JONATHAN HULS – AYAHUASCA - 2016
This second attempt at exploring
the world beyond its supposedly sane surface is more than gory and horrible
(the real meaning according to Stephen King, inspiring horror) but in fact
terrible in the very meaning Stephen King gives to that word: it terrorizes the
reader, and terrorized I was and you will be. Let terror grasp and squeeze your
consciousness into mashed pureed goo that has no name in no language in no
world, cosmic or otherwise.
The main two male characters are
just monstrous re-embodiments of two serial killers who have been raised by
absent parents of the upper top middle class. Like any land abandoned to the
care of absent landlords, the two kids were invaded by brambles, stinging
nettle, ivy and all kinds of other life consuming natural regenerators: they
were, the two kids, regenerated into what man has managed to evolve out of,
barbaric animality but with the enhancement and improvement of some good
education that enables them to fly planes, run cars, and devise all kinds of
slow torturing pleasures and annihilating action, annihilating people around
them of course, starting like the Dexter of fame and his brother with small
animals like cats and dogs and moving as fast as they could to babies and then
longing for human beings and finally reaching triple digit figures.
But man is the strangest animal
you can imagine. In this case this man is social so he has to partake in and
share his pleasure with and offer pleasure to the other who is also partaking
in and sharing his own pleasure with and offering pleasure to the first one, etc.:
vicious circle in the form of a syllogism or a snake biting its tail. In fact
this is love at first kill and I am a fool to have any relation with them. But
they are such a barbaric attraction and fascinating flame in the night of
humdrum everyday and every night boredom that is boring through our minds as if
we were clay and it were a tunnel borer.
And just as the two boys or young
men find their pleasure, I mean their bliss, I want to say their hormonal
excitement and jubilation in inflicting some suffering to anyone they meet, we
are surprised to find it also pleasurable in our skulls, and strangely enough
in our pants. But don’t wet yourselves please, men and women who are reading
this book.
When I have said this, I have
little more to add on this line of ranting. So I shift to raving and then it
becomes the most hypnotic mesmerizing fascination with what normal people
should not show and should not consider, let alone look at. Nude bodies
described as if they were still-lifes with firm cucumbers, peeled onions, cored
apples and quartered pears, and in-between a pair of zucchinis and a school of
berries of all types. But no meat whatsoever, just fruit and vegetables that
you can if you want consume raw, and the two boys, or is it young men, want to
salivate on them raw and juicy.
So why do they go to Peru to commit
their serial killing spree in an isolated village up the Amazon? Why don’t they
do the same in an isolated hamlet along the Sacramento River
or some bayou or some meander of the everglades? Because they are cowards! They
could enlist in the marines and go to Iraq
or Afghanistan:
they would have there more than three digit opportunities to kill men, women
and children. But no they are not even patriotic cowards: they are plain
cowards and probably proud of it. So they go to Peru and do what the Spaniards did
before them, but six centuries ago or so: they kill everyone in a village,
absolutely everyone. Yet they are pitiful colonizers because the Spaniards cut
the arms and legs of all males over puberty, leaving them on the ground
bleeding to death, then they kept the women and girls and they threw the boys
under puberty to their dogs. Then they brought some black slaves and forced
them to “marry” the surviving Indian women and they procreated a brand new
species of people ready to be enslaved and worked to death and with as short a
life expectancy as necessary for the colonizers to make a profit out of it.
In other words they are plain
inhuman and un-human. They are beasts with some human literate intellect. And
one of the two falls in love with one of his potential victims so that he has
to take her back home after killing her parents, not so much to enjoy her but
to feed her to a colony of fire ants. He does not even know that you cannot love
those you kill, you can only abuse them and rape them but you have to put them
to death or let them bleed to death in about two hours if you want, dangling
from a tree head down with some kind of
a slash on the side of the throat. Obviously it is no love, it is infatuation.
It is fetish attachment based on feral and lethal attraction.
And lethal this attraction is of
course and the end is the death of the two boys in a way that is far from what
they deserve, and then the slow death of the girl in some inflatable life raft
going through the slow process of self-mutilation known as trichotillomania. Don’t misunderstand me:
this “disease” is accompanied by a high level of consumption of ayahuasca, a
hallucinating drug that negates pain and makes the consumer able to cut himself
into slices one eighth of an inch thick starting with the toes and up to as far
as he/she can go and as slowly as possible for the pleasure, the feeling of
security and the absence of anxiety to last as long as possible.
The author must be mixing his champagne with powdered red chili peppers
and a lot of harissa or pilipili. The description is so high in colors that we
seem to be in some kind of opera, even if it is dancing on its head and
standing upside down in the most perverse and definitely twisted way like this
song that comes back to the poor Cecita, lost as she is in the necessity of her
cecity:
Hey! rub-a-dub, ho! rub-a-dub,
three maids in a tub,
And who do you think were there?
The butcher, the baker, the
candlestick-maker,
And all of them gone to the
fair.
What are these three males doing
in that tub? Where did that poor blind girl saw three maidens? But that’s what
life is at times when it is slowly moving towards death. And sure enough a tub has
to come in the shape of a Flying Hollander of a ship bringing ghosts of dead
people and the main character of this raving tale, death himself, or in fact
since the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker are maidens, death might
very well be a woman, like a transvestite Ancient Mariner of the Romantic tale.
Viva la Muerte, indeed. And that is no passage to India. That is plainly a passage to
the immaterial world of virtual unreality.
