Prairiewolf's Prose

everything herein is copyrighted by me, Jeff Unruh, as of 1999 (following began as letter to lefty_liberal@yahoo, & I felt it important enough an observation to store it here) I think that our society has placed a huge emphasis on desensitization. Just look at the portrayal of violence in "man" culture in this country. we have: WCW WWF UFC NFL NHL NBA all competing with each other through violence in a socially acceptable format. & this isn't just your normal slap on the face, shoulder~butt violence... UFC & the whole wrestling shtick get downright bloody (even if the injury is faked, the blood is still real) we've got MONSTER trucks, crushing cars in stadiums (fulfilling that male "destructive" urge which I mentioned saturday) and tanks & fighter planes & bombers, missles & lasers in space & corporate takeovers... (thinking back to my corporate days, when my boss suggested I read The Art Of War by Lao Tze as a managerial training manual) We have been raised to be de-sensitized to other's pain, as well as our own. we are trained to equate the ability to "dish out" pain with our manliness, and to respect the ability to "dish out" pain as if it were a gift. Sports (our most popular ones, anyhow) are based on pain, violence, and conquest, & we (as men) are taught to view these activities as pleasureable. the problem lies with this false correspondance. Pain = Pleasure. this reminds me of Orwell's War = Peace, Freedom = Slavery bit in 1984. When pleasure = pain, when desensitization replaces sensualism, man (as a sex) becomes perfectly compatable with the already existing social order (or rapidly decaying social order, to be more accurate) of patriarchy, fascism, and militaristic worldview. I'm thinking that, with this as a basic premise, the re-awakening of sensuality within the american male psyche could prove to be a basis for a more adjusted and well-adapted society with greater equality possible, as well as a more comfortable and peaceful perspective for both sexes. see, I'm thinking about tantra, about sexual energy, about dissacoiative reality... about sexual magic, and how it takes a great deal of effort for a man to break free from the stereotypes under which he has been placed in society... be it from other men, from weak women who have bought into the roles patriarchal society has given them. I'm thinking about those who claim testosterone is the devil's hormone, and those who use prick magick on a dialy basis... we've got to be aware of the influences the culture and the society we exist within has on our psyche if we are ever going to be able to utilize ego-magick & sexual magick to its full potential... rethink the society under which we live, develope new ways of understanding the spiritual ramifications of Maleness... its a big issue! I knew when I was first studying magick what the three phases of womanhood was: Maiden, Mother Crone. most neo-pagans & ritual mages worth their sandalwood know that. But it took me nearly four years before I ever stumbled across the male archetypes (Although they should have been obvious from the get-go...) Bright Youth Mad Prophet Wise Elder & even still I contest these categories... There is no direct relation, no implication of the Father aspect in this triumvariate I found posted on a wiccan web-site... (I don't know which one, don't even bother asking me...) anyway, that's my philosophic rambling for the moment. .:Harold Maarflow:. When I hit the door to my office, the phone was ringing. I fumbled with the lock for a moment, then scooted across the room, planted myself in my chair, hooked my legs up onto the desk, and picked up the receiver. “Maarflow Detection.” I listened for a response, but all I heard was the screaming whine of a fax machine attempting to connect. I hung up the phone, disgusted. Damn fax machines and damn the people who use them, I thought. Nowhere in my ad was there a fax machine number, but all the same I would get a fax call at least three or four times a week. At first, I had thought maybe I should get a fax machine, just in case these were paying customers. But after checking on a few prices, and actually looking at a fax machine, I realized that the last thing I wanted was some bulky piece of machinery just so that other people could send me letters. If they wanted to send me letters, they could use the post office, just like everyone else. Instead, I purchased a new revolver and a nice holster for it, much more useful than a fax machine, in my opinion. Besides, I had my e-mail account online, along with a nice little web page advertising my services. If they were truly desperate to send me information, they could use the e-mail account and type away to their hearts content. I spun about in the chair so I was facing the windows, and lifted up the shades. It was almost noon, so the sun was no longer shining directly through the windows. I cracked one of the windows open so I would not die of asphyxiation, then spun the chair around so I could get into my desk. The top drawer was full of loose papers, contracts, forms, bills, friendly bill reminders, not- so-friendly bill reminders, and lots of business cards, all of which formed a nice shield behind which I had placed a second, hidden drawer. It wasn’t very well constructed, as I had added the drawer on in a sort of frenzied carpentry binge after my last relationship went down in flames, but it was big enough to conceal my fake identification cards. I had more than a few false ID’s. In fact, my last girlfriend, Sherry, or Cheri, I think her name was, told me that the only reason I had gotten into the detective business was so I could have fake ID’s. They were my true passion, she said. I never really denied it, I just laughed about it then, and sometimes I am sure she is right. I always wanted to be a secret agent when I was a kid. Anyway, I also keep the key to my safe in this secret drawer. The safe is one of those lock and combination jobs, double protection against anyone except a safecracker with explosives. I snatched the key and knelt down to the safe, first turning the key in the lock, then spinning the dial back and forth until it clicked. I pulled out the notebook computer, and