A Desperado's Daily Bread: A Novella

Contents

Acknowledgments

1. Just-Wade Illuminated

2. The Prodigal Son Also Rises

3. On the Road Less Traveled

4. Who Is He that Calls the Dead?

5. Flatirons Ascending

6. Flatirons Repelling

7. An Occurrence at Lumpy Ridge

8. Aeons of Yesteryear

9. A Gathering of Finely Feathered Friends

10. Él Quiere a Dos Pocahonti

11. A Blinding Apotheosis

12. Dénouement of the Desperado

Selected Bibliography

Parados (Notes on the Trilogy)

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to acknowledge the artistic contribution of Heather Colleen Gordon, who provided the hand-drawn chapter frontispieces expressly for this novella. The cover art was derived from an original photograph provided by iStockphoto. The book’s story and characters are fictitious, and the elegant genetic engineering is imaginary.

Book One

A Desperado’s Daily Bread

1. Just-Wade Illuminated

It’s 3:00 AM. The chills are gone. The body stirs. The eyes of the man are agape. Those eyes—brave lights of the masculine being, veiled windows of the tormented soul, postmodern, post-Enlightenment, post-luminescent projections of the externalized brain—are agape. As the man rises up, he regards the smeared outline of his primordial corpus scrawled out in cold sweat upon the gray-green linoleum tiles of the bathroom floor. Gazing out at the discarnate specter emerging from the vague and tarnished mirror, he observes an expanse of sub-conjunctival hemorrhages spreading out like sorrow across the once-clear envelopes of his eyes. He observes the distortions of time and violent contestation upon his once-familiar features; then he plunges his face into his hands in a senseless, waterless baptism, emerging from the futile exercise agape, as before.

One thing is certain: the cramps and the spasms, the extreme intestinal distress, and the raging oscillations between profuse sweating and irrepressible shivering that have marked the previous hours like a malevolent metronome are not the result of strychnine poisoning. One more urban legend bites the dust. No, it is not a contaminating alkaloid that blocks the inhibitory synapses of the spinal motor neurons and unleashes wave upon wave of convulsive side effects; it is now abundantly clear that the fearsome, biochemical lions guarding the psychotropic doors of perception and the primary ceremonial sacrament he has ingested, the sacred entheogen, are actually one and the same.

The man’s name is Wade—just Wade—and we shall know him by no other. He is sentient, to be sure, yet he appears to be suffering, like many of his generation, from a post-traumatic stress disorder of sorts. It is as if he has been intimately involved in some great conflagration or war, yet not in the usual definition of the terms. It is, perhaps, more aptly described as his having been at war, which suggests a more active state of conflict and infers a more intimate involvement in the means and methods of contention. It is apparent that Wade has been actively and intimately involved in something very horrible and very deep—that much is as clear as the many horribly deep wounds he carries—but the exact nature of the deeply horrible thing eludes us, as does the general idea that anyone would ever willingly forsake one’s peaceful state of mind to make war on the horrors of the deep.

Wade is presently an outlaw in the land of the free, a desperado of the great American frontier—a post-Darwinian, post-Mendelian, post-Nietzschean, post-Freudian, post-Jungian, post-Einsteinian, post–Aldous Huxleyan, post–Walt Disneyan, post-Bohemian, post-Derridean, post-beat, post-hip, post-war, post-graduate, post-perspicuous persona non grata who is reconciled to spending his remaining days post-mortem in the sublime twilight of the impalpable underground, wrapped in cloistered communion amongst the lingering remains of gratefully dying flower children, all falling faintly through the universe; entombed in mournful sympathy amongst the vanishing starvelings of piteously doomed heliotropes falling, too, upon every part of the dwindling world; enshrined in wuthering consonance amidst the terminal exaltations of beatific winged visitants, each and every one on the descent of their last end.

Wade is also a respectable biochemist, in his own outlandish way, and his masterful skills in molecular and genetic manipulations are impressive to say the least. He has somehow managed to isolate four particular genes from the desert cactus known to botanists as Lophophora williamsii and to laymen as peyote and has stably inserted said genetic constructs into the genome of Saccharomyces cerevisiae, or baker’s yeast, along with a mutated allelic form of the bioluminescent protein aequorin, which was absconded from the crystal jellyfish, Aquorea victoria, that is found off the West Coast of North America. When excited by a light source of approximately 390 nanometers, these genetically transformed yeast cells begin to glow with the deep blue fluorescence of a jeweled sapphire. In the absence of an ultraviolet light source, the yeast cells appear to be quite normal; they thrive and grow and multiply, converting sugars to alcohols and carbon dioxide when called upon to do so, and they can be dried, stored, and utilized for baking and brewing as usual. In other words, Wade’s creations appear to function as perfectly normal cultures of baker’s yeast except, of course, in the presence of exogenous tyrosine or phenylalanine which, when added to the mix, these genetically engineered cells readily convert to the chemical compound mescaline—and they dutifully perform this sanctified biochemical conversion in the wink of an alchemist’s eye.