Read all the pages, all the lines
and all the words and you might be salvaged and saved and given your epiphany,
at least if you are good readers and you keep in line and you don’t ask faulty
and impertinent questions like: “But why on earth such beings exist among us in
human-looking semblances that we dislike and likenesses that we can’t like?
Dr Jacques COULARDEAU
JONATHAN HULS – THE Nth DAY - 2015
The title of this novel is all
based on old medieval or even older Christian lore and on a simple abbreviation
used now and then, nth being the abbreviation of sev’nth or even t’nth. In The
Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Apocrypha, edited by Andrew Gregory &
Christopher Tuckett, Oxford University Press, 2015, page 133, in the presentation
and discussion of The Apocalypse of Thomas, the author of that chapter refers
the seven days of Genesis to the Apocalypse of Ezra that connects this sev’nth
day with the end, the reversal of time, Doomsday and the Last Judgment.
Apocalypse of
Ezra (2 Esdras/4 Ezra) Chapter 7
30-31 “And the world shall be
turned back to primeval silence for seven days, as it was at the first beginnings;
so that no one shall be left. And after seven days the world, which is not yet
awake, shall be roused, and that which is corruptible shall perish.”
Jonathan Huls takes us on the
road to the Second Coming, and that is no road to Damascus, when there come “an old black man,
a young girl, and a young boy. It was Justin who was born on the 8th day, but
no man knows the length of a day nor what will occur on the 9th as time, to
God, happens over nth days.” (page 153 of the PDF version). The Second Coming
is eight which is only a standing up omega, the end of time, or nearly, because
after that eighth day there is the coming of the Beast, the Dragon 666 = 18 = 2
x 9 or 999, that has to be the 9th day reminding us that jesus died on the 9th
hour, and the tenth day must be the end of what is perishable and the eternal
salvation of the non-perishable, the non corruptible who will go to God’s
house, to the Messianic Jerusalem presented to John by one of the seven angels
carrying the seven bowls of the seven last plagues, the heavenly Jerusalem with
its twelve doors, three on each of the four sides of the square wall built on
twelve foundations of precious gems. After this 9th or 10th days there is only
duration and hence days do not have a rank any more: every on of them is nth.
This
very pattern that is behind the novel is of course essential for the readers who
want to see it, not necessarily believe in it, but can be neglected by the
people who just do not have the culture necessary to enjoy that heritage.
The
novel is then a plain action utopian fantasy that turns frankly dystopian. Three
main characters: the old man, Theodore, the name of God himself, the fatherly
figure, black over 60; then Justin who is born somewhere but is from another
planet especially since he saves from death (rat poison) the third character
Cassie, a girl. Justin, do not necessarily think of Jesus, and Cassie, do not
necessarily think of any Mary you may choose, are just very young teenagers, if
even that old, ten-eleven-twelve at the most and on the outside. Justin and
Cassie will manage to cross the whole USA to end up in Atlanta, Georgia, where
Theodore, one of the richest men in the USA is living the incognito life of a
homeless street person, will manage to recuperate them from a crazy popular
upheaval severely repressed by military personnel. This end is simple
cataclysmic and apocalyptic. But what led to that carnage?
Justin
in his flight east from foster homes meets with a family of monstrous social
exploiters in the middle of nowhere in some quasi desert region along a main
highway in Nevada or New Mexico, but who cares anyway. Justin who had saved
Cassie from death when they were two at the most, leading to the total crazy
derangement of her mother, gets through but destroys the trove of these gas,
kerosene and human flesh vendors by destroying the den utterly with fire, that
he sets himself. Before in that store he decided to punish the vendor who was
utterly unfriendly, hostile by making all banknotes blank. But his talent gets
out of hand slightly and this spreads all over the world, ignoring that at
least 90% of our monetary exchanges are done with virtual electronic digital
money circulating in the cloud. But let’s suspend our disbelief.
Then
Havoc is the rest of that novel, more than a good hefty half.
I won’t
say more otherwise they are going to kill me for spoiling their suspension of
their disbelieving.
This novel
is a typical reflection of and on the modern world, right now, globalizing and
globalized, terrorizing and terrorized, exploitative and exploited, alienating
and alienated, fearful and frightening, frightened and fear-mongering. Just
enjoy this recomposed trinity of an older man, a young second coming Jesus and
a young resurrected Mary. Son and daughter are no longer the stake of today.
It’s only a question of generations and this book preaches as hard and loud as
possible that the older generation has nothing to lose any more but they have
everything to give to the younger generation, the children, the teenagers. It
preaches intergenerational love but without any blood relation, though without
any exclusion of it either, though the only blood related clan is nothing but a
band of wolf-like hyenas. Blood relations? Thanks very much. Family relations?
Nothing but foster raising farm-like chicken coops. Thank you very much. Enjoy
the last image: the world of tomorrow of three errant beings who will look like
a new version of the three sisters, the three furies, the three harpies who
will descend onto the world in a tornado of locusts and in a tempest of
calamities. That sure is not the dream some have of a peaceful and luminous
ending, a closure in happiness.
You can
of course consider the author is a heretic, a monster, a diabolic spirit that
has to be exterminated, an unbeliever if you prefer. But if you exterminated
this author you would not even dilute the fear and the anger that is behind
that vision with one drop of water that would be one trillionth of a cubic
millimeter in a sea of blood, vomit and feces. And my words are delicate when
compared with Jonathan’s.
Dr
Jacques COULARDEAU
# posted by Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU @ 2:02 PM