Friday, September 25, 2015

Gargling With The Gods of the Underworld

Gargling With The Gods of the Underworld

                               The Abyss Yodels Back



Bob Braudis said..."I miss him. When shit pops up, like when Deep Throat was outed, I thought,'What would Hunter say?"
-William McKeen: Outlaw Journalist: The Life and Times of Hunter S. Thompson 

"Nobody doubted that Carl and Bob had tapped a main source. Deep Throat was the tap-root, the man with the final credentials.His motives were never made clear, except in some giddy gray realm of "morality," and the rape of his personal ethics. "

"In the legend he is a figure like Socrates, a man of long reach and wisdom, too smart for his work and obviously Not Like The Others."

 He works for the President, but his hero is William Burroughs and his knuckles have grown together like crushed roots... his name down at the 15th and "L"  in the newsroom was "Deep Throat."
 Some people knew, but not many. Scott Armstrong* knew, along with Oscar Acosta and a senior stewardess for one of the airlines. We even kept it from Frank Mankiewicz, who knew almost everything else. It was one of those things that seemed better, at the time, not to talk about."
 April 14, 1986
         - HunterS. Thompson: Generation of Swine; They Called Him Deep Throat

[*Scott Armstrong was a journalist for the Washington Post during Watergate and childhood friend of Bob Woodward.]

 "With the Watergate thing, what we took great pride in here was that it didn't really have much to do with the President himself or the office. It was more the fact that the people, and the press, actually did run the country and that we could throw out a crooked President and there was a great amount of pride in that.  ...We took great pride in that we could throw him out. You know, chase the bastards out of Washington. And somehow there was a great celebration of the power of the people after Watergate. Hell, I did it myself; I was proud of all of us. And somehow that has not carried over. There was a great celebration but it was honoured more in the spirit than the reality."
   -Hunter Thompson interview with Jack Thompson:  "Studio for Men", [an Australian magazine similar to GQ.]  February 1989.

On Karma - "It's extremely bad karma to brag about things you've gotten away with. I'm a great believer im karma in a profound sense: You will get what's coming to you."
  -Hunter Thompson Interview with Tim Mohr for Playboy, Dec. 2004

 "Dr. Thompson, Is it true that you are the real Keyser Soze?

I've been accused of that, it's a good question. Say yes. ...That's a very intelligent question and I compliment the person that asked it."
 - interview with Sara Nelson for Book Report, June 1997

ON FATE: " I'm doomed all my life to violent actions. I'm closely associated with the gods of the underworld—not crime so much but the underworld."
  --Hunter Thompson Interview with Tim Mohr for Playboy, Dec. 2004

Norma Jean Thompson: "Are you afraid of death? HST: No ... No. There is no death."
-NuCity Goes Gonzo, NuCity Press

__________________________________________________________________________________________

On February 21, 2005, the day after Hunter Thompson's death, I got a call from a guy known in certain Colorado circles as "The Mess of Snowmass." It was no casual nickname. He was a real wreck. He was the kind of guy who often bumped into Jesus Himself around dawn, so I wasn't surprised when he woke me at 4 AM with a story about having Hunter's final writings in hand. I was curious; I knew he knew Hunter and that they'd once shared a close common friend. But they also shared a penchant for wild fictions. There was reason that week to be worried about my friend's state of mind, as the death of French porn queen Karen Lancaume had thrown him into an obsession with suicide. Plus he suddenly wouldn't shut up about his weird idea that Hunter fucking Thompson was Deep Throat.


This was three months before Vanity Fair outed Mark Felt, but Throat had been in the news due to a rumor that he, whoever he was, was near death. At first I figured that my friend was just playing with that story; Hunter had been unwell and had spoken before about suicide as succor to the sick. But the Mess insisted that he was telling the truth. "They're going to name this Felt, but it was Hunter," he kept repeating. "He says it in the note, I'll show you."


A friend I talked into checking on the Mess called later with news that there was indeed a "note," a food-stained photocopy of what looked like a typewritten document. She had no clue where the thing had come from; all she could say for sure was that our friend hadn't written it. He was a lovably lousy writer and remained so until his death, which, when it finally came last year, came accompanied by its own note reading simply, "Sick of this." He'd driven out to the woods and put a pistol in his mouth on the thirty-ninth anniversary of his brother's death in Vietnam.


What follows is the text sent to me by the Mess on February 28, typed painstakingly over days into a library computer. He was so convinced of the document's authenticity -- and of the version of events it told -- that he wouldn't even make a copy to mail. He refused to tell me where it came from, deleted the text numerous times before finally sending it, and grew increasingly concerned that just possessing it put him in peril. My friend was a great believer in the brutal appetites of power; he believed the rumor that Thompson had been working on a piece about a 9/11 conspiracy and was convinced that Hunter had been murdered by his government.


The Mess flushed his copy of the note shortly thereafter, so I never got to see the thing myself. Years of effort have revealed nothing in the way of origin. I make no claim that what follows is Thompson's, though even the most questionable passages -- the loftiness, the purposely obvious phrases from Hunter's older work -- are oddly authentic in their way, for Hunter couldn't help but plagiarize himself in later years, and he never did get over the dream of writing like F. Scott Fitzgerald.


