https://www.createspace.com/3807595
My analysis of a book that fascinated my husband Philip K. Dick.
~~~
It's a Philip K. Dick World! “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” —Philip K. Dick Government intrusion into our personal lives is increasing, the economy is shot and the media focus on hate and violence. Philip K. Dick's fifth and last wife, Tessa Dick, talks about her husband. I have my own books and stories, as well.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Allegro's Mushroom now available in paperback
now available in paperback!
https://www.createspace.com/3807595
My analysis of a book that fascinated my husband Philip K. Dick.
~~~
https://www.createspace.com/3807595
My analysis of a book that fascinated my husband Philip K. Dick.
~~~
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Allegro's Mushroom -- book excerpt
From my work in progress:
My husband Philip K. Dick became obsessed with John M. Allegro’s book The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross, which was first published in 1970, then disappeared amid a storm of controversy and was finally reissued in 2009, more than 20 years after Allegro’s death at age 65 in 1988. The thesis of Allegro’s book is that Christianity had its origin in a cult of mushroom eaters who told the fictional story of Jesus to disguise their recipes for vision-inducing drugs. He goes on to assert that early Christianity was simply one of many fertility cults.
Allegro was part of the original team that worked on the Dead Sea scrolls, until his refusal to fall in line with the orthodox interpretation of the scrolls led the team leader to publicly attack his work and eventually replace him. Any scholar who disagreed with the official “truth” was ridiculed or ignored by the small team of scholars (usually numbering half a dozen) who jealously guarded their treasure. For example, the team agreed that the scrolls had been written, and then hidden in caves, by a small Jewish sect known as Essenes, even though more recent scholarship tends to support the idea that the scrolls belonged to observant Jews. The scrolls might even have been secretly removed from Jerusalem shortly before the Romans captured Jerusalem and destroyed the Temple (Golb, pages 143 and 145-146).
Since only a handful of scholars had access to the scrolls, and they refused to allow other scholars to see them – or even to look at photographs of them – the orthodox interpretation faced few serious challenges until the Huntington Library began making microfilm copies of the scrolls available to all qualified scholars in 1991.
Norman Golb asserts that Allegro wrote The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross as a reaction to, and revenge for, being pushed out of the scrolls team (page 126, footnote). It certainly does attack Christianity, as Golb noted, and the primary members of the team were Catholic priests.
When Allegro published his book in 1970, he was immediately attacked by traditional scholars – not only the Dead Sea scrolls team – for his startling thesis that Christianity had its origins in a fertility cult that used hallucinogenic mushrooms. However, more recent scholarship and a number of primary texts and images from early Christianity tend to support Allegro’s theory about Amanita muscaria. However, his book contains errors and wild speculations that make it easy to find fault with his thesis. He seems to find what he is looking for, regardless of whether it actually exists.
The Amanita muscaria is a mushroom with white spots on the bright red cap, sitting atop a white stem. Numerous scholars have pointed out its resemblance to the red-and-white costume worn by Santa Claus. Like most red fruits, this mushroom is poisonous. It also causes hallucinations, plus wild frenzy followed by lethargy. It is also a purge, causing severe diarrhea. Allegro speculated that fertility cults used this mushroom to produce enthusiasm, in the sense of being filled with the divine spirit. He further speculated that Jesus Christ was simply a symbolic character who personified the mushroom. This proposition, of course, ignores the biblical prohibition against sorcery, which at the time meant pharmacy, the use of psychoactive drugs. Yet Allegro insists upon finding secret codes in the Bible that boil down to recipes for hallucinogenic potions.
I am going to be very tough on Allegro’s thesis, but The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross does have a great deal of value as an exploration of ancient religious ideas. I simply cannot agree that every snake is a penis and every womb is the volva (immature mushroom), or that a mushroom is a hermaphroditic creature consisting of a penis to be worshipped as God the Father while penetrating its own womb.
My husband Philip K. Dick became obsessed with John M. Allegro’s book The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross, which was first published in 1970, then disappeared amid a storm of controversy and was finally reissued in 2009, more than 20 years after Allegro’s death at age 65 in 1988. The thesis of Allegro’s book is that Christianity had its origin in a cult of mushroom eaters who told the fictional story of Jesus to disguise their recipes for vision-inducing drugs. He goes on to assert that early Christianity was simply one of many fertility cults.