kicked the safe closed with my foot. I popped the computer open and set it on my desk, then, while it warmed up, I connected the modem into my cell phone. It was expensive as hell to operate, but I had rich clients, and I always included my phone bill as “Expenses Incurred” on the itemized statements. I had to use my cell phone, I reasoned, otherwise I would not have an open office line, and I might miss a fax machine calling. After checking my e-mail, empty for a change except some odd bit of advertising, which I deleted without even looking through, I dropped back offline and opened up the word processor. Not only am I a detective, but I write short stories on the side. They aren’t exactly fiction, in reality I just take my case files and swap the names about, change a few of the details, and then fire them off to various magazines around the country under a pen name. It provides me with a bit of income on the side, and is a hell of a lot cheaper than a therapist’s bill. It’s not easy to know where or when to start, not this time, not with all the inter-related events to expound upon… Hell, I know what happened, and I am damn sure I know why it happened, but trying to put all that down on paper, that is the bitch of it. So, bear with me for a moment, let me get my heading, and I will reveal the truth behind the Prairiewood Slayings. The names of the guilty have been changed to protect me, and my own name is, as always, a complete and utter forgery. In any event, this case, which isn’t my sort of thing really, way to violent, not nearly enough danger pay, absorbed near enough of my waking hours for three weeks that at times I started thinking maybe I was the killer. I never took these thoughts seriously, mind you. When describing my methods of operation, the more scientifically minded think I am a scam artist. I am a psychic detective. Oh, to be sure, I don’t have business cards saying “Psychic Detective, Palm Readings $10” or anything along those lines, no yellow pages ads with a little logo of a crystal ball off to one side. I am listed as a Private Investigator, plain and simple. In fact, under most circumstances I do not even use any special psychic gift in my daily practice. Yet I do have dreams, powerful ones, extremely vivid visions that rip me out of sleep shaking with sheer intensity round about four a.m. These dreams always come true, sometimes within an hour or so, other times maybe a month or a year later. I also have been known to make use of items like pendulums, crystals, and tarot cards when working on a case where all the normal leads have gone dead. I always find myself back in pursuit of the trail through the spark of intuition provided by these tools. Most of my clients never know about my techniques, they just pay what it says on my bill, and gleefully, or tearfully, accept the large manila envelope wherein lies the answers they sought. A select few do know about my techniques, and, for the most part, they have their own psychic quirks. These individuals provide me with the most interesting new accounts through word of mouth advertising. They promote me relentlessly throughout the subculture of neo-pagans and new-age oddballs as a brother of sorts, a reputation I am not certain I wish to cultivate, but it does tend to put money in the bank. So, when I say I am a psychic detective, it is not that I have cultivated this title, but rather, have had it assigned to me. It is also precisely because of this reputation that I was called into the police station as an occult specialist on the Prairiewood Slayer case. At least, that’s the official ego-stroking term. In reality, the whole thing was entirely off the record. “Maarflow.” “It’s John, John Ferran. You busy?” “Nope, not at the moment. How’s things down at the station?” “Same as ever, completely out of hand.” John’s voice was thick with tension. I knew immediately from the tone of his voice that something had shook him up real bad. We had been friends for nearly three years, ever since he made detective. “You recording this call?” “I record every call. You know that. Why?” “We need to meet. I’ve got to get your expert opinion on something. When can you fit me in?” I checked my watch, an instinctive gesture since I was currently between cases and had no where to be. “Anytime today is good. Maybe we could get lunch?” “I’ll bring a pizza.” With that, John hung up the phone on his end. I let the phone dangle over the receiver for a moment before letting it fall. It was at that moment that I had a flash of precognition. I felt myself shrinking back into my body, my limbs becoming thick and unwieldy, my vision became foggy, and I heard phantom voices start mumbling somewhere in the background. The sensation only lasted a moment, but the effects were profound. I was certain I had heard voices speaking in some ritual language, Latin perhaps. That was enough to put me on red alert. I double-checked my pockets to make certain I had my Mojo bag with me. It wasn’t much, but it was something. .:STORM:. The storm left the town in shatters, blew in hard, pulsating western winds of the flat plains. It was dead weather, the dark gray skies seethed with the knowledge of lightning, the scent of thunder prickling nostrils throughout the town. Sudden blindness in sporadic intervals inflicted by bolt after bolt of intensity ripping apart at the very fabric of the Witchita skyline. Flash to our vehicle careening across the landscape, itself only a fleeting construction of metal and plastic in the eyelashes of infinity. We sought a refuge from our past, all good bands of nomads had a past, and we were no different. We had known each other throughout our childhood, developed our own personal mythologies, our own catch phrases, our secret handshakes and covert sigils, all under the cover of polite banter and whispered laughter. And as we journeyed into the town laid out before us, we were of good spirits, unsuspecting of the nightmares that awaited us. The driver of the van was Greg, all khaki and pastels, thought highly of Bruce Lee, always seemed to be studying Tai Chi, to the exclusion of life itself. He would expound for hours on Taoist driving techniques, the Tao of signaling, the Tao