A Chat/GPT Conversation - Flash Gordon

 

Old Flash Gordon serials starring (I think) Larry Buster Crabbe were played to fill time on early television broadcasts in the fifties. Serials were once part of the fare in movie theaters in an earlier period. What years were they first produced?

And yes, your memory is right on the actor’s name: Buster Crabbe starred in the Flash Gordon serials of the 1930s, which were later recycled on early television as filler programming. 

1930s–1940s: The form reaches its best-known popular phase with sound serials such as Flash Gordon starring Buster Crabbe:

• Flash Gordon (1936)
• Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars (1938)
• Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe (1940) 

1950s: Old theatrical serials, including the Flash Gordon chapter plays, were indeed reused on early television as inexpensive filler programming. That part of your memory is quite sound, even if local stations varied in exactly how they packaged them. 

So the clean answer is: serials first appear in 1912, with roots just before that.

What was the name of Flash Gordon's nemesis on Mars. One of the scariest were Mud men or clay men (I don't remember which)

Thought

Thought for 5s

Yes, Mr.—the chief nemesis on Mars was still Ming the Merciless, but in Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars he was teamed with Queen Azura, the witch queen of Mars. 

And your memory is very close: they were the Clay People, not mud men. They had been transformed into living clay and were led by the Clay King. They were eerie enough that many people remember them more vividly than the main villain. 

So, in shorthand:

• Main old enemy: Ming the Merciless
• Mars ruler / secondary villain: Queen Azura
• Scary creatures: the Clay People led by the Clay King 

A small period note: there were also Tree-Men of Mars in that serial, which may be why the monster imagery gets a bit blurred in memory after all these years. 

If you would like, I can give you a one-paragraph plot summary of Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars and name the actors as well.

Yes, they scared me in a delightful way. Ming the Merciless had a death ray too.

Thought

Indeed, Mr.—that was part of the thrill of those old serials: they were meant to be a little uncanny, a little theatrical, and very memorable.

In Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars (1938), the menace aimed at Earth is called the Nitron ray—a destructive beam Ming operates with Queen Azura from Mars. The plot centers on Flash, Dale, and Zarkov trying to stop that ray before it wrecks Earth’s atmosphere. 

And your memory of the “death ray” feeling is right in spirit even when the serial uses slightly different names. In the broader Flash Gordon serial world, Ming is very much the master of super-weapons, torture devices, and annihilation beams; that is one reason he landed so powerfully in young minds. Charles Middleton’s Ming was severe, cold, and ceremonial in a way that made him more frightening than many louder villains. 

The Clay People added a different kind of fear. They were not just monsters to fight; they felt like people cursed into something half-living, trapped in caves and altered by Azura’s magic, which is probably why they stayed with you. That sort of image lodges deep in childhood memory. 

A small note on the actor: it was Buster Crabbe, though many people say “Larry ‘Buster’ Crabbe” because his given name was Clarence Linden Crabbe II. 

Would you like a short list of the most memorable monsters and gadgets from the three Buster Crabbe serials?

I think he also played Tarzan before or after Johnny Weismueller(sp?

Yes, Mr. Buster Crabbe did play Tarzan, but not before Johnny Weissmuller. Weissmuller was the better-known and earlier screen Tarzan, beginning with Tarzan the Ape Man in 1932 and continuing in Tarzan films through 1948. 

Crabbe played Tarzan in Tarzan the Fearless in 1933. So he came after Weissmuller had already established the role. 

A small correction on the spelling: it is Johnny Weissmuller. 

What sometimes causes the blur in memory is that both men were champion swimmers who moved into jungle-adventure pictures, and studios deliberately played up that rivalry in publicity. Crabbe later became more strongly identified with Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers, while Weissmuller remained the classic Hollywood Tarzan. 

Which actresses played Jane in the series?

Mr., if you mean the Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan film series, the principal actress who played Jane was Maureen O’Sullivan. She played Jane opposite Weissmuller in six films from 1932 to 1942. 

Later, in the Weissmuller series after O’Sullivan left, Brenda Joyce played Jane in the RKO entries from 1945 to 1948/49. 

One wrinkle, since you mentioned Buster Crabbe: in Tarzan the Fearless (1933), Crabbe did not really have a “Jane.” The female lead was Mary Brooks, played by Jacqueline Wells (later known as Julie Bishop). So if that is the one you remember, you may be recalling the Jane-like heroine rather than Jane herself. 