Allegro was part of the original team that worked on the Dead Sea scrolls, until his refusal to fall in line with the orthodox interpretation of the scrolls led the team leader to publicly attack his work and eventually replace him. Any scholar who disagreed with the official “truth” was ridiculed or ignored by the small team of scholars (usually numbering half a dozen) who jealously guarded their treasure. For example, the team agreed that the scrolls had been written, and then hidden in caves, by a small Jewish sect known as Essenes, even though more recent scholarship tends to support the idea that the scrolls belonged to observant Jews. The scrolls might even have been secretly removed from Jerusalem shortly before the Romans captured Jerusalem and destroyed the Temple (Golb, pages 143 and 145-146).
Since only a handful of scholars had access to the scrolls, and they refused to allow other scholars to see them – or even to look at photographs of them – the orthodox interpretation faced few serious challenges until the Huntington Library began making microfilm copies of the scrolls available to all qualified scholars in 1991.
Norman Golb asserts that Allegro wrote The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross as a reaction to, and revenge for, being pushed out of the scrolls team (page 126, footnote). It certainly does attack Christianity, as Golb noted, and the primary members of the team were Catholic priests.
When Allegro published his book in 1970, he was immediately attacked by traditional scholars – not only the Dead Sea scrolls team – for his startling thesis that Christianity had its origins in a fertility cult that used hallucinogenic mushrooms. However, more recent scholarship and a number of primary texts and images from early Christianity tend to support Allegro’s theory about Amanita muscaria. However, his book contains errors and wild speculations that make it easy to find fault with his thesis. He seems to find what he is looking for, regardless of whether it actually exists.
The Amanita muscaria is a mushroom with white spots on the bright red cap, sitting atop a white stem. Numerous scholars have pointed out its resemblance to the red-and-white costume worn by Santa Claus. Like most red fruits, this mushroom is poisonous. It also causes hallucinations, plus wild frenzy followed by lethargy. It is also a purge, causing severe diarrhea. Allegro speculated that fertility cults used this mushroom to produce enthusiasm, in the sense of being filled with the divine spirit. He further speculated that Jesus Christ was simply a symbolic character who personified the mushroom. This proposition, of course, ignores the biblical prohibition against sorcery, which at the time meant pharmacy, the use of psychoactive drugs. Yet Allegro insists upon finding secret codes in the Bible that boil down to recipes for hallucinogenic potions.
I am going to be very tough on Allegro’s thesis, but The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross does have a great deal of value as an exploration of ancient religious ideas. I simply cannot agree that every snake is a penis and every womb is the volva (immature mushroom), or that a mushroom is a hermaphroditic creature consisting of a penis to be worshipped as God the Father while penetrating its own womb.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
and all I got was this lousy post card
Well, it's actually a letter, but the sentiment is the same.
I never saw a penny of the consultant fee that Jason Koornick promised me for my participation in his PKD biopic, even though the movie has been out for ten years.
That money could pay my bills for two or three months, but when I ask Jason about it, he ignores me.
So all I got was this lousy letter:
I never saw a penny of the consultant fee that Jason Koornick promised me for my participation in his PKD biopic, even though the movie has been out for ten years.
That money could pay my bills for two or three months, but when I ask Jason about it, he ignores me.
So all I got was this lousy letter:
Monday, January 9, 2012
Magic mushrooms? John Allegro's book examined
My next book will be an exploration of John Allegro's book The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross, a work that fascinated my husband.
Allegro, a member of the Dead Sea scrolls team, developed a shocking thesis about early Christianity. He asserted that it was just one of many fertility cults, and that the early Christians achieved visionary experiences by eating a poisonous mushroom.
Watch for my book and Allegro's book, coming soon.
~~~
Allegro, a member of the Dead Sea scrolls team, developed a shocking thesis about early Christianity. He asserted that it was just one of many fertility cults, and that the early Christians achieved visionary experiences by eating a poisonous mushroom.
Watch for my book and Allegro's book, coming soon.
~~~
Friday, January 6, 2012
The Postmistress - book review
I read Sarah Blake's novel The Postmistress because it was this month's selection for the local book club.
I have mixed feelings about it, since the story is so important but the author is somewhat lacking in skill to tell it. Here's the beginning of my review:
Sarah Blake used a wealth of actual and imaginary history to craft a tale about ordinary people living through the horrors of Nazi Germany’s march across Europe, the London Blitzkrieg and the pogrom against European Jews. Based partly on research and mostly on imagination, she takes us into the lives of a menagerie – and there lies the problem. She gives us too many main characters, none of whom is the postmistress of the novel’s title. The story of Iris James, Postmistress of Franklin, Massachusetts, turns out to be peripheral to the central story. Moreover, so many stories are told that the central story gets lost in the tangle of smaller stories.
