Aberrations of Reality Page 2

  A space of sky before me began to shimmer. I mistook it as a trick of clouds or illusion of moonlight, but when it didn’t dissipate, I observed more closely only to discover the phenomenon was real.

  Still laughing, I focused my attention. The peculiarity of the thing helped to rebalance my organism, jettisoning my shackles of fear for genuine scientific inquiry, because I couldn’t figure out what I was seeing.

  I watched, awestricken, as the shimmering space turned into currents of air which one by one began lighting up. They were beautiful, reminding me of parade streamers or colorful ocean eels. My mind kept trying to put the enigma together, give it form, but all I could make out were the weird movements.

  Then something clicked over in my brain and what was once formless and obscure now gained shape. A face, eyes, nose, and mouth; hair, torso, stomach, and limbs. All of the proper aspects coalesced until a full-fledged humanoid floated out there in midair. Something female.

  I saw white feathered wings unfurl and stretch back, flapping with slow rhythmic pumps, creating a sound like a dragon.

  I was looking at an angel!

  The being approached, hovering inches from my face. Her white robe wavered about me, displaying that undersea quality. Her skin was snow-pale and her eyes glowed the deepest blue. Her hair was jet black. She raised two fingers, placing them against my lips.

  “Depart ye not from these lands,” she whispered, “for thoust still have much work to complete. I, the countenance of Sophia, have descended on the guiding hand of God to intervene in these matters. He desireth of you to make holy the dregs of your life, to preach the new Gospel of His Son, Christ Jesus. Your soul hath bowed down to the dust, and your belly doth cleaveth unto the earth. So go now. Return, and lay down your life within His faith.”

  These words I will never forget. They seemed to drift around me in a cloud, dense as ice. I could make them out in the air—glaring shards of symbols and patterns. Then they were gone, and I hung my head and cried.

  The angel put her hand on my shoulder, but soon she was gone and I got a hold of myself and climbed down onto the balcony. When I looked, the strange phenomenon, and the angel too, had vanished. The city skyline met my boyish gaze with lights of indifference.

  I’ve been a student of the occult half my life. Angels are not new to my thinking. However seeing one in the flesh is. And what the angel said… Of all the magical texts I’ve poured over, all the scandalous satanic dribbling, all the ceremonial rituals—never once did an angel, spirit, or demon show up.

  Never once.

  It was suddenly so clear to me. I felt like a fool looking back over my life—though I never would’ve reached my realization had I not endured everything else first. I was raised a Catholic, and had departed from the Church for what I thought were good reasons. Coming back around again, to feel very “catholically inclined,” was strange. Lines from Eliot’s “The Four Quartets” came to me…

  We shall not cease from exploration

  And the end of all our exploring

  Will be to arrive where we started

  And know the place for the first time.

  And so I have returned to my place of origin, my Catholic roots. My faith is invigorated and my life feels restored. God smiles on me every day. I will soon be an ordained priest. My writing, too, has been Christianized, and I have left the horrors of Bohemia behind.

  I tell you this because I know from your note that your and my life are similar. Yet I don’t expect any of this to change your mind. You still haven’t returned to your point of origin. And so therefore you don’t know who or where you are. I can hope that my story will have an impact on you; if nothing else, cause you to reflect.

  Please accept my gift of the Holy Bible. Look it over, read it, hold it in your hands. You too can find your way home.

  Good luck,

  Dr. Philip P. Vernon

  I got up immediately and stood for a long time looking at the stack of creased papers. My hands shook, the fingertips perspiring. I could feel the blood pumping in my head, a throbbing pulsating baa-bump which felt like a migraine.

  Who does this bastard think he is?

  Dr. Vernon had been my occult hero, going back to when I was a leather jacket-wearing punk in Michigan listening to Danzig and smoking cigarettes behind the cafeteria. I had meant to send him a letter sooner, expressing my admiration for his work, but life got in the way. Not until my fortieth year had I suddenly found myself in the right mindset to do so.

  The good doctor had always written a mix of things, all esoteric and fringe-spirituality in nature, ranging from bestselling thrillers to New Agey self-help books to the serious occult treatises. His writing had safeguarded me through the rough patches, continually revitalizing my rebellious attitude toward my parents and society. A true iconoclast and a member of several magical groups, as well as an activist for human and animal rights movements, Vernon railed against neo-conservatives and spoke out against government corruption. He had a reputation for being paranoid and fanciful. However the media always paid attention, if only for the sake of ridicule. I thought of Dr. Vernon as the punk rock version of Hunter S. Thompson mixed with Aleister Crowley.

  But now it seemed he had changed. It made me want to scream. I was hungover from a binge drink the night before. Maybe that was why I couldn’t stop myself from ripping the pages in half and hurling them into the air, overturning my dining table, knocking some pictures off the wall by the window, then collapsing back on the couch.

  Was this the kind of reaction the good doctor wanted? Had he engineered this whole thing, like some kind of psychotherapy mind fuck—like all those crazy existentialist novels from the sixties and seventies—magic theaters, The Magus, devils and witchcraft, Freudian madness?

  I wish.

