Part
4: Abreaction Therapy
There was no pay phone at the Palladium, a restaurant on the U. of
Penn campus, but they let me use the house phone at the end of the
bar. I told Sheri about the books Wilson had mentioned and asked her
to get me a direct flight to Los Angeles.
I felt the stare as I turned. The man was wearing a black suit and
sitting on one of the high wooden barstools. Someone had apparently
replaced his blood with embalming fluid and it still annoyed him.
The deep-set eyes in the greenish gray flesh stared without
blinking. He stood up and moved toward me.
"Have the time?" the
mouth asked.
"It's two-thirty," I guessed.
"You lie!" he affirmed with some belligerence. "It's a quarter
past four." He glared at me before turning and shuffling out the
door to Locust Walk.
When I followed a few
moments later, he had disappeared. I went back into the Palladium
and dialed the time. It was 2:33. Then I tried the number Homer
Nilmot had given me.
"Trans-Global
Consultants," the woman answered. She said Mr. Nilmot was out but
she would relay my message.
When I got back to the office, Sheri told me she had gotten a flight
reservation for the day after tomorrow.
"Just enough time to
tie up some loose ends," I said. I told her about the walking
stiff I had met at the Palladium.
"Sounds like one of my two Men in Black," Sheri responded. "The
one from the cemetery, she said gravely."
"Well, this was definitely an actor from Rent-A-Ghoul. Who are
these Men in Black supposed to be, again? Maybe that's the point
of this little charade. To create distraction."
"The classic Men-In-Black are the bad guys of the space brother
world," Sheri said. "Traditionally, they are tanned or
olive-skinned individuals with high cheek bones, faintly
Oriental in appearance, often driving black Cadillacs or Buicks
or something, and who appear to people who have had ufo
experiences and threaten them to keep quiet about whatever has
happened. Or sometimes they show up in the guise of Xist or Air
Force agents, take down full reports of the victim's
experiences, and tell him the military is conducting an
investigation. Except if the `investigators' are investigated,
their credentials often turn out to be bogus. Experiences with
MIBs may be, incidentally, the reason General Carl Spaatz, our
first Air Force Chief of Staff, announced at a press conference
in 1948, `There is no truth to the rumors that the flying
saucers are from Spain, or that they are piloted by Spaniards.'
"
I thought about that.
"Well, that doesn't fit this fellow," I said. "He didn't have the
slightest hint of a suntan, and I haven't seen any ufos lately."
"Me neither," said Sheri. "I guess we don't qualify to be among the
chosen few." She curled out her lower lip in a pout.
There was something bothering me about what happened at the
Palladium. It seemed, well, familiar.
"Give me a
Men-in-Black example," I asked Sheri. "Something early, maybe.
Something classic. You know, before the media and the hype took
over."
"Easy," she said. "There was Albert Bender. He closed down his
International Flying Saucer Bureau in 1953. He said three men
wearing black suits were responsible. Most amateur ufologists
concluded it was government agents who had put pressure on him.
It was another ten years before Bender told the full account in
his book Flying Saucers and the Three Men. Bender's three men
weren't your average government bureaucrats. No, sir. They had
glowing eyes. They materialized and dematerialized in his
apartment. They took him to a secret ufo base in Antarctica. And
so on."
"So it was likely a hypnotic experience," I said. "An extended
mind fuck."
"Or whatever," Sheri said. "He exhibited the usual symptoms from
contact--upset stomach, loss of appetite, headaches, lacunar
amnesia."
It came to me, then,
what had been bothering me about the Palladium ghoul. It took a
little digging through the files, but we found it soon enough.
It was a paper entitled "The Confusion Technique in Hypnosis," by
the hypnotherapist Milton H. Erickson. It was published in the
American Journal of Clinical Hypnosis in 1964. Erickson gives an
example of the technique in action:
"[A] man came
rushing around the corner of a building and bumped hard against
me as I stood bracing myself against the wind. Before he could
recover his poise to speak to me, I glanced elaborately at my
watch and courteously, as if he had inquired the time of day, I
stated, `It's exactly ten minutes of two,' though it was
actually closer to 4:00 P.M., and walked on. About half a block
away, I turned and saw him still looking at me, undoubtedly
still puzzled and bewildered by my remark."