Please follow the link and read my full review. It will increase the pittance that Epinions pays me.
http://www.epinions.com/review/Book_The_Postmistress_Sarah_Blake/content_575649189508
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have mixed feelings about it, since the story is so important but the author is somewhat lacking in skill to tell it. Here's the beginning of my review:
Sarah Blake used a wealth of actual and imaginary history to craft a tale about ordinary people living through the horrors of Nazi Germany’s march across Europe, the London Blitzkrieg and the pogrom against European Jews. Based partly on research and mostly on imagination, she takes us into the lives of a menagerie – and there lies the problem. She gives us too many main characters, none of whom is the postmistress of the novel’s title. The story of Iris James, Postmistress of Franklin, Massachusetts, turns out to be peripheral to the central story. Moreover, so many stories are told that the central story gets lost in the tangle of smaller stories.
Please follow the link and read my full review. It will increase the pittance that Epinions pays me.
http://www.epinions.com/review/Book_The_Postmistress_Sarah_Blake/content_575649189508
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
sneak preview -- my second murder mystery
Murder Bleeds
A Lavinia Stout Murder Mystery
By Tessa B. Dick
Chapter One
I keep my license with me at all times, even when I am outside California, the only state where it is valid. The shiny, officially embossed, laminated piece of wallet-size paper rests inside one of those plastic pouches that are designed to keep your fishing license dry, even if you fall into a lake. My license reads: Lavinia Stout, Licensed Private investigator. My friends call me Livvy, while other people try to stifle a giggle when they call me Miss Stout, a name that evokes an image quite the opposite of my short, thin body.
I never expected to find myself investigating vampires, even though I thoroughly enjoyed that old TV show “Kolchak, the Night Stalker”. Fantasy is fine for entertainment, but a detective deals in facts.
I’ll explain later how I came to be riding on a Greyhound bus from Phoenix, Arizona, to San Bernardino, California. Let’s just say that my dependable old Honda Accord had finally met its end, not due to any fault of its own, but courtesy of a reckless driver who shared the road with me. I would like to point out here that it’s quite comfortable sleeping in the driver’s seat of a Honda Accord when you recline the seat back as far as it will go.
I had arrived at the station about seven in the morning, but the 8:30 bus was already sold out, so I bought a ticket for the next bus to San Bernardino, which was scheduled for 11:30. If I had known how much it would cost me for a one-way ticket with one checked bag, I might have gone to the airport instead. It would have cost about the same to fly from Phoenix to Ontario, a trip of less than an hour. I was slightly annoyed when they weighed my bag and charged me a couple bucks extra for it, as if this were an airline, where the weight of the load would make a real difference in the fuel consumption. It was too late to change my mind now, since I was too tired to navigate the Phoenix bus system and too cheap to pay for a taxi cab. Moreover, Homeland Security rules made the last-minute purchase of a one-way airline ticket look very suspicious, and I didn’t feel up to having my bags and body searched.
I had come a long way since putting up the new sign on my storefront in the strip mall back home: Lavinia Stout, Private Investigator, replacing Madame Lavinia, Psychic Readings. Somehow, my name seemed to fit the psychic reader more than the detective, but there was no going back now. Ever since my adventure with Mark and Doris Bell in Denver, I had no more taste for deception. But I hadn’t expected to get myself into so much trouble by changing careers. I had rescued the victim of a gang attack, only to have him turn on me and try to strangle me, been accused of murdering a man that I barely knew and sent on a fool’s errand to Phoenix in the middle of summer, when the heat was unbearable. It was actually 117 degrees Fahrenheit, with no spot of shade to be found. At least the bus station was air conditioned, but they kept it so cold that I had to wear a sweater.
The 8:30 bus came and went, leaving about a dozen people still waiting in line because the bus was full. I surveyed the other passengers at the Phoenix station, wondering whether I would be riding with any of them – even the thought of the shadowy people that I had encountered back in the mountains sent a shiver through my spine like a cat wrapping itself around a pole. I had begun to believe that vampires were real. They certainly did drink blood, but sunlight didn’t seem to bother them, and they even wore large silver crosses on their black leather outfits. Even so, a few of them did seem to have an uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere and disappear just as mysteriously.
The people in the bus station seemed ordinary enough. I first noticed two young Chinese men who sat on their suitcases conversing in their native language. From their clothing – black slacks and white shirts – I guessed that they were college students. From their haircuts – long on one side and very stylish – I guessed that they were from Taiwan and had money. I wondered why they didn’t rent a car.
A couple with three small children waited in the priority boarding line where you could be assured of a seat and you could get on the bus ahead of ordinary passengers, for a fee of $5 for each adult. If I had small children, I would have thought it well worth the extra money. I also noticed that the woman had another baby coming; she appeared to be about ready to give birth at any moment. I hoped that it wouldn’t happen before we got to San Bernardino.