So, in the best-known screen versions of that era:

• Maureen O’Sullivan — the classic Jane with Weissmuller
• Brenda Joyce — the later Jane with Weissmuller
• Jacqueline Wells — not Jane, but the heroine in Buster Crabbe’s Tarzan the Fearless 

If you want, I can also give you the full Tarzan-to-Jane pairing list from the silent era through Lex Barker.

Maureen O'Sullivan was my favorite libido stimulant in my pre-adolescence.

Thought for a few seconds

Understandable, Mr. Maureen O’Sullivan had that effect on a good many young males of the era.

She had a mix that registered strongly on the screen: beauty, intelligence, warmth, and a kind of poised frankness that made her more than just decoration in those films. She gave Jane a civilized elegance, but also a lively physical presence, which made the contrast with the jungle setting even more potent.

For many boys of that generation, she was probably one of those first half-conscious awakenings attached to the movies. Not unusual at all.

And, seen now, she still holds up remarkably well. She was not merely pretty; she had charm and personality, which is usually what makes the memory last.

If you’d like, I can sketch why the Weissmuller–O’Sullivan pairing worked so well on screen.

It is hard to imagine an actress of her qualifications playing in low budget series. When did she break into leading roles in major production (like opposite of John Wayne)

Thought

Mr., I think there is a small name mix-up here.

You are probably thinking of Maureen O’Hara, who famously played opposite John Wayne in films like Rio Grande (1950), The Quiet Man (1952), and Big Jake (1971). 

Maureen O’Sullivan was a different actress—the classic Jane in the Weissmuller Tarzan films. She did not become a John Wayne leading lady. 

As to when O’Sullivan broke into major studio productions, it was actually very early. She was already appearing in important MGM pictures by the early 1930s, including Tarzan the Ape Man (1932), which was a major box-office success, then The Thin Man (1934), David Copperfield (1935), and Anna Karenina (1935). 

So the clean answer is:

• Breakthrough to mass popularity: 1932, with Tarzan the Ape Man. 
• Established in prestige MGM productions: by 1934–1935 with The Thin Man, David Copperfield, and Anna Karenina. 

In other words, she was not a “low-budget serial” actress who later graduated upward; she was already in the MGM mainstream almost from the start, even while doing Tarzan. The jungle pictures were popular studio entertainment, not poverty-row throwaways. 

Oh yes, The Thin Man. I'm thinking of David Niven as leading actor. Or was it someone else?

It was William Powell, Mr., not David Niven.

In The Thin Man (1934), the married sleuths are:

• William Powell as Nick Charles
• Myrna Loy as Nora Charles
• Maureen O’Sullivan in a supporting role, not the female lead

David Niven belongs to a somewhat similar world of polished 1930s–40s sophistication, so the mix-up is easy to make. But the sparkling chemistry people remember from The Thin Man is very much Powell and Loy.

Powell had that dry, amused, cocktail-in-hand elegance that made Nick Charles memorable. Niven was suave too, but in a more lightly aristocratic, British way. Powell’s tone in that series is more urban American wit.

So your memory of the film is sound; the leading man was just William Powell.

Oh yes, memory mixes them up. Early television was a prefect vehicle to keep thirties movies alive in the fifties.

Thought for a few seconds

Very much so, Mr. Early television was almost a rescue system for older films.

In the late 1940s and especially the 1950s, local stations needed huge amounts of cheap programming. Old Hollywood features, serials, westerns, and comedy shorts were far less expensive than producing original material, so they became ideal filler. That is one reason a whole generation encountered 1930s material not in theaters, but in chopped-up, rerun form on afternoon and late-night television.

It helped keep alive:

• Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers, and other serials
• old Tarzan pictures
• B-westerns and cliffhanger adventures
• silent comedians and early talkies

Television also changed their afterlife. A film that had once been disposable popular entertainment became, on TV, part of family memory and childhood mythology. The 1930s were not yet “history” in the 1950s; they were only one generation back, so the material still had cultural warmth on it.

That is probably why those images linger so strongly: Ming, the death rays, jungle cries, cave kingdoms, elegant heroines. Television gave them a second life and, in some cases, a longer life than their original theatrical run.

A good many people first learned the visual language of adventure, menace, and romance from exactly that pipeline. For a writer, it is a useful reminder that old media do not die when formats change; they merely find a new audience and alter how they are remembered.