of radar detecting, the Tao of talking your way out of tickets… He always attempted to sound profound, but often just provided amusement for the rest of us. Sitting passenger was Sandra, with her hair pulled back tight, eyes shining with intuition and comprehension, keen insight and random information. She had an opinion on everything, knew exactly what she thought, and was unafraid to share. Her boots were always dirty, pants tucked in at the top of them. She held the map open, and had navigated us through the dark night without ever once even considering the possibility of getting us lost. Then there was me, Erick. Writing a description of myself is like feeding a naked man bloody steak. It is to resort to primal hubris, and leaves me thrust headlong into the abyss of despair. I am merely Erick, I have a vast desire to know, to understand, to dare to strive for the original, the ideal. It had always been my curse, my obsession, to seek the creative act in all things, and had more than once proved my downfall, as I would pursue this ideal forsaking all else, become wholly inflamed through the act of creation. The three of us made a threatening force to be reckoned with, or so we had been informed by those who knew us as a collective. We merely thought each other worthy of our individual presence, and had discovered in each other a balance for our unique intellects. We were misfits, outcasts, but more so through choice, or so we preferred to believe. It was natural for us to move together to Witchita. First Greg had landed a job with a construction company that promised to pay his tuition through college, and Sandra had an internship open up in a clerical department at a law firm. I, being a writer, had the capability to write wherever I happened to live, and more or less invited myself along for the ride. There was more to it than that, Sandra and Greg were my friends, they were people I could trust. .:TIMELESSNESS:. When we are approached by our past, confronted by the prospect of what we could be, where we could have gone, we find it easy to second guess our actions for any given moment of time. All too often we are approached by the darkness and the rage, the insults and slights that were committed by those to whom we have given power of one form or another in our own minds. Those who we declare to be an authority in any given matter, those whom we desire, and who can hurt us through their rejection, those who we think we understand, and whose actions then leave us stunned and confused when they fail to live up to our expectations. These are the assassins of the heart, the thugs of the mind. And the ultimate irony, the cosmic punch line to this joke, is that our past, and those in it, are only in our heads, and we are experiencing pain because we are allowing ourselves to experience pain. I believe that hell is a place where a person’s mind is allowed to operate fully for an eternity, with no inhibitions, nothing to dull the edge of consciousness and an uninterrupted voyage through the memories, beliefs, fears, and symbols of that person. I also believe that this is what heaven is, and that heaven and hell each have their own private chambers for all of us. Greg disagrees, for at the heart of his belief lies the concept of reincarnation, of past lives, of inner struggles towards ultimate perfection, which he has alluded to time and time again as the knowledge and discovery of the True Self. I find this philosophy fascinating, but filled with opportunities for abuse, for twisting morality and ethics into an ethos of behavior which could ultimately prove to be antisocial. Greg counters with the opinion that perhaps society is the culprit in this occurrence, and that perhaps society, by its very nature, is deliberately counterpoint to the uncover of the True Will. I reply that perhaps, for him, society by being adverse to the uncover of the True Will is thereby strengthening the True Will of the True Self by being an obstacle. Greg will often look at me with disgust when our discussions reach this level of debate. Often Sandra, who can most readily be described as aggravated agnostic, will jump into the discussion with a demand that we begin using terms that have a grounding in real, which is to say, daily speech. Laughter will ensue, and one of us will change the music at this point. That is the way it always has been. .:MEMORIES:. I remember a time when Sandra herself had to confront the brutality of death face on, when her brother died in a car wreck during our high school years. There was no talk of afterlife from her then, only black despair that such a thing could happen. She descended into a pit of depression that stripped her of each of her charms, beginning with her smile. After weeks upon weeks of contemplation, she attempted suicide. It was not a half-hearted attempt, her veins were laid open from wrist to elbow on her left arm, and only the shock of seeing the size of the wound prevented her from death. She awoke to herself at that instant, and had become piercing and composed in every way ever since. I know the experience changed her, brought her more fully into herself. She told me later that at the moment of the slash across her arm, she felt as if the spirit of her dead brother had come through the bathroom mirror before her and grabbed hold of her, holding her upright. It had been so real, the vision of her brother, that it shook the very foundation of her convictions in a materialist universe. Until then, she had believed her brother gone, just a rotting chunk of flesh alone in the dirt. She had thought spirits, gods, fairies, and demons merely superstitious nonsense, impossibilities that were best ignored, forgotten, left in the past of civilization as mankind struggled onward into the mathematically rigid future. But no longer. That event, which saved her life, also radically altered her destiny. For until then she had been well on her way to a science scholarship, a college life consisting of sororities and forensic medicine, psychology and feminist rallies. Now she had to reconcile her own emotional fragments and the memory of her brother’s spirit with her view of the world, and there could be no time for school.