The last confessions of Hunter S. Thompson have enjoyed some small attention over the years, coming and going from the weirdest corners of the conspiracy scene. Some of the evidence still exists on the Internet; postings and discussions date back to the week after Hunter's death. And though I myself shared the text online as soon as I received it, I've seen excerpts dating to before the Mess ever sent it out -- mysterious, unattributed postings in blog comments and car forums -- suggesting that my dear old friend wasn't the only recipient.


I don't believe that these are Hunter's words. I don't entirely disbelieve it either. I certainly don't think that Hunter S. Thompson was Deep Throat. But it's the sort of thing I would like to believe in, like democracy and human dignity and the devils getting what's due, and for that reason I assure you that every word you are about to read is gospel.

Rin Kelly
Denver, Colorado
Feburary 15, 2008

http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html(Intro originally written for L.A. RECORD)
______________________________________________________________________________________
 

"In three decades of speculation about the identity of legendary Watergate source 'Deep Throat,' few prominent members of the Nixon administration swept up in the scandal have endorsed a likely suspect. Even John Dean has hedged and offered multiple guesses. But now E&P has learned that former top Nixon aide, John Ehrlichman, who went to prison for his role in Watergate, felt strongly that he knew the identity of Deep Throat.
His candidate: Henry Kissinger.

This revelation comes from Walter Anderson, the chairman and CEO of Parade magazine and a close friend of the former Nixon aide, who died in 1999. Ehrlichman, Anderson said, identified Kissinger as Deep Throat in a conversation with him more than 20 years ago.

'He was absolutely convinced of it,' Anderson said, when asked by E&P to comment on the recent surge in speculation about the identity of Deep Throat. He added that Ehrlichman's view of Kissinger as Deep Throat has never surfaced before, as far he knows.

'Ehrlichman argued that Kissinger was high enough in the organization to have the information, and understand it, close enough to Nixon to know all the details,' Anderson said, 'and he was virtually untarnished by the Watergate scandal, particularly in the press.'" -journalist Greg Mitchell, Editor & Publisher, February 16, 2005


Well...shit. But it is worth noting that Kissinger, the stench trap I will smell for all eternity, doomed or no, is not the person you seek. No...Kissinger is a mere stock genius among swine and we are guaranteed to suffer these jackals again so long as vice and cruelty and their witless apostles trample and piss the Earth, and none of their stripe would (or will) ever rat nor fink on a crook like Nixon--and, I'll add, in the long haul Kissinger will look like the five-cent Satan ride before the doors to the big party came squealing open. Selah. I leave you to posterity.

But before we get to my posterity, as it were, I'd like to say that it is a very strange feeling to be a Dead American writer in this fresh century, looking at all this gibberish of mine that seems to belong so much to the last. Even Kissinger seems to belong to that Gone Century now--the stink is foul but quaint. There is a closing world up ahead without very much glimmer of me in it, either; I had hoped at least to leave a pining green light at the end of a distant dock. Right now I am staring at a fat red light on the wing of an iced-over 747, trapped in the Denver International Airport, and when I tire of musing on this last souvenir of Life on Earth I am still Free, as it were, to take in those big white barn tits DIA calls a roof, heaving-ho into the yonder. This, I suppose, is Death...(exactly as you had imagined it).

Before we get to Throat I will also mention that there is some kind of heavy connection between the keys on this machine and the words themselves--the high white sound is all in the speed-lashing, the banging, all things being wretched and alive, and I frankly don't give a fuck about that these days. I've grappled with these elegant mechanical beasts for the last time. I tend, more and more, to just sit back and think the words I need...so if you are reading this...then on with the gameplan...


And this is a grim thing to think: I feel now my words are essentially complete. They've run off without me somewhere and don't want me ghosting around the exits anymore. I know in my heart the maniacal little fixers only ever wanted to scrape me open and screw the gristle into ever more freaky shapes, all for the sake of the Work. Who can argue with a battle-plan like that? My words, after all, are Americans too--balls-out, vicious careerists to the foul bleating core. They wanted to Succeed so bad they whacked me to get us all on the cover of the New York Times (AP says Las Vegas is number 15 on Amazon.com this week and Vintage Books has a "significant" reprinting in the works...Ah, then Hallelujah! To Be an American Writer!) I suspect that Horatio Alger's words must have gotten to mine. Alger always knew how to sell and Americans can't resist a salesmen come to sell them themselves, especially when it's a babyfucker, of the Super Eagle Scout Variety. An honest thief will never do.

Lord! I tried, O Lord, to teach them better, like Jesus says: they are not of this World, just as I am not of this World. But I'm out (once this plane takes off--they tell me we are waiting on Gidget) [note: Sandra Dee (April 23, 1942 – February 20, 2005) played Gidget 1959] and they're in for good, a fixed final part of the world that will never howl against it in rhythm with the newer, fouler plunders the Hearts of Evil have in store. I should have armed them somehow. I never thought it would be necessary...there was a time when it seemed rage would break like hard winter lightning over the mountains and a scouring rain would crack open the sky, to ruin the Minds of Fear, dissolve all the kin shrines of the rich and send them coursing like rivers into the flatlands...It was not hard to believe these things then, if you were young with eyes like two big fury wheels and a mind blown in all directions on the American Dream.

