Marvel John Whiteside Parsons, who no one outside of a small handful of weirdos had ever even heard of until very recently, is the subject of a new prestige series based on the biography written by George Pendle.
The series, airing on CBS All-Access this summer, is produced by the living legend, Sir Ridley Scott.
Aside from Alien:Covenant, Sir Ridley most recently got mixed up in the Secret Sun-o-Sphere with his movie on the JP Getty III kidnapping (All the Money in the World), the one starring Braintree's favorite stepson Mark Wahlberg, Heath Ledger's widow and a hastily-recast Kevin "Little" Spacey.
Because it's 2018 and needs must.
I'm sure many of you are familiar with Parsons and his Babalon Working, as well as his relationship with Scientology founder L.Ron Hubbard, not to mention the Great Beast 666 himself.
Less well-known is that Parsons was also friendly with Kenneth Anger of Lucifer Rising fame, a detail of history recounted to yours truly by none other than Anger himself.
In case you haven't heard a million times already, Parsons was born the very day that Charles Taze Russell, founder of the Jehovah's Witnesses, predicted the Apocalypse would come.
Given that Parsons pioneered the use of the fuels that propel rockets-- and by extension, nuclear missiles-- maybe ol' Chuckie T. just got a bit ahead of the timeline. Very excitable chap, I've heard tell. Mrs. Taze referred to him as the "minute-man." Or so I've been told.
And so the Babalon Working, which was essentially several days of fapping, chanting and waving swords around, was intended to summon Mystery Babylon the Great of Revelation 17 fame, and bring on the Apocalypse. As one does.
Maybe our Jack got a little ahead of the timeline himself.
Beyonce Knowles (no relation) was born on September 4, the date the last Roman Emperor fell as well as the day of the Great London Fire of 1666. Fallen, fallen is Babalon the Great.
Mystery Beyoncebalon also headlined Coachella 13 (thirteen) years after Our Lady and her Unmercenary Musicians were slated to play the festival, only the Sibyl sensed the demonic energies infesting those California foothills and demurred.
Either that or got cold feet due to lifetime stage-fright. I tend to vacillate on the matter.
Following the Babylon Working, Jack Parsons returned to Pasadena only to encounter one Marjorie "Candy" Cameron, whom Parsons called his "elemental."
And of course, Marjorie means "Pearl" and Cameron is a Scottish name. A name shared by mad MKULTRA scientist Ewen Cameron, Greater Stirlingshire neighbor of a certain angelic thrush you may have a heard a thing or two about around these parts time and again.
Following Parsons' gruesome death in 1952, Cameron took to painting and occasional acting, appearing in occult-themed productions like Anger's Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome and Curtis Harrington's Night Tides, in which she played an evil mermaid.
Night Tides starred Dennis Hopper, who shocked audiences as psychotic Frank Booth in David Lynch's 1986 opus Blue Velvet. No, seriously. People were walking out in literal shock halfway through the picture when I first saw it. A lot of people. In New York City, FFS.
Incidentally, Lynch had intended to use This Mortal Coil's cover of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren" as the centerpiece of the film.
In fact Lynch planned to cast a certain Scottish belle and her beastly beau (that you may or may not be familiar with) in the film as well. As a kind of dry run for the Bang-Bang Bar performances on Twin Peaks.
Sadly, plans fell through. Blame Dune.
Anyhow, Cameron's work became highly prized among collectors, particularly those of an occultic bent. Through utter happenstance, her ballpoint pen sketch of a Siren v1.0 is in the permanent collection of the Getty Museum in Los Angeles.
The Gettys again. Why, those rascals and their occult monkeyshines!
(NOTE: For more insane babbling on Babalon and Parsons, click here. Well, when you're done with this insane babbling here. Guest starring Jack Kirby.)
As Lady Fate would demand, David Lynch finally got to use the Sibyl's rendition of "Song to the Siren" in 1997's Lost Highway. The song was featured in a stylish sex scene between Patricia Arquette and-- wait for it-- Balthazar Getty, son of the Getty scion around whom Sir Ridley's recent film hinges.
Not long after the film's release, the son of "Song to the Siren's" composer--and onetime lover of the woman who made it famous-- died by drowning beneath the large black pyramid in Memphis, Tennessee.
Y'know, it's almost like there's a cult out there, a secretive cult of powerful businessmen and entertainment figures.