Erickson goes on to
explain that the technique works through the use of vague and
puzzling statements. Because of the initial confusion, the hypnotic
subject will then treat the first clearly understandable piece of
information as unusually important.
"Maybe they're
softening up our minds now," I said to Sheri. "They're getting
ready to stick it to us."
"Whoever they are," Sheri said.
I asked Sheri to keep
trying Homer Nilmot's number. Meanwhile I made myself a cup of
coffee, and sat down to study the theory of sex magic in William
Sargant's The Mind Possessed. David Wilson had let me borrow his
copy, which I gladly accepted. Returning it would give me an excuse
to talk to him again.
According to Sargant, there is a general physiological mechanism for
reprogramming behavior. It involves the creation of intense emotion,
such as fear or anger, leading up to a collapse from emotional
exhaustion. Sargant originally studied soldiers who were having
mental difficulties stemming from traumatic war experiences. It
turned out such problems could generally be alleviated through a
drug-induced emotional experience of sufficient intensity to lead to
a general physical collapse. Sargant called it an "abreactive
experience".
"After the patient
had come round," Sargant wrote, "he might burst into tears or
shake his head and smile, and then report that all his previous
fears and abnormal preoccupations had suddenly left him, that
his mind was functioning more normally again, that he felt more
like his old self, that memories which had obsessed and
terrified him could now be thought of without fear or anxiety."
It was not necessary to
"re-live" the original experience. Just to generate the emotional
collapse. The mind, according to Sargant, subsequently became
pliable to new programming--new behavior and attitudes, just as it
apparently had been when the original problems were implanted.
Drugs were only one method for inducing the collapse. Music and
dancing was another. So was terror induced by hell-fire preaching.
Or a holy-roller atmosphere of music and confession and induction of
the Holy Ghost. Or electro-convulsive therapy. Or exhaustion through
repeated sexual orgasm.
The collapse could serve the purpose of a general release from
worries, guilts, obsessions, and sins. But one also became open to
new ideas, Sargant claimed. One could become a new man or woman, for
good or evil, in the service of the Gods, the flag, or the self.
In sexual magic, the trance is induced through sexual exhaustion.
Sargant quotes Aleister Crowley, the magician himself, on the
details:
"The candidate is
made ready for the ordeal by general athletic training and by
fasting. On the appointed day he is attended by one or more
experienced attendants whose duty it is to exhaust him sexually
by every known means. The candidate will sink into a sleep of
utter exhaustion but he must be again sexually stimulated and
then again allowed to fall asleep. This alternation is to
continue indefinitely until the candidate is in a state which is
neither sleep nor waking, and in which his spirit is set free by
perfect exhaustion of the body . . . [and] communes with the
Most Highest and the Most Holy Lord God of its Being, Maker of
Heaven and Earth."
I called Sheri back in
and read the passage to her.
"So basically you
fuck your brains out until you see visions and talk to God and
the angels," she summarized.
That seemed to be pretty
much it.
"With the help of
experienced attendants," I noted. "It probably induces a change
in the brain's hormonal balance. But obviously there are more
techniques than just the one Sargant mentions here. For example,
when Jack Parsons and Marjorie Cameron were engaged in ritual
intercourse, it was L. Ron Hubbard who was communing with the
Most High. Ron the Seer, right?"
"Sounds like a complex subject. If you want the whole
technology, perhaps you should go the source."
She laid a book on my
desk. It was Crowley's Magic in Theory and Practice.
I groaned inwardly. This wasn't what I wanted to spend my time on. I
just had the vague hope that if I could get into Parsons' mind-set,
it might help me find out who killed him. It was a comforting belief
since it was all I had to go on at the moment. But getting into
Parsons' mind- set was turning out to be a complex process.
