Welcome to the Desert of the Real
(And what to do if you're there without a towel)
Lilith's winter kingdom represents the heart of the Desert of the Real
"I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's."
William Blake
"Man can embody truth, but he cannot know it." W.B. Yeats "What did you dream? It's alright we told what to dream."
Pink Floyd Welcome to the Machine
The truth is that I am not an expert on vampires or the vampire genre; an even greater truth is that great numbers of individuals know more about Science Fiction than me.
But that never stopped me from finding my infernal muse in these ethereal, haunted domains. It certainly shouldn't stop you from creating epics worthy of a mad god's dream. Why?
Because it's the Desert of the Real.
Philosopher Jean Baudrillard coined the term; Morpheus spoke it to Neo after he swallowed the Red Pill. Basically, the Desert of the Real spreads into pop culture at the end of the latest hologram of The Empire (this term borrowed from Philip K. Dick). The dawn of our dusk is coming around, and as a civilization we cannot handle conventional reality anymore. The karmic weight of the conquering past and the sanity-tattooing of runaway technology is, again mentioning Morpheus, like a splinter in our minds.
To put it simply, the Desert of the Real is a vast media wasteland of nostalgia. Like the English and Roman empires, we have fallen away from conventional reality and into the dreamworld of rabid romance. That's the Desert of the Real, where we can project our deepest fears and wounded hopes in the canvass of bygone or incredible landscapes. It's where our collective shadow can vent, in visceral and often simplistic worlds, where stereotypes become archetypes. That is why our present civilization has created zombies, giant robots, and swing dancers who never leave the bars. That is why Westerns are so pregnant with fondness even as they sail upon seas blood; genocidal orcs are welcomed with folksy melodies under a vagina eye; and our gods wear spandex on their way to a funeral for a friend, as a brilliant writer remarked.
It's nostalgia in all existentialist costumes. Innocence washed in cathartic ultraviolence. Where men are men, and woman have the a chance of finally being free.
It's the Desert of the Real. You and I are already in it. Our unlikely redemption, our very salvation comes only through creation, the weaving of mirages into holy and unholy meaning.
Think about it, as we enter together that dawn of the dusk of The Empire, the Desert of the Real creeping slowly over any corporate, digital oasis of a brighter future.
Or just think about how many pioneers of modern film-making have capitalized on our desire for schmaltz on Red Bull, manageable odysseys to times when existence seemed to be less complicated. Some of these include Quentin Tarantino, Steven Spielberg, Oliver Stone, and Stanley Kubrick. Yes, the Desert of the Real can include war epics and gansters. It's where our pain-ridden spirits, suppressed and oppressed by The Empire who holds no mercy or even answers, can rise like Icarus in search of that sun of psychic liberation.
Stargazer and Heretic are in part nostalgia, just as any vampire tale is-- drawing upon a Dyonisian Golden Age as well as a Victorian angst that from our vantage point seem clement. We all have a voice in the wilderness crying out for our indwelling Savior. Thus we all can write well about vampires, or in the speculative Valhalla that is science fiction.
You have taken the Red Pill, now it's time to swallow once and for all the truth, seemingly lost in the Desert of the Real with little hope to return home twice. But home never was home under The Empire. You'll make a new, terrible, and heroic home. And at least find some solid footing in the perilous dunes of revisionism.
Maybe all history is nostalgia. Maybe all reality is an arid wasteland; but by weaving the mirages we will find more answers than the sandy responses kicked in our faces daily by the Ozymandias establishment.
Here is an excerpt from Stargazer that illustrates the Desert of the Real. It's nostalgia within a tale of nostalgia. The protagonist, Byron Solsbury, converses with an old friend about a seemingly incomplex time in the vampire utopia. Byron knows that the human he's interested in is the main force behind the revolt in the holocaust Farms. He also knows that fact he's interested in her is disturbing in itself. He was sent from Xanadu to crush any mortal insurrection by his supreme leader, Lilith. It is his last chance to correct his own rebellious past, buy into the vampire nostalgia of a necessary past and Emerald City future. Yet Byron is interested and nostalgic, finding his voice in the wilderness crying for his indwelling Savior. He is making a new, terrible, and heroic home out his relationship with Medea, the shaman of this particular Farm.
