| Legends of the Metasphere A Collection of Speculative Fiction and Mythic Adventures by Joseph Kerrick |
| 216 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); US$17.95, C$20.64, EUR14.74, £10.32 Beyond the laws of science lies the metaphysical realm, a mind-boggling multiverse where the ancient Gods still live, and battle the forces of darkness for the souls of human beings. |
The stories in Legends of the Metasphere are
populated with a phantasmagoria of remarkable
beings from the past, present, and future ~ and
with very realistic men and women, whose
ventures into the metasphere transform them
into heroes and heroines of truly mythic stature.
The first story in the anthology is The
Metamorph, which portrays life after death in
terms as believable as fine science fiction. Here
are some comments which readers sent to the
author:
"It's the finest and most succinct everlasting love
story that I have ever read. It is also an
excellent crash course in religious metaphysics."
-- Donald Glick, planetary oncologist
"To Joseph Kerrick, master performer of the
world to be! 'Metamorph': what a fantastic
concept ~ and so ably achieved. I worried at
first after Melissa died whether or not you would
be able to 'suspend the disbelief'; but you did."
-- Edwin Massey, poet
The second story is a retelling of the timeless
legend of Parsifal and the Holy Grail. The
author was especially inspired by Richard
Wagner's operatic version. Here are comments
from a man named Peter, who went to see the
opera for the first time:
"It's just with extreme luck that I found your Parsifal story on the Internet. Your portrayal of the
events was so moving that I felt compelled to send this email to thank you for your work. The
opera was resplendently magnificent! But I must admit that I like your story better than Wagner's.
Your elaboration of the seduction scenes in particular are more poetic and beautiful than his."
The third story is a novella: The Visions of Victor and Beatrice. Part I is The Wedding of Star
and Shadow, in which the hero Victor travels to the ends of the universe in a near-death
experience. Part II is titled Do Robots Go To Electric Heaven? This time Victor's lover Beatrice is
swept into the metasphere, a harrowing journey in which she discovers the nightmarish reality
behind the illusions of life as she had known it. (348 words)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
About the Author
events was so moving that I felt compelled to send this email to thank you for your work. The
opera was resplendently magnificent! But I must admit that I like your story better than Wagner's.
Your elaboration of the seduction scenes in particular are more poetic and beautiful than his."
The third story is a novella: The Visions of Victor and Beatrice. Part I is The Wedding of Star
and Shadow, in which the hero Victor travels to the ends of the universe in a near-death
experience. Part II is titled Do Robots Go To Electric Heaven? This time Victor's lover Beatrice is
swept into the metasphere, a harrowing journey in which she discovers the nightmarish reality
behind the illusions of life as she had known it. (348 words)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
About the Author
Joseph Kerrick spent several years in what he described as "the
magical universe". The physical coordinates were Telegraph
Avenue in Berkeley, California, home to a whole congeries of
visionaries and wizards, trippers and mystics, colorful street people
and hardcore crazies. The adventure culminated for Joseph in
1985 with an event that he experienced as an apocalyptic
transformation, and was diagnosed by a psychiatrist as a psychotic
episode.
Whichever way you may interpret it, the result was that he went
back to his loved ones, raised his son, and integrated his strange
experiences into life as we know it on planet Earth. Like John
Nash in A Beautiful Mind, his recovery took decades ~ but the
difference is that along the way Joseph used the fruit of his
psychotic adventures to create hauntingly beautiful fictional
stories, which have attracted a small but enthusiastic readership in
the alternative press and on the World Wide Web over the past
twenty years.
magical universe". The physical coordinates were Telegraph
Avenue in Berkeley, California, home to a whole congeries of
visionaries and wizards, trippers and mystics, colorful street people
and hardcore crazies. The adventure culminated for Joseph in
1985 with an event that he experienced as an apocalyptic
transformation, and was diagnosed by a psychiatrist as a psychotic
episode.
Whichever way you may interpret it, the result was that he went
back to his loved ones, raised his son, and integrated his strange
experiences into life as we know it on planet Earth. Like John
Nash in A Beautiful Mind, his recovery took decades ~ but the
difference is that along the way Joseph used the fruit of his
psychotic adventures to create hauntingly beautiful fictional
stories, which have attracted a small but enthusiastic readership in
the alternative press and on the World Wide Web over the past
twenty years.
| Legends of the Metasphere is available on amazon.com |
In those ancient days when there were no electronic media, any individual could TELL A VISON to friends and
family, tribe or clan, right in the live action of daily life. Some such stories were so striking and memorable that
they were told and retold, and passed down through the generations.