"France was a land, England was a people, but America, still having about it that quality of the idea, was harder to utter--it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart."

  -F. Scott Fitzgerald [note: short story "The Swimmers", 1929]

Indeed. And it's that Quality of the Idea that will do us all in one day, and already has... Bush needs only to cackle "Freedom" and textbooks fly open coast-to-coast inside our wicked, gutless minds, right back to the page where George Washington frees the slaves and hustles them across the Potomac in a Thanksgiving gravy boat built by B. Ross, from a cherry tree. They get you with the Idea, and the Idea (like Journalism, as Oscar Wilde once said), reigns forever and ever...and woe betide the doomed fool who dares get in its way. Nixon was a fiend, a dupe and an evil swindler, but Reagan was the Idea--even I could never hate Reagan right, because he had been a sportswriter...and for all his savage and howling buggery he gave the people what they wanted most of all--more than Life, Liberty, or the pursuit of Happiness, or whatever it was Tip O'Neill thought they wanted...no, Reagan, like Alger, knew that Americans will endorse any obscenity if it comes cloaked in a vision of themselves as they have never been. We are a nation of Gatsbys desperate to relive the past...only Gatsby actually fucked Miss Daisy a time or two, while Norman Rockwell was never anything more than a collective fever dream. No one loves Rockwell/Reagan's Shining City on a Hill more than the hate mongers and lynchers among us, those who clamor for death and weep with wonder as they suckle blood from the petrified tit of Innocent America. We are myth-mad, homesick vampires. And our heart's grown brutal from the fare.

Bush, of course, has none of Reagan's magnetic hokum...but he has Fear, and Fear needs the Idea to live. Backed against the wall a Good American (first cousin to the "Good German") will see Glory Stars and Sobbing Eagles popping like fizgigs on the air where any normal person--a Spaniard or a Bolivian, say--would see a firing squad...and Bush knows this, lives this, feasts on it. His America is Reagan's America without the phony hope...all cowering, all cringing, all bleating madness with only the Flag to protect us from the outside, menacing world. There is something of the Beast in the way his eyes glow with a dull light, as if the man has a Greyhound terminal inside him--then, as the subject turns to War...Torture...Murder...Terror...he leans forward and the eyes shock alive into twisted, ferocious glee. Bush's Dream is a fucking slit trench of a world and it is already halfway realized. But it could not happen without the Idea, the Dream that gets to us all so early. It is no easy thing to live in a country founded on a concept; because the concept was never realized, the nation is at the mercy of anyone who can hoist aloft an effigy...and what foul dust floats in the wake of our Dream? Iraq? Syria? Iran? We are junkies. There is no crime we will not consider to get a fix.

Cazart! I began writing all this with a point, I'm sure--something about Pat Buchanan and the Capitol Hill Hotel. But now we are ascending and I've got a plastic cup of the finest finger of Royal Salute $450 can buy. Below is Denver, dimming away, and the dark atlas of the plains, and somewhere is Lisl Auman in a cage for life for no reason but human stupidity...and who knows how many others, all the way back through history, rolling out in all directions across the dark republic in the night...

"Take one last look at the prison yard, goodbye Prison Grove Shine on all these broken lives, shine on shine the light on me."
 -Warren Zevon: Prison Grove, 2003

"In prison, those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all."
 -Eldridge Cleaver: Soul On Ice, 1968


The flood is coming, I'm telling you.-Deep Throat

As far as I know, Nixon never learned the identity of Deep Throat: at least there is nothing about it in this fine, sleek in-flight magazine they've brought around with the cigarettes and pillows. It's an over-saturated, perfume-brittle Condé Nast affair and as queer a piece of lit as any I've seen, clocking 900 pages and reading something like a cross between Soaps in Depth and The Big Book of Mormon Genealogy. Here we have Dead Alumni cross-listed by Nation, Century, Manner of Death, Hobbies, and Career...and a Feature on Bob Hope called "Toilet Trading Beyond the Mortal Coil." The most common career, as it were, seems to be "Whore" (though Nixon, robbed again, didn't make that list). Vince Lombardi is currently said to be busy with "rough wooings by mean-minded mechanical arms on loan from General Motors," though previously he was "naked and knee-deep in angry voles." They have already inked out a place for the Pope under the heading "Vicious Polaks" and a feature-peek into his future daily doings, returned to Earth, as a box of Trojan Enz. I am cross-listed under Hobbies: Peacocks alongside American Writer Flannery O'Connor and Hobbies: Football with Richard Milhous Nixon, 37th President of the United States, a fellow fan of Grantland Rice, a Quaker, and a jabbering, pigfucking crook--Nixon currently resides at Number One Observatory Circle as the pacemaker that is keeping Dick Cheney alive.

What?

Bullshit!

What about Eternal Damnation?

