MY VIRGIL — Didymos Judas Tom
Channel: Spike EP
Date: 2020-02-22

"These are the hidden words that the living Tom Baker spoke and 
I, Didymos Judas Thomas really needed to listen, and do as I was told."


Was  this  at  last  the  illumination  of the  Illuminati—the  experience  of  skepticism  carried  to  the  point  where  it  abolishes  itself and,  since  you  can't  believe  anything  fully,  you  are  as  free  of skepticism  as  of any  other  philosophy  and  finally  open  to  thinking  the  unthinkable? 

Or  was the  final  secret  simply  and  bluntly  that  there  really  is  an  interstellar  ESP  channel  to  which you  can  tune  in  by  metaprogramming  your  nervous  system? 

At  this  point  in  the  internal  voyage  the  Shaman  knows  that  he  is  far,  far  into  the  underground  vaults  of Chapel  Perilous  and  that  the  way  back  to  the  robot-reality  of the  domesticated  hive  is  not  going  to  be  easy.  Or as  a  black  pot-head  once  said  to  me  (in  an  earlier  period  when  I  was  playing  Young  White  Hipster  who  hangs around  with jazz  musicians),  "Man,  you  only  know you  are  laid,  relayed  and  PARlayed,  fucked,  flustered  and  far  from  home."  It was necessary  to  conduct  some  experiments  to  determine  that  one  was  still  able  to  communicate  effectively  with  the  hive—with  those  locked  into  what  Blake  called  "single  Vision  and  Newton's  sleep." 

When  it was  established  that  such  communication  had  not  broken  down,  The  Shaman  and  The  Skeptic  conferred  at  length,  decided  we  were not  actually  going  mad,  and  continued  occult  experimentation. 


The  neuro-metaprogrammer adopted  a  belief system  in  which  there  was  a  real  contact  going  on  with  Higher  Intelligence—i.e.,  with  the  extraterrestrial  from  Sirius—or  with  The  Holy  Guardian  Angel—or  whatever  it  was ... Some  of  the  intensified  experiences were  "merely  subjective,"  but  nonetheless  tremendously  important  to  the  author,  in  ways that  even  the  Skeptic  would  admit  were non-pathological.   For instance,  on  one  occasion,  the entity  spoke  directly,  in  a melodious and  angelic voice,  to  say,  "They   live   happiest   who   have  forgiven   most. "

This  is rather trite,  one admits;  all  the  major  religions  preach  forgiveness.  What  was  impressive  was 

(a)  the  timing —  The  Struggling  Writer  was very  pissed  off,  that  week,  at  certain  publishers who  were  slow  in  paying monies owed;  and 

(b)  the  pragmatic  emphasis,  tailored  to  The  Libertarian's  hedonic  philosophy  at the  time. 

It  did  not  say,  "Forgive,  because   'God'  demands  it";  it  said,  "Forgive,  and  you   will  be  happier." 

The  Libertarian  Hedonist  tried  it,  and  still  is  trying  it,  and  it  works.  The  fewer  resentments you harbor, the happier your  life  will  be.   Why are  we  all  such  fools as  to  ignore  this obvious  lesson,  which  a  truly  rational  person  would  have  figured  out  by  the  age  of  8  or  9,  if not  sooner?  Other  experiences  were  more  objective.   One day  in  1974,  when  another  publisher was  late  with  monies  owed,  the  Shaman  decided  to  try  a  ritual  of money-magick,  to  cause  the  check  to  arrive  in  Monday's  mail.   In  the  climax  of the ritual,  It  spoke  again,  in  the  same  richly  solemn  "angelic"  voice,  saying, "Thursday."  This  was  accompanied  by  a  vision  of the  check  in the  mailbox.  The  Skeptic  immediately  com-municated  the  prophecy  to  Arlen  and  to  two  neighbors,  Charles  Hixson  and  Stephen  McAuley,  who  will  confirm  this.  The  check  did  arrive  on  Thursday.  Mostly,  the  Holy  Guardian  Angel  still  communicated  by  synchronicity.   I  would  look  on  page  23  of a  new  magazine,  and  there would  be  a line  from  a  dream  of the  night  before.  I  must  admit  that  most  of these  messages  were  nauseatingly  moralistic  and  childishly  optimistic  by  the  standards  of our cynical,  swinish  and  despairing  age.   A lot  of them  involved  the  paradoxes of time. Occasionally,  the  Angel  would  speak,  to  give  me  utterly  trivial  information.  For  instance,  I'd  meet  somebody  and  the  Angel  would  say,  "Gemini."   I  would  ask,  to  check  out the Angel's  credibility,  "Are you  a Gemini?"  The  answer  would  be  yes.  These  cases  I  firmly  classified  as  my  own mind expanding  its  ESP powers  through  the  convenient  fiction  of an alien  entity,  and  I  disliked  them  intensely,  as  show-offy,  corny  and  tending  to  turn  me  into  a  damned  carnival  act.  Then,  abruptly,  the  entity  would  be  quite  exterior  again,  manifesting  when  I  was  depressed  or  worried,  to  pass  on  mes-sages  of cheer  and  love that  were  too  moving  to  be  ignored. 

I  could  not  help  but  be  grateful  to  it,  whatever  the  hell  it  was.