A blond man with a backpack that looked too heavy for his thin frame explained to me that he had been trying to get on a bus since midnight, but Greyhound had oversold the seats and he kept getting bumped. That sounded like another good reason to pay for priority boarding. I considered it, but my parsimonious nature prevailed.
I made my way to the coffee shop nestled in a room about the size of a cubby hole set into the wall opposite the ticket counter, weaving a path among bags and boxes sitting on the floor and waiting passengers in various poses, until finally I approached the few overpriced items of food and drink that they offered. A standing rack made of folded cardboard displayed paperback books with garish covers. Half a dozen little round, white plastic tables stood just outside the coffee shop, and a few generous people had left magazines and newspapers on the tables for others to read. I bought a small cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. It cost me almost $6, which I considered outrageous, but I needed the caffeine and calories.
Various announcements came over the loudspeaker from time to time, but it was so crackly that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Passengers lined up and boarded buses for various locations in Arizona and New Mexico, but the line for San Bernardino stayed put. People milled around, talked to each other, watched cartoons on the overhead television set and sometimes sat on the steel benches that had been provided by some twisted sadist. If you had a pillow, sitting on those benches could be made less painful. I did not have a pillow. The waiting time dragged like an abused puppy who is afraid to walk on a leash.
When I first arrived at the station, one of the two overhead television sets had been showing the cable news, but at 9:00 it switched to the same cartoons that were on the other set. I set my bag down on the floor and sat on it, which turned out to be much more comfortable than the steel benches.
A Lavinia Stout Murder Mystery
By Tessa B. Dick
Chapter One
I keep my license with me at all times, even when I am outside California, the only state where it is valid. The shiny, officially embossed, laminated piece of wallet-size paper rests inside one of those plastic pouches that are designed to keep your fishing license dry, even if you fall into a lake. My license reads: Lavinia Stout, Licensed Private investigator. My friends call me Livvy, while other people try to stifle a giggle when they call me Miss Stout, a name that evokes an image quite the opposite of my short, thin body.
I never expected to find myself investigating vampires, even though I thoroughly enjoyed that old TV show “Kolchak, the Night Stalker”. Fantasy is fine for entertainment, but a detective deals in facts.
I’ll explain later how I came to be riding on a Greyhound bus from Phoenix, Arizona, to San Bernardino, California. Let’s just say that my dependable old Honda Accord had finally met its end, not due to any fault of its own, but courtesy of a reckless driver who shared the road with me. I would like to point out here that it’s quite comfortable sleeping in the driver’s seat of a Honda Accord when you recline the seat back as far as it will go.
I had arrived at the station about seven in the morning, but the 8:30 bus was already sold out, so I bought a ticket for the next bus to San Bernardino, which was scheduled for 11:30. If I had known how much it would cost me for a one-way ticket with one checked bag, I might have gone to the airport instead. It would have cost about the same to fly from Phoenix to Ontario, a trip of less than an hour. I was slightly annoyed when they weighed my bag and charged me a couple bucks extra for it, as if this were an airline, where the weight of the load would make a real difference in the fuel consumption. It was too late to change my mind now, since I was too tired to navigate the Phoenix bus system and too cheap to pay for a taxi cab. Moreover, Homeland Security rules made the last-minute purchase of a one-way airline ticket look very suspicious, and I didn’t feel up to having my bags and body searched.
I had come a long way since putting up the new sign on my storefront in the strip mall back home: Lavinia Stout, Private Investigator, replacing Madame Lavinia, Psychic Readings. Somehow, my name seemed to fit the psychic reader more than the detective, but there was no going back now. Ever since my adventure with Mark and Doris Bell in Denver, I had no more taste for deception. But I hadn’t expected to get myself into so much trouble by changing careers. I had rescued the victim of a gang attack, only to have him turn on me and try to strangle me, been accused of murdering a man that I barely knew and sent on a fool’s errand to Phoenix in the middle of summer, when the heat was unbearable. It was actually 117 degrees Fahrenheit, with no spot of shade to be found. At least the bus station was air conditioned, but they kept it so cold that I had to wear a sweater.
The 8:30 bus came and went, leaving about a dozen people still waiting in line because the bus was full. I surveyed the other passengers at the Phoenix station, wondering whether I would be riding with any of them – even the thought of the shadowy people that I had encountered back in the mountains sent a shiver through my spine like a cat wrapping itself around a pole. I had begun to believe that vampires were real. They certainly did drink blood, but sunlight didn’t seem to bother them, and they even wore large silver crosses on their black leather outfits. Even so, a few of them did seem to have an uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere and disappear just as mysteriously.