Well...what do I know about a thing like that? I have already suffered hell with that trench-faced maniac, and I am a better man for it. It was enough to see his presidency come splitting apart stitch-by-crooked stitch as he paced the beach at San Clemente, moaning and brooding on life's simultaneous screws...and yes, to have had a part in it, too. I almost killed the motherfucker in Manchester, New Hampshire, leaning over the fuel tank of his jet with a king-size Marlboro butt burning out of the side of my mouth--and who knows what manner of weird paradise might have flowered on the Earth if I had killed Richard Nixon in '68? Was Nixon merely a symptom? Would setting him off like a ten-ton water buffalo even begin to squelch the rot? We would not have experienced Watergate...and at the time, Watergate was a glorious thing to see; I believed, at one point, that Nixon would stand trial, not just for his cover-up but for his very existence as a political monster--because by that time there were no questions left to ask but how he ever became the president at all...So the real defendant of that trial would have been the American Political Machine itself, visible at last. Just as Nuremberg forced Germany to confront Volksgemeinschaft as nothing more than the obsequious smile of a corpse, the Trial of Richard M. Nixon would have exposed all the swine...sucking fat and afterings from their fingers at the devoured heart of the American Dream...

Ho ho. So now you see why I did what I did. It was not a hot blast of Nixon-hatred that blew me to Washington, but Divine Afflatus Itself...my beat was the Death of the American Dream and seeing the whole jabbering whorehouse come down was to be a fine work of Art, far beyond Jay Gatz and his sundered longing at the edge of Long Island Sound. I can admit now, I guess, that Gatsby once gonged in my head night and day and I lashed away thousands of letters to publishers and Famous American Writers Everywhere declaring myself the fucking Coming of the New Star-Spanked Christ Child of Doomed American Prose, at the ready to write the next Gatsby...as soon as they sent me cash. Jesus! It was all some maniac fury to make the whole doomsday mess clear, and fast...so people could see, as it were, "what was on the end of every fork."

I see that our friends at Condé Nast make no mention of this. Under my name the word "drugs" appears 14 times and we score the trifecta of "hippies," "counterculture," and "Doonesbury," all in one foul sentence. Who are these thugs? Does the Columbia Journalism Review know about this? Is that little bastard Marty Beckerman writing for the kingdom-come trades now? I was almost the Governor of Samoa! Good God! Jimmy Carter offered to drop out of the '76 presidential race for me! And again...what manner of weirdness would wander the Earth if I had run in '76 and Jimmy hadn't? Strange to think...If Reagan had won that year he likely would have smashed up against the same ugly rock as Carter, and maybe the wreckage would have befouled the Goldwater Revolution for good...


Jesus, here's a revolting thought: am I responsible for Bush?

Or is the whole shitrain of history just the Fates at Play?

Baseball is great because anything can happen through the ninth inning. -Richard Nixon addressing a White House reception of the players in the 1969 Baseball All-Star Game, July 22, 1969

Indeed...and just a week before the Watergate break-in Nixon was whistling a tune in the Oval Office, busy at work with David Eisenhower on a list of the greatest baseball players of all time...which he then had printed as a gold-embossed tract and shelved alongside his famous Enemies List (and the lesser-known List of the Ugliest Women in Key Biscayne). I had a sort of relationship with Nixon for many years, and his love of sports was as high-humping crazy as my own. I have always maintained that I enjoyed our ride together one midnight in New Hampshire in 1968; Pat Buchanan and Ray Price were sitting up front and it was just me and the Dingbat at the hindmost, talking football--it was, indeed, "probably one of the weirdest things I've ever done."...But the pilot has just announced that we're 30 miles outside of our Destination...so is time now to admit that Dick and I never spoke about football that night: we talked about whores.

I was feeling a little paranoid and Nixon only exacerbated my gloom by waiting at least five minutes to speak. He was sweating so much I could smell the South Pacific on his collar.

"Hookers, Thompson," he said finally.

What? Good God! The bastard had lured me into some kind of brutal mano-a-mano McCarthy hearing! He was going to run down a list of treasons and then torch me and dump me in the woods! Terror fused my brain. I fumbled at the door handle. No! I thought. Fucking Christ!



"I'm under the impression you might know a little about that."

Jesus! What? It all made sense now: they'd seen my Levis and my ski jacket and singled me out as the kind of person who could summon hookers at all hours. "You crazy son of a bitch!" I answered. "Get your own goddamn hookers!"

Nixon laughed. "We're interested in a group of hookers connected to the DNC."

Indeed. And this is where Watergate began: a staffer at the DNC had been arranging slam-ups between Democratic kingpins and a parlor of whores operating out of the Columbia Plaza apartments. Even in 1968 Nixon was onto it, and he asked me for whatever information I had...which was nothing until I visited the Columbia Plaza a few weeks later with Buchanan, a group of visiting friends of Plimpton's from The Paris Review, a porcelain frog full of cocaine, two bags of grass, and sixty pellets of mescaline...And late into that godawful night, after over three hours of wrestling Buchanan off the ledge and into the bathtub, one of the girls came kabooming out of her room with eyes like Atomic Fireballs--she had the Fear so bad that her dentures hit the floor and I could see all four of her candy-flossed teeth bobbing on her gums...she was wailing about a pimp with corkscrew toenails and "a beard like God," who wore Kleenex tissues on his hands...