A cult who may or may not sense that all of these stories they fixate on and/or make films and TV shows about-- stories of disincarnate beings from other realities, if not the stars-- somehow manifested themselves in these strange, tragic figures whose lives to seem to act out very, very ancient dramas indeed.
Well, almost. Weirder things have happened, I suppose.
Speaking of elementals, there's a new TV series based on Swamp Thing in the works.
Ol' Swampy actually has a couple TV series, one live-action and one short-lived cartoon, as well as a couple cheapie features on his CV. Ol' Mucko never made much of an impact on the screen but hey, there are only so many truly-viable comic book franchises to exploit. And there are dollars to count.
Swampy's true claim-to-fame is in his OG comic book series, the original run in the early 70s and the 80s reboot that brought one Alan Moore of Northampton, UK to our shores. It was on this title that Moore first blew American comic fans away and lifted a title I think literally no one actually read but me to the top of the charts.
Bonus factoid: Moore started his run the same month Head Over Heels hit the shops.
I'm happy to say I got in on the ground floor with the Great Mage since as I said, I think I was literally the only person on Earth who was actually reading this title before he signed on.
And so it was that Moore kicked my fucking face in with his initial arc on this title, as he would later do with the community at large.
Mother of Eff, I feel so sorry for young people these days.
So it's possible- if not likely-- that I was re-reading "The Anatomy Lesson" that fateful Sunday night when the Voice broke into the broadcast of Nocturnal Emissions with Bradley J on WBCN 104.1 FM and called to me from across Infinity and from after Eternity.
The Voice told me that she had been watching me-- me, can you believe it? I mean, honestly!-- from the orial, from the balustrade and From The Flagstones.
I felt so special.
The Voice added-- quite cryptically, I might add-- that I could cajole, I could cajole, but my very soul was hers from that moment on, and we both knew it.
I went to her and I went to her broke. Without a doubt. Straight out of a Philip K Dick novel, after a fashion. Only slightly less psychotic.
Just slightly, mind you.
Oh fuck, "Swamped." Cut my heart out already. Just do it now.
Here, with this broken Heineken bottle.
Yeah, I was doing some very heavy dreaming (plus smoking so much weed I almost turned into a bush) at the time and this shit? God, it fucks me up but good just thinking about it. I can't really go into it right now so just take my word for it.
"Alec, Alec, come back..."
Talk amongst yourselves for a moment, OK?
No, I just got something in my eye. I was, uh, cutting onions.
And then "Another Green World," which I didn't realize at the time was named after a
Brent Mini Brian Eno solo album. I didn't need to really. I was all over this shit. Did I mention all the weed? What a time.
So after that thermonuclear revelation I have to confess that Watchmen was a bit of a damp fart. At least at first.
A lot of it had to do with the sheer tedium the art instilled in me (mind you, Dave Gibbons is a very fine artist) and the fact that I was letting Frank Miller curb-stomp my soul with Dark Knight Returns. Plus, that those first dozen issues of Moore's Swamp Thing was a dragon I was still very much chasing.
Actually, I am one of a handful of people who prefers the Zack Snyder film to the comics. But hey, I'm used to being in the extreme minority. Saga of the Swamp Thing from the jump, baby. You don't get more extreme than that.
And this TV series? Meh. Meh, I tell you. What, Damon Lindelof? Does he have to write everything?
Hah, funny corporate propaganda. Funny trademark ass-coverers. Funny convoluted bullshit.
Convoluted bullshit is funny.
Secret Sun readers know that THIS is what inspired the name and logo of Starbucks.
Many are called but few are chosen. The gate is narrow.
Secret Sun readers, particularly readers from back in the day, aren't surprised by the success of the Siren TV series either, or the hype that's kicked up in its wake.
Or by the beyond-ubiquitous mermaid-this and mermaid-that and the mermaid-the other thing that you see everywhere your rest your gaze these days.
People tell me all the time that they can't go into any store anywhere without being accosted by miles of mermaid merch. Like they're surprised I was right!
Yeah, I'm changing my name to Chrissandra. No one believes my dopey prophecies until it's too late. I guess I should have accepted Apollo's friend request. I don't know, it was weird. He kept poking me.
Made me kind of uncomfortable.
Where did it take place in London, exactly?
Well, as random chance would randomly chance it with randomality, it took place just outside the Southbank Centre and just below Waterloo Bridge.
And by a stroke of fate so utterly arbitrary I actually ran out of colorfully-ironic analogies a very long time ago, this LARP Siren just happened to be revealing herself unto the fine burghers of London a stone's throw from Royal Festival Hall and Queen Elizabeth Hall.
