A Series of Fortunate Events

Philip Teaches the Ethiopian

I'm reading How to Build a Universe That Doesn't Fall Apart Two Days Later, an essay by Philip K. Dick.

It's a marvelous read, and he touches on subjects that my little gray cells are always turning around, like a Rubik's cube. He talks about the nature of reality and illusion, truth and fiction, but what really struck me were his anecdotes about times in his life when reality and myth seemed interchangeable and intertwined. He had written a scene in a novel which he later learns is similar to a scene in the bible(Acts 4:26-40), and later still he unconsciously acts out a similar scene in the real(sic) world. The scene involved a meeting on the road, a black man, a car out of gas, an all-night gas station, and an act of aid to a stranger, and as I was reading this it dawned on me that I had acted out an almost identical scene in my own life!

I was in my early twenties, and I was driving a "flame" red 1969 MG chariot (octagonal logo) at night in a torrential rain storm, when I ran out of gas on a freeway on ramp. I got out of the car and stood under my umbrella, trying to determine in which direction might be the nearest gas station, since I was in an unfamiliar town. Before I could set off, a black man rolled up in his car, and asked me if I could use some help. I took him up on it, and he proceeded to drive me to a gas station (which was a considerable distance away), buy me both gas and a canister in which to hold it (since I discovered I wasn't carrying any money) and then took me back to my car (which meant all the way back around the cloverleaf because I was stalled on the other side of the freeway). I thanked him and he told me he was happy to have helped, and drove off into the driving rain.

It wasn't until after I drove away that I realized how wonderfully fortunate I'd been, and how a potential disaster (of my own idiotic making) had been narrowly averted by the kindness of a stranger. In my case, the roles were inverted and it was the black man playing the savior - however the reflection is clear. One thing P. K. Dick didn't mention was that the man Philip baptized was a eunuch, and of course, I am a eunuch.

I think it's time I finally read VALIS. I wonder if I'm about to be baptized a second time?

Excerpt from How to Build a Universe That Doesn't Fall Apart Two Days Later:

In 1974 the novel was published by Doubleday. One afternoon I was talking to my priest—I am an Episcopalian—and I happened to mention to him an important scene near the end of the novel in which the character Felix Buckman meets a black stranger at an all-night gas station, and they begin to talk. As I described the scene in more and more detail, my priest became progressively more agitated. At last he said, "That is a scene from the Book of Acts, from the Bible! In Acts, the person who meets the black man on the road is named Philip—your name." Father Rasch was so upset by the resemblance that he could not even locate the scene in his Bible. "Read Acts," he instructed me. "And you'll agree. It's the same down to specific details."

I went home and read the scene in Acts. Yes, Father Rasch was right; the scene in my novel was an obvious retelling of the scene in Acts... and I had never read Acts, I must admit. But again the puzzle became deeper. In Acts, the high Roman official who arrests and interrogates Saint Paul is named Felix—the same name as my character. And my character Felix Buckman is a high-ranking police general; in fact, in my novel he holds the same office as Felix in the Book of Acts: the final authority. There is a conversation in my novel which very closely resembles a conversation between Felix and Paul.

Well, I decided to try for any further resemblances. The main character in my novel is named Jason. I got an index to the Bible and looked to see if anyone named Jason appears anywhere in the Bible. I couldn't remember any. Well, a man named Jason appears once and only once in the Bible. It is in the Book of Acts. And, as if to plague me further with coincidences, in my novel Jason is fleeing from the authorities and takes refuge in a person's house, and in Acts the man named Jason shelters a fugitive from the law in his house—an exact inversion of the situation in my novel, as if the mysterious Spirit responsible for all this was having a sort of laugh about the whole thing.

Felix, Jason, and the meeting on the road with the black man who is a complete stranger. In Acts, the disciple Philip baptizes the black man, who then goes away rejoicing. In my novel, Felix Buckman reaches out to the black stranger for emotional support, because Felix Buckman's sister has just died and he is falling apart psychologically. The black man stirs up Buckman's spirits and althought Buckman does not go away rejoicing, at least his tears have stopped falling. He had been flying home, weeping over the death of his sister, and had to reach out to someone, anyone, even a total stranger. It is an encounter between two strangers on the road which changes the life of one of them—both in my novel and in Acts. And one final quirk by the mysterious Spirit at work: the name Felix is the Latin word for "happy." Which I did not know when I wrote the novel.

A careful study of my novel shows that for reasons which I cannot even begin to explain I had managed to retell several of the basic incidents from a particular book of the Bible, and even had the right names. What could explain this? That was four years ago that I discovered all this. For four years I have tried to come up with a theory and I have not. I doubt if I ever will.

But the mystery had not ended there, as I had imagined. Two months ago I was walking up to the mailbox late at night to mail off a letter, and also to enjoy the sight of Saint Joseph's Church, which sits opposite my apartment building. I noticed a man loitering suspiciously by a parked car. It looked as if he was attempting to steal the car, or maybe something from it; as I returned from the mailbox, the man hid behind a tree. On impulse I walked up to him and asked, "Is anything the mattter?"

"I'm out of gas," the man said. "And I have no money."

Incredibly, because I have never done this before, I got out my wallet, took all the money from it, and handed the money to him. He then shook hands with me and asked where I lived, so that he could later pay the money back. I returned to my apartment, and then I realized that the money would do him no good, since there was no gas station within walking distance. So I returned, in my car. The man had a metal gas can in the trunk of his car, and, together, we drove in my car to an all-night gas station. Soon we were standing there, two strangers, as the pump jockey filled the metal gas can. Suddenly I realized that this was the scene in my novel—the novel written eight years before. The all-night gas station was exactly as I had envisioned it in my inner eye when I wrote the scene—the glaring white light, the pump jockey—and now I saw something which I had not seen before. The stranger who I was helping was black.