Sometimes it was just a matter of good storytelling, but often the vision itself is what made the difference. If the
teller was convinced that the vision was real, and had far-reaching implications, the certainty and intensity would
transmit itself to the hearers, and the vision might be accepted as a true account of something that really
happened to the person in another realm.
In modern times visions were disbelieved, along with everything outside the material realm. People who told their
visions were often ridiculed, and sometimes even branded as crazy. But some visionaries found a clever way to
tell their stories anyway: they pretended that they weren't true. This may well have been the origin of FICTION as
a literary form.
The very concept of fiction did not exist at any time or in any place before, or outside of, the culture that began
in Europe with the Renaissance, and later enveloped the globe under the generic identity of "modern civilization".
In all other cultures, there was (and is) no such clean-cut, dualistic line between the truth and falsehood of stories
that were (and are) told as narrative, written as literature, or enacted as drama.
Myths and legends especially were always held to convey the highest forms of truth. In an effort to reinvoke this
primal sensibility, a modern chronicler has correctly said that myth is TRUER THAN TRUTH. Yet in the larger
profane context of pop culture, the word "myth" still bears the incorrect valence of "falsity". This is why I find it
necessary to preface my neomythical tales with this disclaimer.
I know that at least a minority of readers will grasp the meaning, because today in the postmodern era some
people are beginning to believe in visions again. A few even find their way to the numenal realms, and return to
tell the tale. Many of them do it in a straightforward factual manner, describing an amazing range of
supraphysical adventures:
(1) Near-death experiences (NDE)
(2) Out-of-body experiences (OOBE)
(3) Encounters with beings perceived as:
I myself have had some of these experiences (including madness), and have told my tales in factual format many
times: personally to friends, in booklets distributed through the alternative press, and on the World Wide Web.
Nevertheless, I find that fiction still has certain advantages as a format.
Even the most croggling numenal experiences are usually partial and specific ~ and thus even the most
advanced adepts must undergo innumerable such experiences before they attain the complete, total,
comprehensive picture of all and everything, and the final realization of what it all means. But in the wonderful
world of myth ~ or its pale postmodern vestige called "fiction" ~ a single hero can combine a thousand trips and a
thousand faces into one, and deliver the goods about the length and breadth and height of the multi-omni-
universe in one swell foop, one deftly-rendered story. Or two or three at the very most.
Therefore you have in hand this anthology of a mere three stories duly categorized as fiction ~ but if you grasp it
(or grok it) in fullness, you may find that it opens a portal to a realm that is more real than real, and a fabulous
modality that is truer than truth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
family, tribe or clan, right in the live action of daily life. Some such stories were so striking and memorable that
they were told and retold, and passed down through the generations.
Sometimes it was just a matter of good storytelling, but often the vision itself is what made the difference. If the
teller was convinced that the vision was real, and had far-reaching implications, the certainty and intensity would
transmit itself to the hearers, and the vision might be accepted as a true account of something that really
happened to the person in another realm.
In modern times visions were disbelieved, along with everything outside the material realm. People who told their
visions were often ridiculed, and sometimes even branded as crazy. But some visionaries found a clever way to
tell their stories anyway: they pretended that they weren't true. This may well have been the origin of FICTION as
a literary form.
The very concept of fiction did not exist at any time or in any place before, or outside of, the culture that began
in Europe with the Renaissance, and later enveloped the globe under the generic identity of "modern civilization".
In all other cultures, there was (and is) no such clean-cut, dualistic line between the truth and falsehood of stories
that were (and are) told as narrative, written as literature, or enacted as drama.
Myths and legends especially were always held to convey the highest forms of truth. In an effort to reinvoke this
primal sensibility, a modern chronicler has correctly said that myth is TRUER THAN TRUTH. Yet in the larger
profane context of pop culture, the word "myth" still bears the incorrect valence of "falsity". This is why I find it
necessary to preface my neomythical tales with this disclaimer.