"And Mormons!" she shrieked. "He has Mormons! His fucking Mormons will get me with needles to kill the germs!"

"Howard Hughes?" I asked.

Ye Gods! Hughes was the dough behind the whole operation...and after Bobby Kennedy died Hughes snatched up one Lawrence O'Brien, gnat in the eye of Richard Nixon and future subject of a bungled burglary at the Watergate Hotel, to be his lobbyist and Grand Pimp of Columbia Plaza...meanwhile Hughes was busy greasing the other side, kiting mastodon-sized checks off to Nixon's sidecar Bebe Rebozo in Florida...and in return Nixon offered a monopoly on Las Vegas casinos to Hughes, scoffing off any whispers of "antitrust"...but Nixon was so crooked he narced even on himself, and for security he sent Plumbers out to fix O'Brien's phones (or as H.R. Haldeman said: "On matters pertaining to Hughes, Nixon sometimes seemed to lose touch with reality. His indirect association with this mystery man may have caused him, in his view, to lose two elections.")...Hughes was both funding the DNC and funding the slush CREEP used to weasel it...meanwhile pimp Phillip Bailley, of the Columbia Plaza Bailleys, was arrested for sexual pandering...and John Dean called the special prosecutor up for a debriefing and a look at Bailley's address books...


And who is in the address books? Besides the hookers?

Why, Mo Biner--John Dean's dearly betrothed.

Ah...but we will be landing soon...Do the details really matter? They were all thieves and evil swine. And I'm having a hard time remembering the specifics...they seem to be blearing and whipping away from me now. Outside the light on the wing is green and smearing out like weird honey on the bunching clouds that tremble and sing below, and I can just make out bright bits of Earth bathed in batches by the green...this is where my words are headed now at the speed of death, back to my crippled country...

And before I go I must say that it is no small thing to have a king like Muhammad Ali alive and hungry on the Earth in your lifetime. I have been thinking, these last few days, of Ali most of all...I don't know the exact mechanics by which a smash-up with a bullet fucks up your memory, but when I try now to see America I first see Ali. He was a souvenir of some other world, of This Nation Before the Fall...there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life...and they wanted to fucking lock him up in the name of America.

America! Lord! I won't miss it for what it was: a fucking snakehouse where the crooks snatched up all the Beauty and garotted its aching joyful Throat before the song ever began. But I think I will miss what it was meant to be...

I tried to make it so. Watergate was my try. They will tell you it was Mark Felt, but they've never been anything but a pack of shiv-fisted liars anyway. I was Deep Throat, and Watergate was my Great Work. It is a testament to the pains and exactitude of Art that I only told Woodward the believable parts...Buchanan barely knew the extent of the thing, because Pat is fine and straight and the straight never know what's really happening. Not in Washington...Not in America. It takes a madman to burrow all the way down into its seedy heart.

My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world. -Muhammad Ali

-Hunter the Headless Thompson Gunner (HST #3)
posted: Johnny St. Clair
Saturday, March 05, 2005"we're gonna be using aliases on this one..." http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html





_________________________________________________________________________________


In the blog posting Tuesday, October 21, 2008: The Last Testament of Someone Apparently Named Hunter S. Thompson, beneath the excerpt of journalist Greg Mitchell, February 16, 2005 is the actual "Mess of Snowmass" document purportedly by HST. It is missing two identifying phrases contained in the two remaining online sources of the main document here:

http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html
http://bbs.clutchfans.net/archive/index.php/t-91780.html

 -in the 4th paragraph: (AP says Las Vegas is number 15 on Amazon.com this week and Vintage Books has a "significant" reprinting in the works...Ah, then Hallelujah! To Be an American Writer!)

-5th paragraph: (once this plane takes off--they tell me we are waiting on Gidget)
[my note: Sandra Dee (April 23, 1942 – February 20, 2005) played Gidget, 1959]

These insertions in the two other blogs are here dated 3/2/05 & 3/5/05 respectively.

Together they demonstrate they were possibly written consequent to HST's demise whereas the document presented here: Tuesday, October 21, 2008
The Last Testament of Someone Apparently Named Hunter S. Thompson
(Intro originally written for L.A. RECORD)
http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html
does not by it's internal contents preclude the possibility of being written prior to his demise.


Rin Kelly did not answer my email for further information.


further notes:
* see:
http://xdell.blogspot.com/2008/04/other-watergate-scandal-almighty-heidi.html
and:
http://crankynotions.com/2012/08/22/forty-years-on-and-watergate-still-doesnt-make-sense/

hst=deep throat:
http://vgmainstreet.com/2005/02/24/the-day-i-knew-who-deep-throat-was/




Indeed, the mysteries surrounding the estate of HST, the endless delays in publishing his finished unpublished works, the silent pursed lips of those in a position to know merely add to the Extended Enigma of that force reckoned as Hunter S. Thompson. And of course, speculations bordering on the eldritch...


