patrons half-mesmerized
    clung on sordid sorrows memorized

    How deep melodious the hell he fell to
    Zen mystic artifice no one quite knew
    Metaphors of demons gods and cosmic stuff
    fell from him like crumbs from a dirty waiter’s cuff
    Doleful songs to sadly slit your wrist to
    Darker and darker his drunk muse grew

    Catallus* could not have said it better
    I threw away all those old love letters
    Conviction put a tourniquet of doubt
    against the grave puddle of his glib mouth
    Moments past from long moments to come
    Sly silence hiding on a velvet smooth tongue
    1998

    *Catullus (84 BCE – 54 BCE) Roman poet known for explicit love poetry and callous or cynical love epigrams.

  6. “From the occultist perspective, it is clear that the old man was a blood sacrifice for you, a literal scapegoat for your sins of whatever kind” – Tom Mellett

    Tom, that’s a hell of a reach. Does one even need to describe how ridiculous that assumption is?

    • Hello throat,

      Might you reach with me? And I urge you “to describe how ridiculous that assumption is” because in doing so, you will begin to articulate your own irrational fear of irrationality — which is a necessary but not yet sufficient condition for first acknowledging and then dismantling one’s own Totemic Fetishizing of Rationality.

      And I guarantee you that there is no “Safer Space” on the Internet to do this kind of “self-intervention” than here on the Auticulture blog.

      (I’ll describe Jasun’s particular sins and against whom he sinned in a future comment.)

      Tom

    • Hello Throat,

      There is a very good reason that I sound insane, and I must thank you for pointing this out. You see, the reason that I sound insane is that . . . (Here it comes) . . . I AM INSANE!!!

      And I have found my needed asylum here. Why? Because Jasun Horsley, as the Prisoner of Infinity, is simultaneously the Ultimate Inmate who runs the Infinitive Asylum here that he calls Auticulture.

      So please, dear throat, you have a “safe space” here where you can “come out of the crazy closet” if you so desire —- thus expressing your “Mad Pride” in the sense of Seth Farber and Paul Levy.

      And, to honor the website where I first discovered the existence of Jasun Horsley, to wit: Reality Sandwich, I leave you with an article there from 2013 by Seth Farber

      http://realitysandwich.com/164531/mad_pride_prophets_messianic_vision/

      And a Mantra motto from Farber’s protege Paul Levy: “Hey, got wetiko?”

      And the great rejoinder uttered by Chico Marx to his brother Groucho in Night at the Opera:

      “Hey you can’ta fool me! Dere izza no Sanity Clause!”

    • Whoa! This is not about redemption; this is about revenge. Perhaps I should not have used the word “sins” — which would of course require redemption.

  7. That’s a terrible tragedy. Sorry Tom. Nothing Mystical there. Not if you’ve seen the tragedies I have, and I think you have too.

    • So there’s nothing Mystical about terrible tragedies? Where do you draw the line between what is Mystical and what is not?

  8. Oh, and Tom, grow up. No-one is your guru. Jasun was expressing something very visceral and I appreciate it. You wanted to turn it into a some “blood sacrifice”. You are an idiot.

  9. Time out guys. Continued back and forth sparring is in bad taste at this post and will gum up the comments section.

    You are both right and both wrong. If the old man was in some sense a sacrifice then he sacrificed himself as one soul within the collective human soul, to assist another soul to reach understanding of our interconnectivity & shared responsibility to love (and to Love), making him a sort of unconscious Bodhi Sattva. More mundanely, this would suggest the old man had issues of his own (unconscious death wish) and that I somehow served to resolve something in his life, as well. I can only hope this is so.

    Even so, this may seem brutally simplistic and evasive of the raw tragedy of it, but if the alternative is that it was just a random accident with no meaning then we are forced to reach for such understandings that match our, my experience, that the event was the very opposite of meaningless.

    Tom: you have your thing with Simon Peter and that’s what brought you here, or at least what keeps you here; I think it has less to do with me than your struggle to resolve something with him, which is a bit sad because you know he doesn’t visit my blog unless I write about him. Your (if I may be blunt) abject failure to grok my recent post on Dave O, Testifying to Love, which set this blog on a whole new course, suggests to me that the prison is in your mind, not in any architecture here.

    I kept your comment in moderation for a day, in the hope that further comments (such as the one by Alex F) would bring some heart & soul to balance it out, precisely because I wanted to avoid this sort of discussion. Overly-occultist readings are out of place here, at the best of times, & never more so than now. Reign it in, please, and if you can, keep to personal & heartfelt responses, less of the manic “playful” antics which come off as passive aggressive and alienating to readers (inc me, viz a viz your responses to the TTL post)

    Thanks!

    • Jasun,

      Lots to unpack here, so let me start by properly informing you of my “Levenda Agenda,” since you are the primary catalyst who brought it to my addled consciousness.

      You wrote:
      Tom: you have your thing with Simon Peter and that’s what brought you here, or at least what keeps you here; I think it has less to do with me than your struggle to resolve something with him, which is a bit sad because you know he doesn’t visit my blog unless I write about him.

      And, in actuality, it even has very little to do with Levenda himself, except insofar as he represents the Ultimate Straw Man for me. You see, my animus is not against Levenda, but rather against his own literary idol Norman Mailer, whom I revered and worshipped for so many years from my college days up until just about 10 years ago.

      And in the last week or so, I had prepared a Draft email to send you privately to discuss this issue as possible fodder for a true confessional liminal podcast. (I will still contact you privately about it, but right now, I feel it is important and appropriate that I explain myself to you in this comment here and we can go private from there. )

      I only became aware of the existence of Peter Levenda around the year 2000 or so. I just know it was in the early days of the INteret. But I had been a rabid fan and devotee of Norman Mailer since I would say 1965 when I was in high school and read him for the first time.

      Why was I hooked on Norman? Now I can say that Norman Mailer had perfected the existential art of self-administering “gay reparative therapy.” Back in those days, the term was “latent homosexual,” something Norman admitted to being. But Norman made the existential choice, a la JP Sartre, NOT to be a homosexual.

      And thus he gave me license, like no other cultural figure, to deny my own homosexuality as a positive and life-affirming existential choice. Thus I too emulated my hipster hero and embarked on a DIY gay reparative lifestyle myself. If you can believe it, I actually prided myself on the fact that I had 2 wives and 3 children — the very same ratio that Norman had (6 wives to 9 children!). That really embarrasses me now, which I suppose is a sign of existential progress in my life.

      But it’s more complicated than that, because, here I am at the overripe age of 70 and I still have not resolved the Intersectionality of Homosexuality and Transgenderism in my own life.

      And it was reading up on your recent series about transgenderism that allowed me to articulate my own lifelong conflict between sexual orientation and gender identity, something that transcends both Mailer and Levenda.

      Anyway, let me post this now as a necessary but not yet sufficient elucidation of why Levenda bugs me. It has nothing to do with his recent interest in UFOlogy with Sekret Machines and Tom DeLonge, but rather the way he reminds me so much of myself when I was in my own Norman-Mailer-worshipping phase of life and now how I hate myself for it!

      Tom

  10. Apologies Jasun, I just don’t subscribe to the fact that if someone dies in your life, it’s your karma. Maybe it has nothing to do with you. And it certainly is not blood money.

  11. If you’ d like to talk about about older brothers with heroin death wishes, yeah we can talk. I know what I write of. And all of the aftermath.

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