Hopefully this won't wreck my Hindenburg narrative, but first fangbang my piece Not in His Image: The Racist Origins of Science Fiction . Also, please visit me this weekend at Quimby's Bookstore, if you're in Chicago. I will be giving a reading and signing books on July 21st. I'm sure I'll have more concerning the Desert of the Real.
Back to mine or, I should say, Byron's nostalgia:
Lightning shuddered a hundred miles away in a stew of chemical clouds crowning the mountains. As majestic as it was, volatile ignitions of somber white, struggling through phosphorous gray and blue to outline the ancient peaks, it was also soothing, almost hypnotic, here in the quiet of the twilight. And, of course, Mephisto had to ruin it. “It wouldn’t get to us,” Mephisto said, leaning over the metal railing. “A storm of that magnitude never lasts. The Warm Ones used to think it was their primitive deities coming to rescue them, long before they become monotheistic. Remember?” “Vaguely,” I lied, putting out my cigarette on the floor of the balcony. “We’re fortunate none of those storms or nature itself ever did anything too bad to Xanadu. Not like its cousins during The Cataclysm of Tears.” My ears caught the rumble of that rarity called thunder. It was faint, almost absorbed by the radioactive gases and the crackle of neutrons-junk that part of its constitution these nights. I lit another cigarette, my only movement in a chair by the doorway. More lightning. Mephisto wouldn’t shut up. “It’s the only good thing about the northern Farms, besides the important work we perform for Our Mistress and our society. In the winter, if you look hard enough, you can see the phenomena of—”“When were you given existence?” I asked, staring at the lightning and its distance. He pivoted to rest on an elbow. “Uh, I don’t know. Shortly after you were, I believe. We met when they decided to split The Farms into four. You were already a sterling leader, Byron.” “Do you remember being birthed?” He shrugged, and then shrugged a second time, more for himself. “Slightly. Do you?” I didn’t answer, pretending to be busy blowing smoke rings. “Why are you asking this, Byron? It’s The MoonQueen’s will. We exist, genesis and ending irrelevant to our immortal essences.” The most important canon of the Stargazer, gleaned through endless Fusings, flashed in my head Warm Ones and other beings live; we exist. Life ends, existence eternally is. The Dark Instinct will outlast time, the cosmos, consuming everything until it completely Is. When the flash subsided, Mephisto was ending his dissertation. “…know belief isn’t in your vocabulary, Byron, and you can be a pain sometimes, but acceptance is a noble pursuit.” “I did accept Dante’s ending, didn’t I?” “I guess,” he said, pursing his lips. “Did you?” “Byron,” was all he said. “Did you?” He spoke slowly. “You did save my existence, and maybe it was my fault because I provoked his infamous temper. I mean, I didn’t think we had to pillage the whole farm section even with the high food reserves. I still stand by that. It didn’t matter what we thought because you were our superior.” He shook his head sadly. “But you and Dante always had a way of taking matters to the extreme. Yet, to this night, I wonder why you had to destroy him. To this night, though, I can’t help wonder if you two would ever done it otherwise.” “You’re very good, Meph,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered the question.” He watched the scenery instead of answering me. I thanked him silently and fingered another cigarette. The night wasn’t evolving with any more velocity, it seemed. I’d risen without dreams, thankfully, but whispers echoed from the obscure din that was Moratoria. Voices I thought I knew, perhaps hers, glory unto the highest. My first action had been to jot down a few bytes on my computer, putting them in the form of a field study, my interaction with Medea, her inane religion, what I’d seen in the animal’s eyes, it was all in there. I stressed many times that action wouldn’t be prudent until the source of Leztant’s ending was unearthed. Part of me could already predict Shib and The Elder’s pride at my assiduous work when I zapped it to them. With a quick movement, disobeying any rational objection, my finger deleted two hours of work. It was all gone. I leaned back in my chair and