"The poets are wrong of course […] But then poets are almost always wrong about facts. That's because they are not really interested in facts: only in truth: which is why the truth they speak is so true that even those who hate poets by simple and natural instinct are exalted and terrified by it."
 -William Faulkner: The Town, 195

 "So vast, so limitless in capacity is man's imagination to disperse and burn away the rubble-dross of fact and probability, leaving only truth and dream."
 -William Faulkner: Requiem for a Nun, 1950

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Congratulations on the wedding of Ayla Meador & Chris Dollar
day after Beltane and day before Wesak full moon

"Why do we think that Love is a magician?
 Because all the power of magic consists in love.
An act of magic is the attraction of one thing by another
 in accordance with a certain natural kinship.
The parts of this world,members of one living being,
 all originating from the same maker, are joined
 together in the communion of one another,
 assist each other to some extent,
 and suffer together when any one of them suffers. . . .
 In just this way the organs of this enormous living being-
all the bodies of the world joined together in like manner, borrow
and lend each other‘s natures. Common love grows out of common
kinship and common attraction is born of love.
This is true magic.
Acts of magic, therefore, are acts of nature and art is her handmaid.
Out of natural love all nature gets the name "magician.“
  -Marsilio Ficino: de Amore VI, 10  1469- Commentary on Plato's Symposium; 15th C.
 Italian philosopher

"In the conjunction of the two sexes, or, to speak more truly,
that fusion of them into one, which may be rightly named Eros, or Aphrodite,
or I both at once, there is a deeper meaning
than man can comprehend. It is a truth to be accepted as sure and evident
above all other truths, that by God, the Master of all generative power,
has been devised and bestowed upon all creatures this sacrament
of eternal reproduction,with all the affection, all the joy and gladness,
all the yearning and the heavenly love that are inherent in its being.
   - Hermes Trismegistos, Asclepius III -21
(Greek text written prior to the end of the third century AD)

“Passionate love is not peculiar to the human species,
 for it penetrates through all existing things — celestial, elemental,
vegetable, and mineral.”
 - Avicenna, 11th C. Persian philosopher

The secret of our Art is the union of man and woman.
 - The Book of Alze, a 16th C. German alchemical text

“The whole world is a marketplace for Love,
For naught that is, from Love remains remote.
The Eternal Wisdom made all things in Love.
On Love they all depend, to Love all turn.
The earth, the heavens, the sun, the moon, the stars
The center of their orbit find in Love.
By Love are all bewildered, stupefied,
Intoxicated by the Wine of Love.

From each, Love demands a mystic silence.
What do all seek so earnestly? ‘Tis Love.
Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts,
In Love no longer “Thou” and “I” exist,
For self has passed away in the Beloved.
Now will I draw aside the veil from Love,
And in the temple of mine inmost soul
Behold the Friend, Incomparable Love.
He who would know the secret of both worlds
Will find that the secret of them both is Love.”

~  Farid Ud Din Attar, 12th C Persian Poet:  Jawar al-Dhat, Kulliyat





Tuesday, March 17, 2015

"...to hear the thunder that rumbles in molecules, the mingling of prime & ultimate
substances..."
      -Italo Calvino: The Castle of Crossed Destinies, 1973

" The initiated adept, who had successfully passed through all the trials, was attached, not
nailed, but simply tied on a couch in the form of a tau (in Egypt) ... plunged in a deep sleep
(the "Sleep of Siloam" it is called to this day among the Initiates in Asia Minor, in Syria, and
even higher Egypt). He was allowed to remain in this state for three days and three nights,
during which time his Spiritual Ego was said to confabulate with the "gods," descend into
Hades, Amenti, or Patala, (according to the country), and do works of charity to the
invisible beings, whether souls of men or Elemental Spirits; his body remaining all the time in
a temple crypt or subterranean cave. "
    -  The Secret Doctrine by H. P. Blavatsky [[Vol. 2, Page]] 558

in memoriam
Daevid Allen
January 13, 1938 – March 13, 2015

The Sleep of Siloam


What temple is this? what home?
a wounded healer dreams
a house wherein once dwelled
a sleeper of Siloam

there
laid out on some board
sloping see\saw
precariously balanced
between this and
that
tipped teetering
Totter
upended, appended
head-down
no defamatory deposition this
vice versa!
this the curse overturned
Mr. Topsy Turvy
dancing mutatis mutandis
up the gangplank
that the soul ascend
to the undying star
where celestial barque sails

moonlit shaman
by silence trance-fixed
at your side satisfied
lays the longbow
sacrificed to fly
vision's arrow etched testament
buried|bourne in your breast
your hand grips now
to reveal
apprentice angling upward
his cry
this view from the quill

-J.M.
2/28/15-3/20/15

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Jackpot

"So what is the the waste Land?  is the land where the myth is patterned by authority, not emergent of life;  where there is no poet's eye to see, no adventure to be lived, where all is set for all and forever: Utopia! Again, it is the land where poets languish and priestly spirits thrive, whose task it is only to repeat, enforce, and elucidate clichés."
--p.373

"The Waste Land, let us say then, is any world in which (to state the problem pedagogically) force and not love, indoctrination, not education, authority, not experience, prevail in the ordering of lives, and where the myths and rites enforced and received are consequently unrelated to the actual inward realizations, needs, and potentialities of those upon whom they are impressed."
    -Joseph Campbell, Creative Mythology (Vol. IV of The Masks of God), p.388