Where, by a sheer, indiscriminate stroke of Providence, a certain musical prodigy with a dark past gave the only solo concerts of her half-century-plus walking the earth. In a fetching metallic gray dress, I might add.
(Well, there was a warmup gig, actually. In Bath, where else?).
The Southbank Centre, which through some kind of arcane quantum entanglement you actually need several PhDs and an electron microscope to even detect it, was where musical-prodigy-with-a-dark-past Matilda
Grayser Gray was seen running around in her metallic gray dress as she began her journey to her ultimate destiny. Spoiler: she's possessed by an angel.
In Requiem, incidently. On Netflix.
Go watch it now.
Perhaps out of licensing issues, Tilly doesn't play at Royal Festival Hall or Queen Elizabeth Hall but at "Royal Elizabeth Hall," which was actually St, David's Hall in Cardiff and the white and silver and the young Robin Guthrie on the paleo diet and the 4/4 and the 17 and Jesus Christ already, "Elizabeth Davidson Fraser," OK?
I mean, c'mon now. Can't we just stop this little dance? I mean, if you've been reading this blog all along and still want to tell me you don't get it, well, I'm sorry. I can't help you.
Because you're simply being obstinate.
So: Siren, Bristol, Southbank Centre, Royal Festival Hall, bla bla blibbity-bla-bla-bla....
Gah, that adorable smile. Just smite me now, Lord.
....equals Frasery-McFraserson-John-Cougar-Elizabeth-Frasercamp etc etc etc ad infinitum.
Like, by this point, literally infinitum. Click the label already.
Plus, Steve Hackett (formerly of Genesis 6:4) and all the rest of it. Because Nephilim and Sofia and the mitochondrial Eve of the new race she just happened to play in Tony Blair and Peter Gabriel's (formerly of Genesis 6:4) little year-long Angels-Who-Watch invocation on the Thames back in y2K.
Which couldn't possibly have been more explicit and only flew under the world's radar because England's been militantly biblically-illiterate for nearly a century now. 999 performances, because that's not a ritualistic number at all.
Is someone is just trying to drive me crazy now? I mean, of all the places in London- a massive-fucking-metropolis, mind you, with all kinds of waterfront- that's where you pose your Siren?
Your Siren from Bristol?
Seriously, if an idiot like me figured all this out, pretty much anyone who paid the slightest bit of attention would have sussed what this person was horsing (or hosting) a long, long time ago. (Hint: something that maybe ain't exactly from around here).
And they all seem to want to rub their shit all over her magic, or at least what might be left of it. Because that's what powerful men have done with Sibyls and oracles-- oh, I don't know-- since pretty much forever?
I mean, there is precedent for all this, you know. You can look it up in those weird rectangular things people used to call "books."
You heard me, into DNA. So it will last for-fucking-ever.
Yeah. That happened.
That wasn't a Philip K Dick or Neal Stephenson story you read in college.
Jesus, we're getting near a whole year of this soon. And you're trying to tell me this ain't the Apocalypse.
I might have been born at night but I wasn't born last night.
SPEAKING OF DNA
Associated with the vision of the Palm Tree Garden was a young girl gathering water at riverside. On her vase was an interlocking pattern which Phil recognized as a series of ICHTHYS (fish) symbols.
He also saw it as the double helix form of DNA. The universe, he understood, is information - just as DNA is the encoded information by which our bodies are created and maintained.
He identified this girl with Aquarius, the water-bearer. To me this symbolizes a pouring out (from the subconscious) and the heralding of a new age. This scene was used in VALIS to announce the new messiah, the little girl called Sophia. A new age had indeed begun, short-lived as it was.
--Philip K. Dick: The Other Side by Paul Rydeen
It is proper to say: we appear to be memory coils (DNA carriers capable of experience) in a computer-like thinking system which, although we have correctly recorded and stored thousands of years of experiental information, and each of us possesses somewhat different deposits from all the other life forms, there is a malfunction -- a failure - of memory retrieval .
There lies the trouble in our particular subcircuit. 'Salvation' through gnosis -- more properly anamnesis (the loss of amnesia) -- although it has individual significance for each of us -- a quantum leap in perception, identity, cognition, understanding, world- and self-experience, including immortality -- it has greater and further importance for the system as a whole, inasmuch as these memories are data needed by it and valuable to it, to its overall functioning.
-- Philip K. Dick, The Exegesis
PS: Today's Google doodle.