I know that at least a minority of readers will grasp the meaning, because today in the postmodern era some
people are beginning to believe in visions again. A few even find their way to the numenal realms, and return to
tell the tale. Many of them do it in a straightforward factual manner, describing an amazing range of
supraphysical adventures:
(1) Near-death experiences (NDE)
(2) Out-of-body experiences (OOBE)
(3) Encounters with beings perceived as:
- space aliens
- angels or demons
- the souls of the dead
- pagan or neopagan gods
- the ultimate God of all the cosmos
- drugs, formerly called "psychedelic" (mind-manifesting), now called "entheogenic"
- spiritual practices like yoga, meditation, etc.
- spontaneous numenal events
- madness, defined as spontaneous numenal events which overwhelm the individuals,
I myself have had some of these experiences (including madness), and have told my tales in factual format many
times: personally to friends, in booklets distributed through the alternative press, and on the World Wide Web.
Nevertheless, I find that fiction still has certain advantages as a format.
Even the most croggling numenal experiences are usually partial and specific ~ and thus even the most
advanced adepts must undergo innumerable such experiences before they attain the complete, total,
comprehensive picture of all and everything, and the final realization of what it all means. But in the wonderful
world of myth ~ or its pale postmodern vestige called "fiction" ~ a single hero can combine a thousand trips and a
thousand faces into one, and deliver the goods about the length and breadth and height of the multi-omni-
universe in one swell foop, one deftly-rendered story. Or two or three at the very most.
Therefore you have in hand this anthology of a mere three stories duly categorized as fiction ~ but if you grasp it
(or grok it) in fullness, you may find that it opens a portal to a realm that is more real than real, and a fabulous
modality that is truer than truth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpts:
| Introduction: How Much Truth Can Fiction Hold? |
From The Metamorph:
(The situation is that the protagonists,
Peter and Melissa, have been transformed
into human butterflies in the metasphere.
His body has a golden color, and hers
silver, for reasons that are explained in
the text):
Now the rhythm of their movements was
almost that of a single organism. Their
limbs shifted and flowed in time with the
sibilant beat of their wings. Their eyes
were constant mirrors now, and there was
only one way to sate the yearning each
felt to meld into the other. Peter's golden
member hailed Melissa's labia, and
received their kiss. It gave a thrust, and
was engulfed.
And now they flew with the
thrust-and-push ullulation, their wings and
heartbeats entirely synched. For now they
were very nearly one as they looped and
dove, and pirouetted back toward the Sun.
They played like this for ages, locked
together in timeless expectant ecstasy.
And at last, with eyes wide open, they
climaxed.
Each flowed into the other through their
loins, their hearts, and their eyes. And
then there were not two butterflies but
one, pulsing in love forever beneath the
Sun.
(The situation is that the protagonists,
Peter and Melissa, have been transformed
into human butterflies in the metasphere.
His body has a golden color, and hers
silver, for reasons that are explained in
the text):
Now the rhythm of their movements was
almost that of a single organism. Their
limbs shifted and flowed in time with the
sibilant beat of their wings. Their eyes
were constant mirrors now, and there was
only one way to sate the yearning each
felt to meld into the other. Peter's golden
member hailed Melissa's labia, and
received their kiss. It gave a thrust, and
was engulfed.
And now they flew with the
thrust-and-push ullulation, their wings and
heartbeats entirely synched. For now they
were very nearly one as they looped and
dove, and pirouetted back toward the Sun.
They played like this for ages, locked
together in timeless expectant ecstasy.
And at last, with eyes wide open, they
climaxed.
Each flowed into the other through their
loins, their hearts, and their eyes. And
then there were not two butterflies but
one, pulsing in love forever beneath the
Sun.
But the pulse at length waned, eternity ran down; the creature clove in twain, and a gold and a
silver butterfly plummeted like twin Icaruses away from the face of the Sun. Their wings caught
the breeze, and they righted themselves. They joined hands, and floated gently to the ground.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
silver butterfly plummeted like twin Icaruses away from the face of the Sun. Their wings caught
the breeze, and they righted themselves. They joined hands, and floated gently to the ground.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From Parsifal and the Holy Grail:
The flower maidens evoked all their charms and wiles to seduce Parsifal, but despite a lingering temptation he
finally rejected them, and entered the castle in search of Klingsor. Here he immediately encountered Kundry,
lying on a divan in a lushly-appointed chamber, with the heady scent of incense in the air and rare wines and
sweetmeats laid out on a table. Of course he did not recognize her as the wild woman he had met, but saw her
instead as an angel come down from heaven. “Linger with me awhile,” she said.