"We are giving people a new identity and erasing the collective memory. We are rewriting the history books. Nothing was more important to our president than bringing peace to this war-torn country... peace, a lasting peace, that can only be achieved through strength, so in my first act as the new president, as the leader of this new government, of this new regime, we will begin immediately to deploy troops in the southern region. We will resume bombing in the jungle. There will be no more violence from the organized media. Real actual violence will take the place of manufactured violence. [FAST BUSY DIAL TONE] We will empty the prisons and we will build the football stadiums, and the evildoers from the prisons will be trampled by wild elephants, mauled by uncaged bears, and pecked to death by screaming eagles. [AIR RAID SIRENS BLARING] Furthermore, we will alert the rebel leaders that the negotiation's finished. There will be no more compromises, no more concessions, just complete and utter unequivocal surrender. We have learned a valuable lesson-- great nations do not fight small wars. There will be no more stupidity, no more mistakes. It's a new day. God help you all."

  -from the film: Masked & Anonymous ,2003 by Larry Charles & Bob Dylan

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

"... he showed me a copper door in the pavement, saying, "Here, if you please, we may go further down." We descended the steps, where it was exceeding dark, but the Page immediately opened a little chest in which stood a small ever-burning taper, wherefrom he kindled one of the many torches that lay by. I was mightily terrified ...
...Herewith I espied a rich bed ready made, hung about with curious curtains, one of which he drew, and I saw the Lady Venus stark naked...
... "Now, behold," said the Page, "when the tree shall be quite melted down, then shall Lady Venus awake and be the mother of a King."
   -The Hermetic Romance: or The Chymical Wedding. Written in High Dutch by Christian Rosencreutz. Translated by E. Foxcroft

"No sooner than she had thus given me her blessing by sprinkling and annointing me with sea-dew than I immediately found my mind clarified and my intelligence returning."
  -Francesco Colonna: Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, translated by Joscelyn Godwin

"Love rules the world, and typical of man's intensest, holiest love, I, Etidorhpa, stand the Soul of Love Supreme."
   -John Uri Lloyd: Etidorhpa

"Everything comes from you; you have yoked the world and you control all three realms.
You give birth to all, to everything in heaven, upon fruitful earth,
And in the depths of the sea..."
   - from Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite, translation by Apostolos N. Athanassakis

"'Tis thine the world with harmony to join, for all things spring from thee, O pow'r divine."
     - - from Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite, translation by Thomas Taylor

"The highest wisdom is to know nothing."
  -Brother Christian Rosenkreutz, Knight of the Golden Stone A.D. 1459.

To Aphrodite

            I.

Sublime Disquiet


O, that the shade of life should slip
flower fall, rainbow rip
that tide should turn from shore the ship
Beauty's ebb from truth
destiny erased from youth, and afterall
the all in all, aloof

far from certain, the sure revertin'
garbed behind a curtain
confounded by barbaric emblems and
bardic symbol, bounded
was it but a curse cast on current everturnings
whose high sign She sought
in the Library of Anthropological Yearnings?

entropy itself but ebb
eludes securing final debt
this
unlettr'd headstone on deluge swept
alone
for Her teargas lingerie I wept

                     II

               Undermind


Which of the muses would admit a claim?
fool's gold/false unicorn
priz'd from torpid ores
this silence unsought.
Amateur. Pallbearer.
Let these lines be
undermined

Daughter of the skyfallen father
sire scythed
the Celestial Ocean's
Cytherean meerschaum
unmanned & holy
imbue the bone in water
the ardour'd sustenance of your star

To cavort with Her verses
I've fallen
coffin clothed
sewn Her oats
into my apron
and drawn the rapture in Her sinews
through odes not mine alone to moan

Mount me, She demanded
untapped veins
shaft unshook
sleeping slopes
never reaching the peak/peek

intervene
sure & supple star froth'd lips
rhyme w/in the chalice grips
while wave on waving furrow laps
here may all recollection lapse

                III

            Ourania


there's a tremor in the blood
a seismic etching
whispering portents
a calligraphy of subtleties
to thirst after finer things

Thee unguttered cup!
Your April'd slipper of lilac dew infused
old undone dandelion sun
rejuvenate! resume pellucid overview

willow-the-whips
that I should violate my rhyme
with useless cant
wont to work my will & why not
swoon neath
my apostrophe

the trope of Love's apostle
no swollen apostate
proctored!
gibbous Thee gland
of delight
illume

-John Meador, Beltane 2014

Monday, July 29, 2013

This Haunted Land

"When the last red man has become a myth among the white men, when your childrens' children think themselves alone in the field, upon the highway or in the silence paths of the woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities are silent, and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land."
-Chief Seattle, 1786-1866

The Ghost of Sheremetyevo

"By Natalia Gevorkyan , Translated By John Amor
July 15, 2013Gazeta - Russia - Original Article (Russian)

Russian spy Anna Chapman: After a Chapman imposter tweeted a marriage proposal to Snowden last week, the global media found it worthy of headlines. But would the real Chapman turn down a starring role in 'The Ghost of Sheremetyevo'? As of today, we have had 53 days of Snowden. Boy, would Sydney Pollock be excited if he still lived. The script of a thriller is there to be had, and I'm sure it is already being written. We haven’t seen bugging like this since the war criminal Nazis. Isn't that so? I can’t remember another worldwide manhunt on this scale. If you try telling me the guy brought this on himself, I won’t put up much of an argument. But following this to its logical conclusion, I’m not sure where I stand toward him personally, less so toward what he has done.