The people in the bus station seemed ordinary enough. I first noticed two young Chinese men who sat on their suitcases conversing in their native language. From their clothing – black slacks and white shirts – I guessed that they were college students. From their haircuts – long on one side and very stylish – I guessed that they were from Taiwan and had money. I wondered why they didn’t rent a car.
A couple with three small children waited in the priority boarding line where you could be assured of a seat and you could get on the bus ahead of ordinary passengers, for a fee of $5 for each adult. If I had small children, I would have thought it well worth the extra money. I also noticed that the woman had another baby coming; she appeared to be about ready to give birth at any moment. I hoped that it wouldn’t happen before we got to San Bernardino.
A blond man with a backpack that looked too heavy for his thin frame explained to me that he had been trying to get on a bus since midnight, but Greyhound had oversold the seats and he kept getting bumped. That sounded like another good reason to pay for priority boarding. I considered it, but my parsimonious nature prevailed.
I made my way to the coffee shop nestled in a room about the size of a cubby hole set into the wall opposite the ticket counter, weaving a path among bags and boxes sitting on the floor and waiting passengers in various poses, until finally I approached the few overpriced items of food and drink that they offered. A standing rack made of folded cardboard displayed paperback books with garish covers. Half a dozen little round, white plastic tables stood just outside the coffee shop, and a few generous people had left magazines and newspapers on the tables for others to read. I bought a small cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. It cost me almost $6, which I considered outrageous, but I needed the caffeine and calories.
Various announcements came over the loudspeaker from time to time, but it was so crackly that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Passengers lined up and boarded buses for various locations in Arizona and New Mexico, but the line for San Bernardino stayed put. People milled around, talked to each other, watched cartoons on the overhead television set and sometimes sat on the steel benches that had been provided by some twisted sadist. If you had a pillow, sitting on those benches could be made less painful. I did not have a pillow. The waiting time dragged like an abused puppy who is afraid to walk on a leash.
When I first arrived at the station, one of the two overhead television sets had been showing the cable news, but at 9:00 it switched to the same cartoons that were on the other set. I set my bag down on the floor and sat on it, which turned out to be much more comfortable than the steel benches.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Flickering Reality -- book review
So sorry that it took me this long to figure out how to upload my stuff at the library. It's a long story, but I no longer have Internet at home. I'm really broke and unable to work, and still trying to maneuver thru the disability maze.
Here's my review of A Flickering Reality, and great nonfiction book that looks at alternate reailty in film.
David Peat’s A Flickering Reality: Cinema and the nature of reality
My interest in this book began form the fact that it discusses some of the films that have been based on books and stories by my husband Philip K. Dick. However, the value of the work does not end there. In fact, David Peat outlines our recent technological history with a view to the reasons why our reality is very much like the movies, as well as the reasons why computers cannot achieve true artificial intelligence, but only an approximation thereof.
I found myself immersed in David Peat’s train of thought as he led me through the mirrors of mind, movie and reality. He explores the meaning of human consciousness while focusing on films like The Truman Show, The Matrix and The Men who Stare at Goats.
This exploration of science and philosophy goes beyond the movies to the fabric of our reality and the essence of ourselves.
Peat invites us to speculate as to whether we live in a simulated reality and whether we, ourselves are real.
It’s a fascinating read.
Five stars out of five.
Excellent!
David Peat
A Flickering Reality: Cinema and the nature of reality
Pari, Italy: Pari Publishing, 2011
~~~
Here's my review of A Flickering Reality, and great nonfiction book that looks at alternate reailty in film.
David Peat’s A Flickering Reality: Cinema and the nature of reality
My interest in this book began form the fact that it discusses some of the films that have been based on books and stories by my husband Philip K. Dick. However, the value of the work does not end there. In fact, David Peat outlines our recent technological history with a view to the reasons why our reality is very much like the movies, as well as the reasons why computers cannot achieve true artificial intelligence, but only an approximation thereof.
I found myself immersed in David Peat’s train of thought as he led me through the mirrors of mind, movie and reality. He explores the meaning of human consciousness while focusing on films like The Truman Show, The Matrix and The Men who Stare at Goats.
This exploration of science and philosophy goes beyond the movies to the fabric of our reality and the essence of ourselves.
Peat invites us to speculate as to whether we live in a simulated reality and whether we, ourselves are real.
It’s a fascinating read.
Five stars out of five.
Excellent!
David Peat
A Flickering Reality: Cinema and the nature of reality
Pari, Italy: Pari Publishing, 2011
~~~
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