  No, the good doctor had let his fears and inadequacies overcome his good sense. He’d had a midlife crises, and then turned to the Bible for recourse. And I had been dumb enough to venerate him all these years. What did that say about me?

  That you’re as stupid as he is.

  I hated that. My old man used to call me stupid every time I got a bad grade in elementary school. He’d spend hours lecturing me as to the right answer, proving how much smarter he was. Then he’d call me stupid and say I was a waste.

  “Stupid people never make a name for themselves,” he’d say. “They become bums.”

  You never made a name for yourself, Pop.

  I always wanted to tell him that. But it only would’ve gotten me a right cross to the face. It was true, though. He was a janitor at the local university where he mopped the gymnasium and emptied trash cans. The students ignored him or laughed at him and said he was a dumb old man. He’d never attended college himself. Mom did, but Mom was dead. That was why he pushed me so hard, I think: because of his shortcomings. A noble endeavor in theory, but I swear it made me want to kill the old bastard.

  I went into my backyard to think about the doctor’s letter. Not much of a yard: less than five square feet probably. But the management loved to tout that each apartment came equipped with “Its own backyard!”

  The space felt like a prison to me now. The wooden fence was the concrete walls of Alcatraz. I scooted my only patio chair over to the fence so I could stand on it, then peered over. I surveyed the other backyards, a labyrinth of fence-forged cubicles.

  A man wearing no t-shirt with blubber like a whale was barbecuing some hamburgers and hotdogs. I thought I had smelled burning flesh. Light trails of smoke lifted from his yard. He lit a fat cigar, hacking on phlegm, and saw me gazing over the top of my fence. He did a double-take, his fatty jowls jiggling.

  “The fuck you looking at?” he said.

  “An angel,” I replied.

  I got back in my yard and sat on the patio chair.

  Fat asshole, I thought. Worthless piece of shit.

  Liar.

  Idiot.

  Fool.

  I’d stopped thinking about my neighbor a
nd was back to Dr. Vernon. I couldn’t believe what I had read. I was beginning to feel something strange, though, something like jealousy. Did I envy the good doctor?

  I went back inside and closed the sliding glass door. The smell of burning processed animal flesh was getting to me. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and retired to the bedroom. It was only eleven in the morning, but hair o’ the dog bit whenever it bit.

  I lay on the bed, drinking, thinking. My walls were black with posters of the death metal bands I loved, my bookshelves lined with esoteric titles. One of my other heroes, Aleister Crowley, hung from a cloth banner over the dresser. The Beast wore his traditional ceremonial garb, including his magician’s hat displaying the All-Seeing Eye inside a golden, radiating triangle. His own eyes glared into the room.

  After burning some incense, I drank my beer and recited my prayers to The Master, Lucifer. Before long I was snoring in the gloom.

  * * *

  Later that night I crouched at the computer, investigating the recent religious developments in Dr. Vernon’s career. My head continued to ache, but the long day of napping, dreaming, and going in and out of consciousness had restored me a little. I vowed not to hit the whiskey for a while. I presently contented myself with Camel non-filters and a bottle of Bud.

  What Vernon said in his letter was true. Sometime around the turn of the last century there had been a dramatic shift, not only in his work, but also in his public persona. He was featured in many interviews during that time, espousing his return to God, Christianity, and the Roman Catholic Church. He was even on the cover of Time Magazine, sitting with a Holy Bible in one hand and an upside down picture of Aleister Crowley in the other, beneath an emboldened red headline that said DR. PHILIP VERNON FINDS GOD.

  How in the hell did I miss that one?

  Vernon responded to critics in these venues, but mostly he promoted his new books, a six-novel “pseudo-fictional” history of the life of Jesus Christ entitled “The Chronicles of Nazareth.”

  He caught a lot of flak for this and pretty much estranged his entire audience, but his Christian series was picked up by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., and in no time the first book was a New York Times bestseller. It seemed the good doctor had been well-received by the Christian community. They made up the bulk of his fan base.

  They would love a reformed Satanist, of course.

  I powered down the computer and wandered back into my living room. The lights were off and a full moon pierced through the curtains. I felt like I was on another planet. Nothing made sense. I had gone beyond anger to find myself back at simple confusion. What the fuck happened to you, Dr. Vernon?

  Switching on the lights, the first thing I saw was the leather bound Bible sitting on my dining table. Crowley had read and referred to the Bible on multiple occasions, but I had never gotten into it. It reeked of my father, all those Sundays he dragged me off to the Methodist Church, and the harsh judgments he had placed on my friends and me during high school. He said we were all Satanists and unprofitable servants of the Lord.

  He was probably right.

  I picked up the book and inspected the leather cover and the pair of gold words. Other than the horrible memories of my father I really had no reason to eschew this book. It was usually considered in bad taste as an occultist to slaver over the Holy Bible as a magical text. That was for the Christians and what was referred to as RHP, Right Hand Path occultists—Right Hand because they presumed to one day sit at the right hand of God, perhaps?—while we of the LHP journeyed to the Left and followed our own inner divinity.

  Fortunately my mental illness and generally awkward social presence had forced me to give up Group Work a long time ago. And so there was no one to see me, no one to crack jokes or make unfair presuppositions. I was basically free to do what I pleased.

