Robert Anton Wilson
As my recently re-ordered copy of the Illuminatus! trilogy arrived in the mail today, on my computer screen I find the news that Robert Anton Wilson, Guerilla Ontoligist, pipe bearer to the Gods, inventor of the ludicrously scientifict, purveyor of that nasty Ubiquitous Unscrupulous Reporter that is always there to report on mass hysterical phenomena (like stolen elections and assasination conspiracies) passed into another realm a few weeks ago. His voice--the smartest on the planet, until January 12 2007--numbers among the most absurdly influential of my young life. Through him I found Joyce, Beethoven (on a certain level), freemasonry, conspriacy theory, quantum physics, certain unmentionables, Orson Welles, and any number of other weird obsessions that stay with me today.
I had a beautiful chance to meet him once: I played a game he organized at a Masonic Temple in Los Angeles. Thoughout this game (which, we came to discover, was based on trying to find and then destroy the Maltese Falcon) I kept finding little things around the temple, oddest of which was a set of plastic cherries, which I presumed was a clue. I walked up to Wilson, whose role in the game, appropriately enough, was God, and asked the Lord what these cherries meant. He exlplained that there were little things in the universe God puts there, things he does not understand, in order to keep himself amused. After all, being all knowing gets a little dull. In other words, what I had in my hand was a fractal. I walked away dazzled; I continue to be to this day, counting this moment as the commencing of my adult insomnia.
So goodnight Mr. Wilson, fondly, from a poor little composer who spent too much time having his mind utterly blown by you. There is no one else to take up your mantle; thank God (being, in this case, you) that we still have all your books. I already cherished them, but knowing that, sadly, there will be no more, makes them all the dearer.
Say hello to Timothy for me, would you?
I had a beautiful chance to meet him once: I played a game he organized at a Masonic Temple in Los Angeles. Thoughout this game (which, we came to discover, was based on trying to find and then destroy the Maltese Falcon) I kept finding little things around the temple, oddest of which was a set of plastic cherries, which I presumed was a clue. I walked up to Wilson, whose role in the game, appropriately enough, was God, and asked the Lord what these cherries meant. He exlplained that there were little things in the universe God puts there, things he does not understand, in order to keep himself amused. After all, being all knowing gets a little dull. In other words, what I had in my hand was a fractal. I walked away dazzled; I continue to be to this day, counting this moment as the commencing of my adult insomnia.
So goodnight Mr. Wilson, fondly, from a poor little composer who spent too much time having his mind utterly blown by you. There is no one else to take up your mantle; thank God (being, in this case, you) that we still have all your books. I already cherished them, but knowing that, sadly, there will be no more, makes them all the dearer.
Say hello to Timothy for me, would you?
posted by Daniel at 7:34 PM
2 Comments:
Fnord.
I'm pen-pals with a recluse musician/anarchist who now practices mystical work. i guess several years ago he sent a letter of "searing hatred" in response to another pen-pal for merely mentioning he liked the writings of robert anton wilson. i.e., just mentioning Wilson's name ended years of correspondence.
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