We drove back to his stalled car with the gas, shook hands, and then I returned to my apartment building. I never saw him again. He could not pay me back because I had not told him which of the many apartments was mine or what my name was. I was terribly shaken up by this experience. I had literally lived out a scene completely as it had appeared in my novel. Which is to say, I had lived out a sort of replica of the scene in Acts where Philip encounters the black man on the road.

Bee 4 and After

All the recent buzz about bees got me to remembering my college daze - so today I rummaged around in my old photos box and found this gem: Wendy and I at the Kappa Sig Pledge Dance in '81. The costume was her idea.

A drone and his Queen

I was a popular date with coed virgins - of which there were still a few back in the day.

Forsaking my first love?

More rummaging. Here I am in all my eighties glory - teal sweater, button-down, 501's and G&T. This was the '82 Spring Cruise, so by then I was rapidly coming out, but not yet to my frat brothers. I have no recollection about the girl, I probably ditched her as soon as possible to go out to the bars.

Unlikely Bedfellows

Sci-fi, the bible and gay porn. Now there's some genres not often seen together, but I'm gonna try. Why? Because by reading them, and interpreting the underlying symbols, helps me get a grip on things way down deep -- at a level that I mostly just feel -- but that I still need to somehow understand intellectually (admittedly feeble as that intellect is).

The bible is of course, the bible. It's ground zero of Western symbols and myth, interpreted in thousands of ways by thousands of people over thousands of years. Biblical myth holds great power over me. Maybe it's just my upbringing, but that collection of books (and other apocryphal books) can make me cry tears of joy and repentance, and sometimes just look up to the night sky in awe.

The symbolic themes presented in sci-fi such as Star Trek are ancient in origin - the intrepid crew occasionally encountered the literal ancient gods, but more often the plots cloak the old myths in futuristic garb - the ancient races become aliens, the gods become entities of at best capricious omnipotence, at worst unfathomable destruction (the Q Continuum, the Crystalline Entity). Star Trek, Star Wars, The Matrix, these movies have mythic symbolic power, and I think that's the underlying reason for their immense popularity.

The interesting thing to me is that gay erotic writing and drawing (as found on the internet) also explore the myths; biblical, sci-fi, pagan/magickal. The really amazing thing to me is how some authors appear to be channeling myths unconsciously as they write, and I suspect that writing or drawing while stroking is the thing that causes it. I intend to analyze the underlying myths I find in *some* gay porn writing, and to compare them to biblical, pagan and sci-fi.

King of the Locker Room

A small town 12 year old boy with an "unnatural" interest in big muscle men didn’t have many options open to him in 1972. I could send away for mail order bodybuilding courses from the back of Popular Mechanics, but I never found any bodybuilding magazines at the local grocery stores - not that I would’ve had the courage to buy one anyway. The occasional Hercules movie would show up on afternoon TV, and there were always comic book super heroes. I began collecting them and eventually, started drawing my own.

My heroes were always buck naked and massively developed - in every way. Drawing them with enormous cocks just seemed right to me, like this is what a man SHOULD look like! All the lines of his body; the bulging pecs and arms, the flaring lats and thighs, the corrugated abs, they all naturally lead my eye to his crowning glory. I'd make a drawing and just look at him, eyes glazed over in a fog of lust, frigging away at my own hard-on. I’d stash the hand made porn under my bed and use it until eventually and inevitably, I'd want to draw another one. Over time the porn collection would gradually build up, and then in a fit of guilt I'd throw them all away. A week or two of abstinence, and I’d start drawing again. Fortunately some drawings survived, though only the ones made after I moved away from home at 18. This one's typical; a big guy hanging out in the locker room, obviously happy as hell to be hung like a fence post.

Growing Up

As a kid, I was always too tall. Too tall for my age, but certainly not too heavy. I was a beanpole, and I was really self-conscious about it. I was generally taller than any kid in my class all through primary and middle school, sometimes even a full head taller than average. Not just tall and skinny, but gawky and uncoordinated as well. I remember hiding during recess, because ball tag was the sport, and I was always "it". Picture roving gangs of males, seeking easy prey. I found refuge in the library and I spent as much time as I could there, escaping into the books. I guess that explains why I read at college level in 6th grade.

When I was a teenager, I did a little baby-sitting for neighbors (being the responsible nerd who was rarely out getting into trouble with the other teenage boys on Saturday nights), and I sat for a family who’s dad was the high school gym teacher. He was a stud in my eyes - short and muscular, but mostly what I remember about it was that he had a bench and some weights in the basement. God, he had his own workout room! He also had a small stack of weight lifting magazines down there, and when it was late, after I put the kids to bed, I would go downstairs and look at those magazines and the weights and stuff. It made me hard.

I was one of those skinny teenagers who actually sent away for the muscle building courses advertised in the back of Popular Mechanics. The 1972 Joe Weider catalog (mercifully mailed in a plain brown rapper) was the stuff of my fantasies. Frank Zane, Dave Draper, Larry Scott, I knew every sweep and bulge of their amazing physiques! I dreamed of having my own weight set, of being a real man! Not only were these guys so hot and muscular to me, they didn’t mind showing it off - they’d pose for the cameras and admiring fans, wearing nothing but little bikini briefs. I could barely change in a locker room without wishing I could hide behind the lockers! That little catalogue was responsible for gallons of my teen spunk shooting into the sheets. What did my mom think on wash day, week after week? Forget it, I don’t want to know.

Fortunately in high school my growth spurt slowed down and the other boys caught up. I even managed to fill out a bit and by college, I was 6' and 165 lb. - a pretty average frat boy. Even so, those early years instilled in me an admiration for thick, powerful, muscular guys that I’ve never outgrown.