“Unable, as Freud said, to ‘distinguish between truth and fiction that has been cathected with affect,’ we feel as buggered by the father we never knew as by the pedophile we did know. For, inasmuch as the angel that we also are demands a union that we can never fully realize, the pain of its yearning will register itself in our dreams, fantasies, and the constructions of analysis as a sexual trauma. No wonder the religious instinct so readily expresses itself as pedophilia. No wonder that on the way to rebirth we are always complaining that it is Rosemary’s baby.”
—Greg Mogenson, A Most Accursed Religion
The urge to revisit a particular period in Strieber’s past was starting to seem more than simply the result of a researcher’s curiosity. It was as if I needed to go back into Strieber’s past as a way to journey also into my own. In the popular accounts of remote viewing, the subject is told to focus on a particular time and place, and somehow finds himself there in a non-physical form. If I was putting my attention on England in 1968, I was directing my attention to the time and place in which I experienced my first year of existence.
Strieber’s forgotten London odyssey now showcases not only strange occultists, UFO-heads, and leading entertainment industry players, but organized London criminals and pederasts. It places him, as a twenty-something “underground filmmaker” making a documentary on the Process Church, at the very heart of the scene in the years 1967-8. How did he get there? What did his involvement consist of? Was he out in the field with Norman and the other Gurdjieff-initiated hippies, dropping LSD and looking for UFOs; was he getting glimpses into the world of hard-core criminality via Cammell and Litvinoff? If not, why not? If he was too square for all that, how did he wind up hanging out with Sharp and Mora and Eric Clapton at the center of the London ‘60s scene? Most puzzling of all, why has this period of his life been all-but stricken from the record?
I was beginning to think there was a simple, if unorthodox, reason why the usual suspects—Aleister Crowley, Polanski, Manson, the Kennedys, the Process, Charles Whitman, David Bowie, Nic Roeg, Jimmy Savile, Stanley Kubrick, William Sims Bainbridge, L. Ron Hubbard, Aldous Huxley, Gurdjieff, and now Whitley Strieber!—kept cropping up wherever I seemed to look. For all the billions of people on the planet (allegedly at least), were there only a few hundred, at best, who had any sort of visible role in the grand theater unfolding before the public eye? And of course they would all hang out together, formally or otherwise, literally or not, because they were in the same business—that of socio-spiritual engineering or “culture-making.” It might seem like world history was far too vast and complex a meta-organism to be reduced to a handful of players, but was that just part of the illusion? Actors on stage exist in a world of their own, complete unto itself, while the audience exists in a kind of limbo realm, having no say about how the story unfolds. Even so, their attention was essential to the maintenance of the illusion. The audience is complicit in its own irrelevance—it has to “disappear” from the scene in order for the surrogate reality to take full hold.
Insofar as my own psychic development had been informed (let’s not say hijacked) by all of these cultural influences or “players,” was it perhaps inevitable that, someday (in the process of trying to become a “player” myself, i.e., have some cultural influence, a goal I had pursued ever since I first discovered Polanski, roughly), I would wind up struggling to identify those agents, and the shadowy agendas behind them, in an attempt to make sense of my own past?
Audios, “Where’s the Toilet? (The Ultimate UFO Question),” with Doug Lain; “Magical Solutions,” on UFOs, birth trauma, and in utero race memories, http://crucialfictions.com/