Join My Cult! Was Written, Despite the Publication Date
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Introduction to the free e-Book edition. Rewind the tape to 2000, suburban America. Our progress had reached an apex, and while it would in retrospect be seen clearly as Hubris, at the time, there was no end in sight. At this time, it seemed there was the beginnings of a second (or third?) wave American counterculture that never actually completely coalesced, derailed by the conspiracy theories and atrocities that defined the following near-decade. 1998-2000 is when the core of Join My Cult! was written, despite the publication date. I organized and wrote a great deal of it, but really it owes itself to a group of friends that shared a similar experience moving out of adolescence at that time. The bulk of the conversations in this book are real, derived from on- line and off-line interactions as we delved headlong into exploration of psychedelics, the occult, and sex. One criticism often leveled at this text has been that "real people never speak like this." This makes me laugh because, although it is a perfectly valid criticism- sane people certainly don't- in this case, we did. And it is with a tongue-in-cheek mockery of our often overly- enthusiastic, nevertheless earnest state that I left this material mostly as is, even though I shudder to think some might take it purely at face value. It has been interesting, over the past six years or so, to receive letters from readers- most of them telling me, to my surprise, how much the book effected them or even "changed their lives." Of course, amongst these were also plenty of people who felt the need to tell me how truly awful it was, and the notable few who actually went so far as to threaten my life. (I take this as the highest compliment.) When I wrote this book, I was unsure it would ever be published, and certainly many of my friends told me it would be for the better if it wasn't. After it was accepted by New Falcon, I had some hopes of it becoming a break-away cult hit. In the end, it was neither of these, remaining that odd book you might stumble across one day in the corner of an independent book seller. A puzzling, hilarious, train-wreck of an oddity. I have come a long way since I wrote Join My Cult!, and (I hope) have grown a great deal as an artist and writer since. But there is an intensity that comes with the blind, youthful enthusiasm of a project like this that I doubt I could replicate. New Falcon never properly edited the first edition, and in retrospect, I'm not sure I can blame them. There are many things in this text that seem like grammatical mistakes, that are intentional (particularly changes between tense and point of view with psychotic frequency), and I can only imagine they gave it a go and threw their hands up at the prospect. I occasionally consider giving it a thorough edit myself, but that thought is quickly washed away when I plunge into the text. This edition does have some minor edits from the original which saw its way into print, and you will find some new additions in the appendix, but there is little I could see changing without possibly disrupting the oddly symmetrical whole of this book, which at first glance looks a lot like total chaos. So I'm offering it for free now, warts and all, to whomever wants to come along for the ride- and I 2 hope in the process I will introduce some of you to a repository of common experience that might seem strangely familiar. James Curcio 2009 For more of my work, (writing, music, interviews & more) see www.jamescurcio.net This free eBook is released under a Creative Commons License. You can share and print it to your heart's content, though you must get my permission for any other use at [email protected] Credits Author: James Curcio (Agent 139) Co-Authors: Jason Stackhouse (Agent 506), Ken Schaefer (Agent 888), Sarah Dudzic, Ayun Holliday. Cover art: agent139 Cover Photograph: Judith Curcio Co-conspirators and editorial: Agent 506, Agent 79, Agent 444, Agent 242, Agent 156, Agent 140, Agent 036, LAAR, Agent 888, Eianorange, Pesky, Shifty, Ylang-Ylang the Helpful Bonobo & the ZenseiderZ Foundation Special Thanks: Jason Wyse, Kate Penna, Christie Casey, Sol Amoun, Frater Gazebo & the Psion Project 4 Table of Contents 000. The Boundless Light “Everywhere I go, in every experience, I see life constantly on the verge of death, the intensity of it almost overflowing, overwhelming me precisely because every thing is, from the moment of its creation, so close to its own annihilation. Life exists to the extent that it stands in stubborn and harsh contrast to its own non-existence. One who is alive, truly alive, experiences Eros for life, as the tension between what we see as being through becoming is contrasted with the darkness, the hallow absence—not the light!—at the end of the process. Through this we may see the first will-to-meaning in the struggle between the secret gravity of our end being ahead and behind us, and our constant attempt to create a beginning, an eternally present moment, right now. It is at first apparent that everything is dying, the undoing, the nega- tion, resonates throughout everything, a Cerberus that barks in warning: ‘do not enter, no one ever returns.’ Yet, in passing through the gates he guards, one is immediately overwhelmed by how alive everything is, standing in contrast to the pessimistic cry that had set a pall upon the world; all living beings, screaming together ‘I am!’ defiantly against the coming of the dawn. Should we choose life, accept it fully as it is without doctoring, we must join in to this chorus with all of our strength, become a part of the song rather than an individual standing outside, merely listening in rapt attention. For those who would cling to a static solution, whether it be a canon, manifesto, or the words of an orator or messiah, I would recommend they take Crowley’s words to heart: ‘O ye who dwell in the dark night of the soul, beware most of all the herald of the dawn!’” — Aleonis De Gabrael 6 00. It is Learned by Walking (Gabrael’s Prologue) Nothing on the face of this earth—and I do mean nothing—is half so dangerous as a children’s story that happens to be real, and you and I are wandering blindfolded through a myth devised by a maniac. — Master Li Kao (T’ang Dynasty) My first waking impression this morning was a hazy glance through frostbitten glass at an overturned trash can. The sound of a dog rummag- ing through the garbage. The gentle pattering of sleet on the roof. Dop- pler shift as a car turns on slick asphalt. Sentence fragments, thoughts bisected in a 3 x 3 set of windowpanes on the far wall. If you’re really intent on a decent reproduction of the event, lie down and close your eyes. Imagine a chill sensation, a hazy image of a toe with overgrown toenails sticking out of the bed covers, and then a camera pan to the rusty trash can outside. Not a dramatic opening for a book, but it’s all this day has given me. None of this bodes well. My head feels like an empty shell. Qliphothic, surely. Oh yes, to be sure: the number of panes in my win- dow has control over what the day has in store. It’s still dawn, turquoise twilight, and I’m all tangled up in the sheets. What I really want to know is… where is my coffee, when did 7:30am become an acceptable wakeup time, and where are all the lithe nymphs I was promised when I joined this God-forsaken “mystical order”? They promise Love, Light, and Liberty, instead I get an empty apartment full of books and a goddamned pet spider monkey. It just goes to show, never believe what you read in books. Get out of bed with a wince, because the hardwood floors are about four degrees warmer than ice, and hunt for a pair of socks for what seems like an hour. This is the part of being an Invisible Master that I think gets lost in the translation: getting up in the morning to a freezing small apartment in Chestnut Hill and hunting for your socks as you wonder why this morning reminds you of the Moon card and, metaphysically 7 speaking, to menstrual blood as it was believed to be the receptive agent in the birth process. A beginning to be sure, but for what? My mind jumps around. I haven’t done morning exercises yet. You have to keep yourself invisible because otherwise they’ll realize you’re still a primate just like them, and the whole game’s off. Jesus was wise not to cast himself down from Herod’s temple at Satan’s request. More’s the pity. I carefully slide open the drawer of the chest by my bed, and review the letters I’ve received this past week from potential new recruits. Reports from agents in the field. Updates from those in other divisions of the Order. I stop suddenly on a letter I received from one of these poten- tials. As I read it once, and then again, I find myself absently running my finger up and down the side of the page, relishing the texture.