Parsifal walked slowly toward her, as if in a dream, or trance. He sat down on the couch, and as his hand
brushed her leg such a thrill went through him that a million inner battlements and barriers crumbled at once
into dust. She stroked him; he returned the caress, and felt himself go flush with the flames of newly awakened
passion. She twined her arm about his neck like a serpent, and drew him into a kiss.
Long was that kiss ~ and it stirred in Parsifal a memory of his glimpse of the Grail. He pulled away disturbed,
clutching his heart. And then he cried: “Amfortas!”
“What!?” said Kundry, shaken out of her practiced role by this inexplicable outburst.
“I feel his pain!” said Parsifal. “It burns in my heart. It’s terrible! It must be healed, and the Grail Order
redeemed.”
“Here is redemption,” she said, opening her arms, and her garments.
“In the same way was Amfortas beguiled,” he said, rising up in anger. Then he fairly shouted: “Avaunt, harlot!
Get thee gone, so that I may find thy unholy lord and deliver him his due.”
“You dastardly, cruel man!” said Kundry. “If you are so attuned to others’ pain, now feel mine! I, too, am
under a curse, and suffer the fate of the damned. Nothing and no one can save us from the horrid pain of
existence. Our only solace is the brief but blessed redemption in which our minds and hearts dissolve into one
another in the ecstasy of love, and for a fleeting moment we are gone. Then the memory of this joyful instant of
non-being stays with us and redeems the dreary days of self-awareness, as we look forward to the next precious
episode of dissolution, and the next.
“But you,” she said, “are so damnably innocent of the ways of love and life, that you know not that the same
Godhead whom the Grail serves opens to us also in carnal embrace, and makes its presence felt, and sanctifies
the act.”
Now he looked at her not in anger, but surprise. He searched her eyes, then said: “I doubt it not. Though you
seek to deceive me in many ways, I see that this is a truth enthroned at the very heart of you.”
She exulted, thinking she had swayed him back to her will. She embraced him and said, “Then let us not tarry,
my love! Let us storm the heights of heaven right now, in each other’s arms.”
He cast her off again, to her great dismay. “The sin is not in the act,” he said, “but in the actors. If the heart and
the motive are pure, the love is blessed. If not, there will yet be the Devil to pay…. I offer you redemption ~ but
you must repent your ways and wiles.”
“Never!” she said. A terrible curse rose to her lips, but before she could utter it, her eye caught a movement in
the shadows behind Parsifal. It was Klingsor, stealthily creeping up with the Spear in his hand, and now
preparing to heave it with all his might into Parsifal’s back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The flower maidens evoked all their charms and wiles to seduce Parsifal, but despite a lingering temptation he
finally rejected them, and entered the castle in search of Klingsor. Here he immediately encountered Kundry,
lying on a divan in a lushly-appointed chamber, with the heady scent of incense in the air and rare wines and
sweetmeats laid out on a table. Of course he did not recognize her as the wild woman he had met, but saw her
instead as an angel come down from heaven. “Linger with me awhile,” she said.
Parsifal walked slowly toward her, as if in a dream, or trance. He sat down on the couch, and as his hand
brushed her leg such a thrill went through him that a million inner battlements and barriers crumbled at once
into dust. She stroked him; he returned the caress, and felt himself go flush with the flames of newly awakened
passion. She twined her arm about his neck like a serpent, and drew him into a kiss.
Long was that kiss ~ and it stirred in Parsifal a memory of his glimpse of the Grail. He pulled away disturbed,
clutching his heart. And then he cried: “Amfortas!”
“What!?” said Kundry, shaken out of her practiced role by this inexplicable outburst.
“I feel his pain!” said Parsifal. “It burns in my heart. It’s terrible! It must be healed, and the Grail Order
redeemed.”
“Here is redemption,” she said, opening her arms, and her garments.
“In the same way was Amfortas beguiled,” he said, rising up in anger. Then he fairly shouted: “Avaunt, harlot!
Get thee gone, so that I may find thy unholy lord and deliver him his due.”