I studied Sheri's posture. She was sitting with her feet propped up,
the hem of her skirt slipping well above her knees. She was wearing
a silk blouse that clung seductively to her breasts.
"You want to get
something to eat after work?" she asked. "I'll buy you a burger
and a margarita at the Copacabana."
I considered it. The
offer was tempting. I was a sucker for fresh lime juice and tequila.
I hesitated, though. All my instincts told me not to get too chummy
with the help. The phone wouldn't get answered, the research
wouldn't get done, the office would fall apart.
On the other hand, we were only going to get a hamburger. Why not.
Just because she wanted to buy me dinner didn't mean she expected to
sit on my face for dessert.
"Sure," I said. "Why
don't we go have a margarita?"
At Copa we got a table
on the 4th Street side where we could watch the foot traffic at the
corner with South. Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Come" was booming
out over the sound system. As we sipped our drinks, Sheri told me
that Albert Bender was also a student of magic.
"This was going on
while Bender was studying ufos. What happened with respect to
the Men-in-Black may have been only obliquely related to `flying
saucers.' Magic is a traditional method of conjuring up
elementals. And Bender suffered from a lot of poltergeist
manifestations."
"In that case, maybe Jack Parsons was also visited by Men-in-
Black," I said.
"Maybe it's all magic," Sheri said. "The saucers are just
techno- veneer. Most of the interesting stuff seems to take
place in someone's mind, with no witnesses."
I watched her tongue
lightly lick salt from the rim of the glass before she took a sip of
margarita. When I had interviewed Sheri only a couple of months
previously, she had claimed she was a Hindu vegetarian who didn't
drink but got stoned frequently. Now here she sat with a drink in
her hand, and she had just ordered a hamburger.
"No salad tonight?"
I asked.
She shrugged. "Sometimes like Fritz Mondale I ask myself,
`Where's the beef?' I get this intense craving for bloody bovine
carcass."
"As long as you don't knock over little old cows in the street
to support your habit. Or stand on a soapbox preaching the
occult virtues of meat-eating."
"No possibility of that, not since I found Bob. Bob says death
to all fanatics."
She had been a rock
groupie, once getting arrested in Miami. She had played guitar for
several years, then had switched to electric blues harp and had
performed with Muddy Waters.
"Bob drinks, you
know," she said, her tongue at work on the rim of the glass.
"He's drinking buddies with the Fightin' Jesus. That's the one
who comes bringing not peace, but a sword. The Macho Jesus, not
the wimp who turns the other check."
"So that's why you were reading Wigglesworth -- to study up on
the Fighting' Jesus."
Once she had rehearsed
for the part of Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ Superstar. Although
all in all she preferred Krishna, she said, as Krishna could be seen
in anyone, including a lover, she had claimed. But that was the last
I had ever heard of Krishna. Maybe it's just something you say in a
job interview, when you don't want to sound like a Jesus fanatic.
"Nah. American
history is cultural edification. Roots, you know? Which reminds
me. You want to go to a party tonight? It's called the Mauvaises
Arts Ball, and gets started around eleven o'clock. It's a parody
of the Beaux Arts Ball, the one for Arts and Architecture held
later in October."
"Mauvaises Arts?"
"If the Beaux Arts Ball were the semi-orderly formality of a
ceremonial dinner dance, then the Mauvaises Arts Ball would be
the orgy in the back room. It was inspired, I think, by the
reviews of Bad Cinema that Dan Akyroyd used to do on Saturday
Night Live. Anyway this year's theme is Apocalypse Culture."
"As in the Four Horsemen?"
"As in the Kali Yuga, Friday the Thirteenth, nuclear winter, the
mark of the beast, marrying and giving in marriage, chaos
theory, the Society Hill Dungeon, rumors of war, the return of
Quetzalcoatl, 2001, lycanthropy, famine, the invasion of the
body builders, automobile air bags, Presidential astrology, AIDS
needles washing up on the beach, earthquakes, sex with robots,
psychic warfare, cable TV--all those things."