felt partly relieved. What was wrong with me? Thinking maybe I just needed company, my kind, I went to Mephisto’s office on the other side of the station. He seemed glad to see my form at his doorstep, almost a little surprised. He invited me for a meal. Like any Stargazer at any time, I couldn’t deny it. The population curiously eyed us as we entered the feeding area, two companions they still remembered from early nights. Mephisto seemed in very good spirits, and I was sure he’d tell The Elders how well he was keeping me under his eye. Perhaps to show his appreciation or just to loosen my tongue, he had a fresh carcass of a Warm One brought to our table. “An accident in my laboratory,” Mephisto explained, raising a steel straw in a toast. “It was supposed to last a few more weeks, but my assistant keeps forgetting her strength. Her punishment is to watch us from the other table, ha ha. Enjoy, old friend.” I glanced at the animal’s features, tepid and rubbery, and permanently devoid of ardor, not like another Warm One I knew, looking at naught from an odd angle caused by a splintered neck. I toasted back at the Scientist and jammed my own straw into the plumpest being I could smell. Before long, the straws lay on the floor, the Stargazers at the other tables eyed us with envy, while we suckled juice through puckered mouths and clicking tongues. Unusually sated, we wandered through rocky tunnels to his quarters, after he’d delivered a few orders to his offices. In one of his wardrobes, he showed me his collection of memorabilia from Raven nights. There were carved skulls and antiquated whips, framed proposals and essays on animal control, uniforms grafted with medals and rank patches. Mephisto showed me everything with detailed care. I nodded politely most of the time, showing emotion only when he got to the pictures, old pictures of simpler times. My image graced much of the glossy surfaces. There I was, in one standing proudly with fists nudged to my sides. Mephisto squatted to my left with folded arms, while my other friend, my closest friend, Dante, grinned to my right, all three of the great Raven mavericks posing before a row of Warm Ones hung by their feet after a hunting march. There I was, dressed in black trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, with the rose stitched armband marking my leadership status, looking fierce and confident and smiling a lot, like the world was ours. There I was, marching, performing flying drills, giving orders. There I was, before I started breaking down a decade or so later. We lampooned and laughed and took the vestal Raven regime with so much passion to new heights. And, yes we believed that is was going to be a better world, that nature would come to its sense by our little prank, that The MoonQueen would deliver us all the way of the hidden stars. We believed. And there I was. “By the way,” Mephisto said after a dialogue drought, kicking his feet over the ledge. “I like what you’ve been doing.” “What’s that?” “By”—he paused to stress his distaste—“interacting, amicably with this animal, this leader of cattle, you will learn much without fuss. If anything, at least you’ve got a pet for the time being. Everyone here thinks it’s hilarious.” “It’s getting funnier by the night, Meph. I might even decide to keep her.” He chuckled loudly. “You’re a sly one. So when do you think you’ll have concrete information?” I smirked at his back. He didn’t sense it. Good old Mephisto. For the first time in hours, I stood up. Jumping on the railing, I kept my balance without gifts. He stared at me oddly. I wanted to be closer to that thunder and lightning out in the mountaintops, in the wilderness, but that wouldn’t happen. It had distance. And there I was, with my own distance, realizing I was far away here with my kind in my land as I was to Medea and her kind. Like the storm clouds that struggled with their intended purpose, I was caught between two worlds, it seemed, each tugging at me for reasons I didn’t understand. Maybe the whole struggle was just my way of masking situations harder for myself and those surrounding me. Just like when I lost my Raven rank and took the profession of a rogue, it was all by my own doing. “I’ll have what I want,” I said, my response tinged with its own storm. “Tomorrow.” “You’re a sly one, Byron.”