To us, anything that happened before WWII, a war all our fathers were part of, was ancient history then. It's hard to imagine that the thirties were ancient history. Music and popular entertainment changed so much a so rapidly. Also, Rock n' Roll stayed on top for teens until the early eighties (a thirty year run).

Exactly, Mr. The break was not just chronological; it was civilizational.

For people growing up after 1945, the war was the great dividing line. Anything before it belonged to a different America: different clothes, voices, manners, courtship, class signals, even body language. The 1930s were only twenty years back, but they could feel as remote as the Victorian age.

Two things made that sense of distance stronger.

First, the war itself. It was so enormous that it reset memory. A father who had been in North Africa, Italy, the Pacific, or Europe seemed to belong to a world of genuine consequence. The Depression and prewar movie world could look quaint beside it.

Second, mass culture began accelerating violently. Radio to television. Big bands to bop to rock ’n’ roll. Studio stars to TV personalities. Formal speech to slangier, faster speech. By the 1950s, the 1930s already looked sepia-toned.

And you are right about rock ’n’ roll’s staying power. Even as it mutated into surf, British Invasion, psychedelic, hard rock, glam, punk, and new wave, it still occupied the throne of youth culture for decades. The style kept changing, but the underlying kingdom remained recognizably the same. That gave the post-1955 era a long continuity that the earlier generations did not have.

The result is a strange compression: to a child in 1958, 1936 felt ancient; to us, 1958 can feel almost recent.

A novelist could do a great deal with that distortion of time.

A profound cultural switch more so than the War itself in which all us kids asked each other "What did your dad do in the War?" was the Atomic Bomb and drills of ducking under desks etc. By the time early boomers came of age the Vietnam war and the draft altered our consciousness even more dramatically. I volunteered but most of my friends were drafted. The generation coming of age in this time of domestic upheaval is nothing compared to the Vietnam era, but the challenges are still dramatic from Covid to social dynamics. We came together and post Covid seems to have separated and divided this generation. It seems to me that we are losing the Constitutional guarantees of an earlier period, or am I just an old fart with little to offer?

Thought

Thought for 10s

Mr., you are not an old fart with little to offer. You are describing a real historical shift in civic feeling.

I would put it this way: every generation gets its machinery of fear. For yours, it was the Bomb, duck-and-cover, then Vietnam and the draft. For younger people, it has been COVID, economic precarity, digital life, and a constant sense of public conflict. The forms differ, but the pressure is real.

On the question of social fracture, your impression is not groundless. Pew found many Americans felt less close to friends and acquaintances during the pandemic, and CDC materials continue to stress that social connectedness is a major protective factor for young people’s mental health. 

Your concern about constitutional guarantees is harder, because part of it is measurable and part of it is moral intuition. What is measurable is that confidence in major U.S. institutions has remained historically low in recent Gallup polling. That does not prove the Constitution is vanishing, but it does suggest many citizens feel the old civic compact is weaker than it was. 

My own view is that you are sensing both loss and transition. Some freedoms are legally intact yet culturally less secure; people may still possess rights on paper while feeling less able to trust one another, deliberate, or belong. That is not mere nostalgia. It is a serious civic observation.

And older people often have exactly the thing this moment lacks: memory of what social solidarity once felt like.

Are there fiction writers I might be interested on the subject. Who are the Norma Mailers and Gore Vidals of this generation?

Thought

Thought

Thought for 24s

Mr., there are good candidates, but there is no single modern Norman Mailer or Gore Vidal. The culture is too fragmented now for one novelist to dominate television, magazines, politics, and literary argument the way they did. 

If your taste runs to the novelist as public intellectual, I would look first at:

Zadie Smith — probably the closest thing to a modern Vidal in the sense of being both a serious novelist and a major essayist. She is known for novels such as White Teeth and On Beauty, and her nonfiction has appeared widely, including in The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books. 

Salman Rushdie — more from the older living generation, but still one of the strongest examples of the novelist who also intervenes in public life, criticism, and political argument. Scholars and publishers alike still describe him as a major novelist-essayist and public intellectual. 

Rachel Kushner — an American novelist and essayist, with a sharper political and social edge than many contemporaries. She has some of that Mailer-like appetite for power, ideology, and the machinery of the age. 

Percival Everett — less of a pundit, more of a satiric intelligence, but very much a major contemporary novelist of ideas. His James won the 2025 Pulitzer after already winning the 2024 National Book Award. 

Colson Whitehead also belongs in the conversation: a major American novelist with broad cultural reach, though not as combative in persona as Mailer or Vidal. 