"I take it I don't need to wear a Tuxedo then."
"You can wear pretty much anything you want. There will be the
usual artsy crowd there, and a lot of pinks and assorted
politicos. A couple of fellow Sub-Genii are scheduled to speak,
or rather to rant and rave. It's all part of the atmosphere.
Later in the evening there will be a channeling session
delivered by Helen Morley, the Avatar of Amargi."
"Where's Amargi?"
"Amargi is a Sumerian word meaning freedom."
That appeared
auspicious. It sounded like fun, and I said I would go. I worked my
way around the bar to the phone, called Trans-Global Consultants,
and left a message telling Homer Nilmot where I would be.
When I returned to the table, I saw a mounted Philadelphia patrolman
had stopped just outside the window. From time to time passersby
would pause to pet the horse. All but the better-looking women were
told to keep their hands to themselves. I guess the horse was picky.
"So what did David
Wilson at Penn have to say?"
I told her about Liber Oz.
"It sounds to me pretty much a strong statement about individual
rights," Sheri opined. "I think the Founding Fathers would have
approved. Leave out the love part, maybe."
"Yeah. Whatever happened to politics, anyway. Now every
political campaign is run as a crusade to solve the world's
problems."
"So. You don't believe in crusades against evil, taking out the
bad guys, all that." Sheri's tone was mocking.
"No. The way I look at it, organized sin and organized sin-
fighting are two sides of the same corporate coin. It's like the
Society Hill Towers' resident priest who has a number of women
confess that the grocer's new delivery boy has seduced them. He
makes them each put a hundred dollars in the poor box. Then the
delivery boy appears, and the priest asks angrily, `What have
you got to say for yourself?' `Just this,' the delivery boy
replies. `Either you cut me in on those hundred-dollar fees, or
I take my business to some other parish.' "
"Yeah," Sheri agreed. "You can't get rich saving souls if
everyone's converted."
"Crisis managers couldn't cope without calamity. You can't get
elected President without a social problem to fight, or a menace
to protect people from. Of course the `problems' never
disappear. The Cossacks are always coming to rape our women and
destroy Our Way of Life. And by definition there'll always be
people with below average income or whatever. The chief function
of government is to find problems that can be profitably
managed. Everyone wants to save the world, as long as doing so
gives them power, and as long as someone else pays for it."
"Why do you think people go into politics, anyway?"
This was getting too serious for discussion over margaritas, I
thought.
"A lot of men go into politics because of the women. Ever been
to a major political convention or an election night party? Sexy
women everywhere. And there's nothing like working for a noble
cause to get them hot and willing."
Sheri blushed. I was surprised.
"It's niacin," Sheri explained. "I took a 500 milligram capsule
a few minutes ago. It creates a skin flush similar to the
Masters and Johnson sexual flush. Trisha's recommendation.
Niacin reduces serum cholesterol--the fat in your bloodstream.
She was a biochemistry major."
Sheri decided to change the subject.
"The other day I was in Garland of Letters--the New Age
bookstore down the street, and these two women were looking at
books, and this other woman comes by and says, `You ladies don't
look at that witchcraft. Read your Bible.' "
"I read the Bible one time myself," I said. "Not Bob's, the
other one."
Sheri looked skeptical.
"Really. The begets and all. One thing I remember it says is
that Satan appears as an angel of light. You don't hear much
about that, these days. To hear some Christians tell it, Satan
has pointed ears, 666 tattooed on his forehead, and dresses in
brand-name Lucifer Leather with an appropriately-sized forked
codpiece. But their own reference manual says it's the opposite
of that."
"You're saying that if everyone agrees something is evil, it's
just as likely not?"
"Not exactly. I'm saying that when you find Satan, he'll
probably look like Jesus Christ himself."
"And what does that have to do with Jack Parsons? Or abreaction
therapy?" Sheri demanded, after a moment's thought.
"I have no idea. Just something that came to mind."
I signaled for the check.
|