  I opened to the first page and started reading the Book of Genesis.

  In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was

  upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon

  the face of the waters.

  And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

  And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the

  light from the darkness.

  And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called

  Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.

  The words brought up childhood memories of sitting through Sunday school and Sunday morning service. It reminded me of the pain, hate, and humiliation I felt during that time. Which I still felt. I would never forget the moment I learned about Hell, the place for which I was destined if I didn’t keep my act clean and do as I was told. If I didn’t listen to my father, do my school work, and stay out of mischief, I would be sent to a netherworld of eternal damnation and endless torture.

  Creepy!

  Even at a young age I sensed I was being told a great and inglorious lie. Come to find out, years later, this Hell was nonexistent, and that he who I was meant to fear—namely, Lucifer—was really the savior of mankind, the being who would eventually restore my ability to enjoy sensual pleasures, rather than stifle them.

  Then how come I feel so alone? Why am I poor? Why do I hate my life?

  Oh, no. I wasn’t about to have the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. I’d made my decision. I’d chosen LHP. I wasn’t going to reevaluate now.

  Or was I?

  Dr. Vernon did. He pulled a one-eighty and now he’s rich, redeemed, and successful.

  “Bullshit,” I called to the empty room. “He was successful before.”

  The sound of my voice spooked me. My apartment was a void, a place of silence and inactivity. I scarcely worked up the energy to perform the rituals anymore. So maybe I was disillusioned. Maybe I was having my doubts. Maybe things were going to change.

  Like Vernon changed.

  I opened the Bible and picked up where I left off. This time I felt less repulsed by the text and was not as easily diverted. When the morning sun peeked through the windows, I was still reading, and I didn’t pass out until ten o’clock, the book lying open on my chest.

  * * *

  Life continued this way, with me reading and reading. Who knew the Holy Bible to be a bona fide page-turner? Of course I didn’t read everything. All the begetting crap and the Thou Shalt Not Do This and Thou Shalt Not Do That, I skimmed over. Those passages were an insult to my occult sensibilities.

  My principal interest turned out to be the New Testament and the story of Jesus of Nazareth. I skimmed, jumped around, but I got through those scenes which I felt were most important.

  In another week I had read all the way past the crucifixion and Pentecost and arrived at the Book of Revelations. Here was material I certainly had read before, with respect to my occult practices; in fact, material those of the LHP considered most crucial to their traditions. But I read it again anyways, for it is a lively piece of writing.

  Then I sat on my couch with the book closed. I did it, I thought. I read the entire fucking Bible. Does that make me a Christian?

  I chuckled. I didn’t feel like a Christian, but something had changed. Weeks had passed. I hadn’t left the house other than to work at the ampm, which was the bane of my existence. I’d stopped drinking. Even the smoking I’d cut down on. I felt like a million bucks. I also felt as if I was wakening from a long dream.

  Strange.

  What was happening?

  I shook my head. One thing was for certain: I’d read the damn thing and now the entire vision that was the Holy Bible streamed through my body like a living entity. I didn’t hear the normal nagging inner voice telling me I wanted to smoke a cigarette or grab a strong drink. My mind was eerily silent. I felt numb, confused, and shell-shocked. Like I could sit on my couch forever and just stay there—molder into the cushions and become a statue with vines weaving about my head, forgotten and a
lone, but at peace.

  There was a knock at the front door.

  * * *

  Three days later I stood before the towering Four Seasons Hotel in Midtown Manhattan, just off East 57th Street. It was early, probably not yet nine o’clock, but the City was alive with traffic. The weather was cool for the end of summer, owing to the slightly overcast sky which hovered above everything. Clearly, a not-fucking-around thunderstorm was on the way. I checked my wristwatch again. Then, ignoring the doorman, I entered the glass doors and stepped into the lobby.

  It was business as usual. I walked to the front desk and checked in with a peppy young woman wearing a pantsuit. Her nametag announced her as Gemma. I’d made my reservations the day before. The busy season wasn’t over yet, but I managed to get a room.

  I’ve always had difficulty interacting with people on a social level. At work, with the defense of the cash register, I could fake it, but mostly because I had a role (that of cashier) to hide behind. But in the wild everything seemed primal. I constantly felt pulled between hope, fear, and anger—a dizzying cycle.

  Keycard in hand, I turned and headed toward the elevators. But Gemma called out to me. “Mr. Everson?”

  I swung around. “Call me Thomas, please.”

  She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled nervously. “Of course, Thomas. Would you like some help with your things?” She glanced around my legs, indicting the absence of any luggage, and then met my eyes.

  Think you’re smart, eh?

  “Thank you, Gemma, but my bags are in the car. I will get them myself after I’ve had a nap.”

  Her nervousness shifted to relief. “No problem, Thomas. Enjoy your stay at The Four Seasons.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  I rode up in the elevator alone, thankfully, and looked at myself in the silvery reflection of the metal walls. I wore a deep blue business suit with my long black hair pulled back. My face, though pale, was washed and shaved, and I thought I looked much younger since I’d cut down on drinking.