“You dastardly, cruel man!” said Kundry. “If you are so attuned to others’ pain, now feel mine! I, too, am
under a curse, and suffer the fate of the damned. Nothing and no one can save us from the horrid pain of
existence. Our only solace is the brief but blessed redemption in which our minds and hearts dissolve into one
another in the ecstasy of love, and for a fleeting moment we are gone. Then the memory of this joyful instant of
non-being stays with us and redeems the dreary days of self-awareness, as we look forward to the next precious
episode of dissolution, and the next.
“But you,” she said, “are so damnably innocent of the ways of love and life, that you know not that the same
Godhead whom the Grail serves opens to us also in carnal embrace, and makes its presence felt, and sanctifies
the act.”
Now he looked at her not in anger, but surprise. He searched her eyes, then said: “I doubt it not. Though you
seek to deceive me in many ways, I see that this is a truth enthroned at the very heart of you.”
She exulted, thinking she had swayed him back to her will. She embraced him and said, “Then let us not tarry,
my love! Let us storm the heights of heaven right now, in each other’s arms.”
He cast her off again, to her great dismay. “The sin is not in the act,” he said, “but in the actors. If the heart and
the motive are pure, the love is blessed. If not, there will yet be the Devil to pay…. I offer you redemption ~ but
you must repent your ways and wiles.”
“Never!” she said. A terrible curse rose to her lips, but before she could utter it, her eye caught a movement in
the shadows behind Parsifal. It was Klingsor, stealthily creeping up with the Spear in his hand, and now
preparing to heave it with all his might into Parsifal’s back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From The Visions of Victor and Beatrice,
Part I: The Wedding of Star and Shadow (narrated by Victor):
Finally one night the Magus guided me on a higher-dose trip than I'd ever had before. I wound
up all alone and terrified in an infinite black void outside space and time, before the universe had
even been created. I thought I must've been God, because I held life and death in my hands,
literally. They were tangible archetypal objects: a bright spark that was the Star of Life, and a
skull that was death itself. The skull morphed into a dagger, which I wanted to plunge into my
heart to escape from the horror of being stuck in the void all alone forever. But I held back from
doing that because I thought it would cause the total and final end of everything.
Part I: The Wedding of Star and Shadow (narrated by Victor):
Finally one night the Magus guided me on a higher-dose trip than I'd ever had before. I wound
up all alone and terrified in an infinite black void outside space and time, before the universe had
even been created. I thought I must've been God, because I held life and death in my hands,
literally. They were tangible archetypal objects: a bright spark that was the Star of Life, and a
skull that was death itself. The skull morphed into a dagger, which I wanted to plunge into my
heart to escape from the horror of being stuck in the void all alone forever. But I held back from
doing that because I thought it would cause the total and final end of everything.
From The Visions of Victor and Beatrice,
Part II: Do Robots Go To Electric Heaven? (narrated by Beatrice):
Part II: Do Robots Go To Electric Heaven? (narrated by Beatrice):
But something was wrong ~ I thought I must still be dreaming, because I was observing myself
from the outside. It seemed like I was floating in the air and looking down at my body lying at the
bottom of a hill with Victor kneeling over me and the other people gathered around. I kind of
zoomed in closer, and it looked like Victor was kissing me. But now as I watched I realized with a
shock that he was giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Then I remembered clearly the
immediately preceding events: how I had run away from the angel and fallen down the hill. Now I
saw that there was a big rock sticking out of the ground by my head, and that the yellow summer
grass was stained red with my blood.
Victor lifted his mouth from mine, and started pounding on my chest with his fist. I realized that
he was giving me CPR ~ and that it wasn’t working. And then I thought: oh my God, I’m dead!
Now everything fell into place. I wasn’t dreaming at all ~ this was totally real. I was floating in my
astral body over my dead physical form. . . .
from the outside. It seemed like I was floating in the air and looking down at my body lying at the
bottom of a hill with Victor kneeling over me and the other people gathered around. I kind of
zoomed in closer, and it looked like Victor was kissing me. But now as I watched I realized with a
shock that he was giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Then I remembered clearly the
immediately preceding events: how I had run away from the angel and fallen down the hill. Now I
saw that there was a big rock sticking out of the ground by my head, and that the yellow summer
grass was stained red with my blood.
Victor lifted his mouth from mine, and started pounding on my chest with his fist. I realized that
he was giving me CPR ~ and that it wasn’t working. And then I thought: oh my God, I’m dead!
Now everything fell into place. I wasn’t dreaming at all ~ this was totally real. I was floating in my
astral body over my dead physical form. . . .
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