DOWNLOAD THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS OF STARGAZER
DOWNLOAD THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS OF HERETIC
Lilith's winter kingdom represents the heart of the Desert of the Real"I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's."
William Blake
"Man can embody truth, but he cannot know it." W.B. Yeats "What did you dream? It's alright we told what to dream."
Pink Floyd Welcome to the Machine
The truth is that I am not an expert on vampires or the vampire genre; an even greater truth is that great numbers of individuals know more about Science Fiction than me.
But that never stopped me from finding my infernal muse in these ethereal, haunted domains. It certainly shouldn't stop you from creating epics worthy of a mad god's dream. Why?
Because it's the Desert of the Real.
Philosopher Jean Baudrillard coined the term; Morpheus spoke it to Neo after he swallowed the Red Pill. Basically, the Desert of the Real spreads into pop culture at the end of the latest hologram of The Empire (this term borrowed from Philip K. Dick). The dawn of our dusk is coming around, and as a civilization we cannot handle conventional reality anymore. The karmic weight of the conquering past and the sanity-tattooing of runaway technology is, again mentioning Morpheus, like a splinter in our minds.
To put it simply, the Desert of the Real is a vast media wasteland of nostalgia. Like the English and Roman empires, we have fallen away from conventional reality and into the dreamworld of rabid romance. That's the Desert of the Real, where we can project our deepest fears and wounded hopes in the canvass of bygone or incredible landscapes. It's where our collective shadow can vent, in visceral and often simplistic worlds, where stereotypes become archetypes. That is why our present civilization has created zombies, giant robots, and swing dancers who never leave the bars. That is why Westerns are so pregnant with fondness even as they sail upon seas blood; genocidal orcs are welcomed with folksy melodies under a vagina eye; and our gods wear spandex on their way to a funeral for a friend, as a brilliant writer remarked.
It's nostalgia in all existentialist costumes. Innocence washed in cathartic ultraviolence. Where men are men, and woman have the a chance of finally being free.
It's the Desert of the Real. You and I are already in it. Our unlikely redemption, our very salvation comes only through creation, the weaving of mirages into holy and unholy meaning.
Think about it, as we enter together that dawn of the dusk of The Empire, the Desert of the Real creeping slowly over any corporate, digital oasis of a brighter future.
Or just think about how many pioneers of modern film-making have capitalized on our desire for schmaltz on Red Bull, manageable odysseys to times when existence seemed to be less complicated. Some of these include Quentin Tarantino, Steven Spielberg, Oliver Stone, and Stanley Kubrick. Yes, the Desert of the Real can include war epics and gansters. It's where our pain-ridden spirits, suppressed and oppressed by The Empire who holds no mercy or even answers, can rise like Icarus in search of that sun of psychic liberation.
Stargazer and Heretic are in part nostalgia, just as any vampire tale is-- drawing upon a Dyonisian Golden Age as well as a Victorian angst that from our vantage point seem clement. We all have a voice in the wilderness crying out for our indwelling Savior. Thus we all can write well about vampires, or in the speculative Valhalla that is science fiction.
You have taken the Red Pill, now it's time to swallow once and for all the truth, seemingly lost in the Desert of the Real with little hope to return home twice. But home never was home under The Empire. You'll make a new, terrible, and heroic home. And at least find some solid footing in the perilous dunes of revisionism.
Maybe all history is nostalgia. Maybe all reality is an arid wasteland; but by weaving the mirages we will find more answers than the sandy responses kicked in our faces daily by the Ozymandias establishment.
Here is an excerpt from Stargazer that illustrates the Desert of the Real. It's nostalgia within a tale of nostalgia. The protagonist, Byron Solsbury, converses with an old friend about a seemingly incomplex time in the vampire utopia. Byron knows that the human he's interested in is the main force behind the revolt in the holocaust Farms. He also knows that fact he's interested in her is disturbing in itself. He was sent from Xanadu to crush any mortal insurrection by his supreme leader, Lilith. It is his last chance to correct his own rebellious past, buy into the vampire nostalgia of a necessary past and Emerald City future. Yet Byron is interested and nostalgic, finding his voice in the wilderness crying for his indwelling Savior. He is making a new, terrible, and heroic home out his relationship with Medea, the shaman of this particular Farm.