Wade has obviously ingested a considerable amount of his experimental leaven, and now that the dreamlike delirium has passed, along with the attendant nausea, he has wakened to a state of unsleeping intelligence. A state of mind wherein individuality is not absolute. A state of mind from which personality can be viewed as an illusory figment of self-will, bobbing like so much flotsam after a shipwreck—bobbing in the wake of an unerring impulse that seeks to transcend mere intelligence in an aspiring act of good will, rising momentarily in an upsurge of enlightened intention, only to crest and fall and dwindle and dissolve into an immense wave of all-encompassing creature consciousness.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness is accompanied by striking changes in neurological activities, which are evident in the cortical neurons and associated thalamic and reticular thalamic nuclei. Literally thousands of nerve cells—all resonating with intrinsic electrical currents, intimately interconnected by millions of thalamocortical and corticothalamic radiations and both intra- and inter-cortical circuits—are actively deliberating urgent issues of sensory perception and appropriate neuromuscular action that constitute the behavior of the man. Psychophysiological responses to incoming visual stimuli are generally driven reflexively—that is, bottom-up—by the external stimuli. As such, these responses are governed only partially by internal constraints such as cognitive expectancy and the established rules of engagement associated with an operative behavioral goal.

However, Wade is driven by a hunger within—a desperation therein that compels him to strive with all his heart and mind and strength. Indeed, there is ample anatomical and physiological evidence to suggest that top-down phenomena, such as expectancy or the behavioral goal itself, may, at times, play a decidedly more creative role in the processing of input stimuli and in the coupling of the myriads of biologically coherent signals within the enlivening mind. In the words of Ivan Pavlov, It is not accidental that all phenomena of human life are dominated by the search for daily bread—the oldest link connecting all living things, man included, with the surrounding nature.

Suddenly, Wade realizes that he is far from alone in his stark, monastic cabin. All throughout the central living room, extending up into the rafters of the foyer and beyond the open doorway leading out onto the covered porch, a disparate congregation of nocturnal moths of the families Saturniidae and Sphingidae have assembled among the eaves, assembled along with a murmur of unfortunate souls that are assiduously circling the electric lights in a series of wayward spirals, punctuated sporadically by impetuous trajectories and searing frustrations. Inherently migratory by nature, guided ordinarily by starlight and the dependable reflections of the moon, the aerial convocation has been summoned on this moonless, starless night by the dazzling, incandescent proxies of the postmodern world—summoned by an alluring, electromagnetic Siren’s song as irresistible as it is inappropriate. Wade is transfixed by the surrealistic spectacle, amazed by the sheer multitude of the congregation and appalled by the misplaced devotion of the winged throng. He enters into a state of effortless awareness known as wonder.

At this point, Wade realizes that Thunder, his steadfast canine companion, is effortlessly aware of the same ethereal drama unfolding up in the rafters and is calmly, silently observing every movement of the prodigious silk moths, the elegant luna moths, and the birdlike sphinx moths as they cast about, alighting and departing, hovering and circling, clambering out of the darkness in frenzied pursuit of the ersatz starlight. The Alsatian he-dog is lying obliquely across the doorway of the foyer, innately conscious of the link connecting all living things with the surrounding nature, aware of the graceful shadow-ballet occurring up in the ceilings and of every movement and inclination of his earthbound master, with those ponderous feet of clay.

Well now, old friend, it seems that we have attracted an audience. Was it me or you who left the front door open to these creatures of the night?

Thunder cocks his ears, at once alert and full of life. The great he-dog lifts his eyebrows as Wade speaks to him; then, in deference to the interrogatory, Thunder yawns as if to remind the man that, as Thoreau once stated, Friendship is not in the words but in the meanings.

Wade smiles at the irony. Here stands a veritable ruin of a man, corrupted by harsh experience in a savage world of woe, ravished by riotous living, weathered by dire circumstance, cowering in absentia from both expectation and occupation, and shrinking from contact with all but the most unassuming of society. Here, in the presence of an ideal male dog, stamped with a look of fine quality and unmistakable nobility—an animal with an incorruptible character combined with a strong, agile, well-muscled body, balanced and harmonious, that is suitable for the arduous work that constitutes its primary purpose. Wade’s smile affirms the contrast between his own all-too-human nature and the archetypal personality of the shepherd dog, as described by the American Kennel Club: The breed has a distinct personality marked by direct and fearless, but not hostile, expression, self-confidence and a certain aloofness that does not lend itself to immediate and indiscriminate friendships. The dog must be approachable, quietly standing its ground and showing confidence and willingness to meet overtures without itself making them. It is poised, but when the occasion demands, eager and alert; both fit and willing to serve in its capacity as companion, watchdog, blind leader, herding dog, or guardian, whichever the circumstances may demand.

Would to God I were made of stone, or better yet of Shepherd’s cloak! As he cries aloud, Wade vanishes into a back room of the cabin, returning with a large, battery-powered UV lantern, which he brandishes aloft like a beacon as he turns off every light switch in the cabin, theatrically, one by one.