 On May 20, he flies from Hawaii to Hong Kong; on June 23, to Moscow. Moscow of all places. It’s pure cinema: The Ghost of Sheremetyevo.One minute it’s the transit zone, the next it’s a capsule hotel, then ABC’s latest "secret location." Anna Chapman, heroically prepared to marry the guy, provides the obligatory touch of eroticism. Obviously this should be set at transit zone E, the newest and therefore best suited to filming, right there on the floor, no hotels or beds, just pure hardcore. His passport is revoked, Cuba is tense, and a couple of countries south of Cuba are deep in meditation. A number of brooding presidents demand a plane flying over Europe be brought down when they think he's on it. Western journalists are provided Cuban visas and take every flight from Moscow to Havana - just on the off-chance. Their colleagues monitor the paths of these flights, which suddenly deviate from the north so as to avoid U.S.-controlled airspace.

Meanwhile, Snowden remains on the neutral territory of Sheremtyevo, escorts Brad Pitt and meets Johnny Depp, and is now himself a star. Either of them, incidentally, could play him in the upcoming film. Our compassionate Russian gals feed the former foreign agent in the business class lounge, where there are showers and free Internet all night long. Russian leaders gives the former foreign agent an opportunity to meet and explain himself to Russia’s present-day foreign agents, whom it is now fashionable to call human rights activists. The latter, in their turn, demand that rather than creating competition in this already-crowded field, the former should be sent home, to a court, to prison. Snowden immediately seeks political asylum in five countries, and meanwhile, to the displeasure of many, is prepared to live in Russia, with or without Chapman. 

Here, documentation is prepared for his future life in Venezuela, where he will likely have to be transported on the president’s aircraft (one of them, at least), via an indirect, hard to track route.The intelligence services of a world struck dumb by Snowden, starting with Russia's, promptly uncover their dust-covered typewriters and go unequivocally offline, back to record keeping on paper. No more virtual toys, no more gadgets, and no more Internet-enabled phones, either. Just dependable, tried and true old stuff. Terrorists recruit the well-connected: dedicated, preferably dumb, and most importantly with no experience working with computers. There is no more e-mail, no more social or any other online networks, or Skype. The world changes before our eyes.

Snowden begins to enjoy buckwheat porridge and piroshki with cabbage. Bouts of epilepsy give way to attacks of panic. But he’s at his computer the whole time all the same. He keeps going, although he takes up smoking on the sly. He spends long Moscow nights dreaming of his native home in Maryland, hacking school, cherry blossoms, Hawaiian women, and a car ambling slowly behind him, and he knows what will happen next: A press conference in Washington D.C., and (for reasons that remain unclear) unencrypted files, which he transfers over and over again. Close by, behind a wall, on their own home turf, Russian intelligence officers sit reading information again and again extracted long ago from his computer. Far off in China, countless hours are spent at the same work by Chinese intelligence officers. And from time to time, they gently whisper in their own language: "what the fuck!

"Meanwhile, France has unearthed its own Big Brother with which it outright illegally monitors, if not the content of conversations, at least the details of conversations.Aaron Sorkin hurriedly writes and films one more episode for the new season of Newsroom, which starts literally the day after tomorrow, because he simply must delve into the Snowden affair. Barack Obama in his heart of hearts is just glad people have temporarily forgotten about Guantanamo.Vladimir Putin, with mixed joy and disgust, flies to his Sochi dacha, taking with him a package of pre-translated transcripts. He loathes traitors, but he adores top secret material. 

Robert Redford for the first time laments that age has taken its toll. Snowden’s lonesome girl shoots sandy landscapes, drinks cocktails with umbrellas and sends encoded SMS messages (as opposed to files). Microsoft justifies itself thus: yes, we gave away information, but only in accordance with court orders. Google and the rest quickly dismiss agents planted at the NSA who it knows by name. Life carries on, but will never be the same.

The Ghost of Hunter S. Thompson

There is nothing weird or wrong with doom. In fact, in a country of used car salesman, steered by bankers and drone pilots, doom is the only answer. Without doom we are truly lost as a nation. Doom is the final wake up from that awfully wonderful American Dream. And there is plenty of doom to go around for now, but if we aren’t careful, one day we’ll find that even doom isn’t free anymore. You don’t want to find yourself alone in a sweating basement, bashed by monster weather, burning your furniture for warmth and paying out the ass for doom, so take it while it’s still hanging from trees and full of seeds. You’ll thank yourself for making it too late before it becomes too late. “Another doom is possible”, and “Collectivize Doom” must not only the watchwords screamed from the mouths of Maoist hipsters, anarchists, rednecks and wackos of all breeds, but also from their extended families and their psychiatrists.