Hopefully this won't wreck my Hindenburg narrative, but first fangbang my piece Not in His Image: The Racist Origins of Science Fiction . Also, please visit me this weekend at Quimby's Bookstore, if you're in Chicago. I will be giving a reading and signing books on July 21st. I'm sure I'll have more concerning the Desert of the Real.
Back to mine or, I should say, Byron's nostalgia:
Lightning shuddered a hundred miles away in a stew of chemical clouds crowning the mountains. As majestic as it was, volatile ignitions of somber white, struggling through phosphorous gray and blue to outline the ancient peaks, it was also soothing, almost hypnotic, here in the quiet of the twilight. And, of course, Mephisto had to ruin it. “It wouldn’t get to us,” Mephisto said, leaning over the metal railing. “A storm of that magnitude never lasts. The Warm Ones used to think it was their primitive deities coming to rescue them, long before they become monotheistic. Remember?” “Vaguely,” I lied, putting out my cigarette on the floor of the balcony. “We’re fortunate none of those storms or nature itself ever did anything too bad to Xanadu. Not like its cousins during The Cataclysm of Tears.” My ears caught the rumble of that rarity called thunder. It was faint, almost absorbed by the radioactive gases and the crackle of neutrons-junk that part of its constitution these nights. I lit another cigarette, my only movement in a chair by the doorway. More lightning. Mephisto wouldn’t shut up. “It’s the only good thing about the northern Farms, besides the important work we perform for Our Mistress and our society. In the winter, if you look hard enough, you can see the phenomena of—”“When were you given existence?” I asked, staring at the lightning and its distance. He pivoted to rest on an elbow. “Uh, I don’t know. Shortly after you were, I believe. We met when they decided to split The Farms into four. You were already a sterling leader, Byron.” “Do you remember being birthed?” He shrugged, and then shrugged a second time, more for himself. “Slightly. Do you?” I didn’t answer, pretending to be busy blowing smoke rings. “Why are you asking this, Byron? It’s The MoonQueen’s will. We exist, genesis and ending irrelevant to our immortal essences.” The most important canon of the Stargazer, gleaned through endless Fusings, flashed in my head Warm Ones and other beings live; we exist. Life ends, existence eternally is. The Dark Instinct will outlast time, the cosmos, consuming everything until it completely Is. When the flash subsided, Mephisto was ending his dissertation. “…know belief isn’t in your vocabulary, Byron, and you can be a pain sometimes, but acceptance is a noble pursuit.” “I did accept Dante’s ending, didn’t I?” “I guess,” he said, pursing his lips. “Did you?” “Byron,” was all he said. “Did you?” He spoke slowly. “You did save my existence, and maybe it was my fault because I provoked his infamous temper. I mean, I didn’t think we had to pillage the whole farm section even with the high food reserves. I still stand by that. It didn’t matter what we thought because you were our superior.” He shook his head sadly. “But you and Dante always had a way of taking matters to the extreme. Yet, to this night, I wonder why you had to destroy him. To this night, though, I can’t help wonder if you two would ever done it otherwise.” “You’re very good, Meph,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered the question.” He watched the scenery instead of answering me. I thanked him silently and fingered another cigarette. The night wasn’t evolving with any more velocity, it seemed. I’d risen without dreams, thankfully, but whispers echoed from the obscure din that was Moratoria. Voices I thought I knew, perhaps hers, glory unto the highest. My first action had been to jot down a few bytes on my computer, putting them in the form of a field study, my interaction with Medea, her inane religion, what I’d seen in the animal’s eyes, it was all in there. I stressed many times that action wouldn’t be prudent until the source of Leztant’s ending was unearthed. Part of me could already predict Shib and The Elder’s pride at my assiduous work when I zapped it to them. With a quick movement, disobeying any rational objection, my finger deleted two hours of work. It was all gone. I leaned back in my chair and felt partly relieved. What was wrong with me? Thinking maybe I just needed company, my kind, I went to