Thunder is quietly standing his ground when Wade, a resplendent, tie-dyed apparition gleaming in the intense, black light, approaches the open doorway. Stay here, fella! commands Wade as he leaps off the porch like a radiant ballet performer, advancing onto the dark stage with a deliberate procession of halting promenades followed by a lustrous présage, stridently invading the blackness of the night with a post-lux pas de deux.

Waving the supernal lantern high overhead, then outward in a staggering series of rustic pirouettes, Wade begins to whirl around in circles. Like a Persian dervish, he turns slowly at first. Then he moves somewhat faster, and then faster, until he’s whirling in an ecstatic dance of surrender that is curiously centered while demonstrating impressive discipline. The exposed tube of the UV lamp paints the void with a continuous gossamer filament, creating at once an auroral theater wherein a living luminaire shines upon a mirrored stage—a stage both defined and revealed by an ultra-appealing, ultra-inviting, ultra-enthralling, ultra-violaceous splendor. As the Western-outlaw-turned-Sufi-dancer wheels and whirls in place, the dervish becomes an empty space, the ego dissolves, a doorway opens, a dizzying resonance moves from presence to presence. An anamnesis begins to occur at the center of the universe. A secret turning in us makes the universe turn … head unaware of feet … and feet head … neither cares … they keep turning. The words of Rumi, the thirteenth-century mystic, echo repeatedly into the night as the misplaced throng of outré insects begin to respond with the collective suggestibility of a somnambulistic horde attending a rock concert: there is an aura of anxious whispering, then a noticeable fluttering, then buzzing with ever-increasing vibrations. Then all at once there is droning and clamoring, beating and rioting and uproarious cavorting as the winged wee beasties emerge from the darkened cabin in an unrelenting swarm, vaulting out through the gaping doorway, raging demonic, soaring angelic, striving with oh so many others, eager to join in the intensifying rapture and to conjoin in the wheeling exaltation. Torrents of moths and more inscrutable winged things advance and converge upon post-luminescent Wade, surrounding the Western whirling dervish, revolving in an incomprehensible maelstrom, rising in spiraling spasms of Blacklight-Blue Age infatuation to all but impossible proportions. Finally, the disapproving voice of Thunder resounds above the towering commotion, and Wade turns off the light.

Although he could not see clearly in the unmitigated darkness, Wade could sense the presence of Thunder by his side. You know, Thunder, there are times when I feel that you are like an older brother … an older brother in a dog suit.

It isn’t long after the dizzying exaltations dissipated and the hyper-chromatic afterimages have passed when serious, top-down inner phenomena begin to percolate into the penetralia of Wade’s most secret self, disturbing the emptied, trans-lucid mind and distorting all uncreated visual perceptions. His soul begins to swoon as he approaches that region where the vast hosts of the dead dwell. He sees them coming slowly toward him now from the depths of some unwholesome, inner dark. Vast hosts of them coming: old men and women, ancient elders, younger men and women and children—lepers all, with rotting flesh dissolving onto naked bone; some barely recognizable, barely human, with boils, ulcers, tumors, gangrenous, suppurating cankers, and vacant, sarcophagean eyes. They are coming slowly, unavoidably toward him in overwhelming numbers, their piteous faces turned upward to the oblivious sky, their mouths stretched open in wretched, agonizing screams as if they—each and all—are seeking some sort of holy communion: some heavenly, precipitous event that is near at hand, yet unattainable. Yes, they are advancing inescapably now, coming steadily from somewhere beyond the inner darkness that envelops him. Yes, they are slowly steadily coming now in overwhelming numbers.

As Thunder perceives the invisible menace, the great dog begins to growl and to threaten the blighted emptiness surrounding Wade. Then Thunder bursts into a paroxysm of ferocious barking, as if he were trying to protect his stricken master from the approach of death itself.

For Wade, like many others before him, is caught in the grips of a profound mescaline experience. However, this is not some evening walk in the park bent on contemplating existential nuances and linguistic phraseologies whilst the penetrating mind imagines a hot, soft bosom rubbing up against cool material and lace within the confines of a strange woman’s blouse (see J-P. Sartre, Nausea). This is not about some overwrought schoolboy systematically reducing the whole of history, literature, fine art, and religion to the crumpled pleats and wrinkles of so many draperies whilst gazing passionately, by choice, at the sumptuous folds of his own gray flannel trousers (see A. Huxley, The Doors of Perception).

Rather, Wade, itinerant Western outlaw that he is, has witnessed a somewhat more serious rift in the dripping, bleeding fabric of nature. The precious skein of humankind has come completely undone this time, and the consequences are disastrous—disastrous not only for the steadily growing multitudes of slowly moving lepers, but for anyone who would dare to place their mind and their heart and their agape soul into the breach.

Right here in this caliginous mise-en-scène, where vivid hallucinations materialize into anguished spirits that afflict the inauspicious man with the