Mephisto’s office on the other side of the station. He seemed glad to see my form at his doorstep, almost a little surprised. He invited me for a meal. Like any Stargazer at any time, I couldn’t deny it. The population curiously eyed us as we entered the feeding area, two companions they still remembered from early nights. Mephisto seemed in very good spirits, and I was sure he’d tell The Elders how well he was keeping me under his eye. Perhaps to show his appreciation or just to loosen my tongue, he had a fresh carcass of a Warm One brought to our table. “An accident in my laboratory,” Mephisto explained, raising a steel straw in a toast. “It was supposed to last a few more weeks, but my assistant keeps forgetting her strength. Her punishment is to watch us from the other table, ha ha. Enjoy, old friend.” I glanced at the animal’s features, tepid and rubbery, and permanently devoid of ardor, not like another Warm One I knew, looking at naught from an odd angle caused by a splintered neck. I toasted back at the Scientist and jammed my own straw into the plumpest being I could smell. Before long, the straws lay on the floor, the Stargazers at the other tables eyed us with envy, while we suckled juice through puckered mouths and clicking tongues. Unusually sated, we wandered through rocky tunnels to his quarters, after he’d delivered a few orders to his offices. In one of his wardrobes, he showed me his collection of memorabilia from Raven nights. There were carved skulls and antiquated whips, framed proposals and essays on animal control, uniforms grafted with medals and rank patches. Mephisto showed me everything with detailed care. I nodded politely most of the time, showing emotion only when he got to the pictures, old pictures of simpler times. My image graced much of the glossy surfaces. There I was, in one standing proudly with fists nudged to my sides. Mephisto squatted to my left with folded arms, while my other friend, my closest friend, Dante, grinned to my right, all three of the great Raven mavericks posing before a row of Warm Ones hung by their feet after a hunting march. There I was, dressed in black trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, with the rose stitched armband marking my leadership status, looking fierce and confident and smiling a lot, like the world was ours. There I was, marching, performing flying drills, giving orders. There I was, before I started breaking down a decade or so later. We lampooned and laughed and took the vestal Raven regime with so much passion to new heights. And, yes we believed that is was going to be a better world, that nature would come to its sense by our little prank, that The MoonQueen would deliver us all the way of the hidden stars. We believed. And there I was. “By the way,” Mephisto said after a dialogue drought, kicking his feet over the ledge. “I like what you’ve been doing.” “What’s that?” “By”—he paused to stress his distaste—“interacting, amicably with this animal, this leader of cattle, you will learn much without fuss. If anything, at least you’ve got a pet for the time being. Everyone here thinks it’s hilarious.” “It’s getting funnier by the night, Meph. I might even decide to keep her.” He chuckled loudly. “You’re a sly one. So when do you think you’ll have concrete information?” I smirked at his back. He didn’t sense it. Good old Mephisto. For the first time in hours, I stood up. Jumping on the railing, I kept my balance without gifts. He stared at me oddly. I wanted to be closer to that thunder and lightning out in the mountaintops, in the wilderness, but that wouldn’t happen. It had distance. And there I was, with my own distance, realizing I was far away here with my kind in my land as I was to Medea and her kind. Like the storm clouds that struggled with their intended purpose, I was caught between two worlds, it seemed, each tugging at me for reasons I didn’t understand. Maybe the whole struggle was just my way of masking situations harder for myself and those surrounding me. Just like when I lost my Raven rank and took the profession of a rogue, it was all by my own doing. “I’ll have what I want,” I said, my response tinged with its own storm. “Tomorrow.” “You’re a sly one, Byron.”
DOWNLOAD THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS OF STARGAZER
DOWNLOAD THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS OF HERETIC
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