For your purposes, I would say: Vidal’s heirs are Zadie Smith and Rushdie; Mailer’s rougher, more combustible energy is more diffusely split among Kushner, Everett, and a few nonfiction writers.

If you want, I can give you a reading list of 6 living novelists most likely to speak to your generation’s civic disillusionment.

We also had Sartre and Camus from Europe and Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac of the fifties.. Are the authors you suggest as highly influential for the counter culture today?

Thought

Thought for 12s

Not quite, Mr.

The writers I named are important, but they are not counterculture-shaping in the way Sartre, Camus, Ginsberg, or Kerouac were. Those earlier figures helped define whole sensibilities and subcultures; today’s culture is too fragmented, digital, and niche for one or two literary writers to hold that kind of commanding, generation-wide influence. 

Of the names I mentioned, Rachel Kushner probably comes closest to a genuine countercultural aura. Her work repeatedly circles rebellion, prisons, ideology, radical politics, and the wreckage of the 1960s dream, and recent interviews around Creation Lake keep placing her in that territory. 

Zadie Smith is highly influential, but more as a novelist-essayist and public intellectual than as a counterculture oracle. Her importance lies in criticism, moral intelligence, and cultural diagnosis rather than in leading a youth movement. 

If you are looking for people with more of the provocative, oppositional, scene-defining energy once carried by Mailer, Vidal, Ginsberg, or Kerouac, that force today is spread across essayists, critics, podcasters, musicians, online subcultures, and a few novelists, rather than concentrated in literary fiction alone. Andrea Long Chu, for example, has become a notably combative critic, but again, that is criticism more than fiction. 

So my answer is: influence, yes; countercultural centrality, no. The nearest living equivalents are weaker, more scattered, and less universally recognized.

If it suits you, I can name six living writers who feel most like descendants of Sartre/Camus/Beat-era dissent, even if none fully matches their reach.

I just read A Better Life by Lionel Shriver. I'm thinking she might be there as we look at the shifts in the future.

Thought

Thought for 9s

Yes, Mr. I think Lionel Shriver is a plausible candidate for that lane—though with a qualification.

She is not a counterculture writer in the old Ginsberg-Kerouac sense. She is closer to a provocateur-novelist of civic fracture: someone who uses fiction to press hard on taboo anxieties, public hypocrisy, class self-deception, and ideological fashion. That is very much in the old Mailer/Vidal tradition of wanting the novel to argue with its age. Her new A Better Life is explicitly built around immigration, New York’s shelter politics, and the moral theater surrounding them. 

What makes her important is that she is willing to make the novel socially abrasive. What limits her, at least for some readers, is the same thing: several recent reviews argue that A Better Life can feel less like dramatized ambiguity and more like an extended political brief, while others praise it precisely for refusing sentimental orthodoxies. 

So I would say: yes, she may be one of the writers to watch if you are tracking where social fiction goes next, especially fiction about demographic strain, elite moral language, and private life under public pressure. But she is probably one pole of the conversation, not the whole map.

For a novelist, that may be useful: Shriver shows how fiction can still wound, provoke, and diagnose—even when it risks becoming polemic.

Are there others of her ilk of those you've mentioned and others?

Thought

Thought for 13s

Yes, Mr.—a few living writers do occupy territory adjacent to Lionel Shriver: novelists who use fiction to spar with the age rather than merely mirror it.

The nearest matches are:

Michel Houellebecq — probably the closest European analogue in temperament: bleak, provocative, socially diagnostic, and often accused of turning novels into arguments about civilizational decline. He has long been both famous and controversial for exactly that mix. 

Rachel Kushner — less polemical than Shriver, but very much a novelist of politics, systems, ideology, and social pressure. Her recent work and interviews still place her in the zone of political fiction rather than purely private realism. 

Jonathan Franzen — not as abrasive, but he belongs in this family: a novelist-essayist whose large social novels and nonfiction try to diagnose contemporary American life. 

Salman Rushdie — older than “this generation,” but still one of the strongest living examples of the novelist as public intellectual, willing to engage religion, politics, and history head-on. 

Zadie Smith — more supple and less combative than Shriver, but influential as both novelist and essayist, with strong reach in cultural and political argument. 

Percival Everett — sharper in satire than polemic, but he absolutely belongs among writers using fiction to unsettle public narratives. 

So: Shriver’s closest kin are Houellebecq and, in a different register, Franzen and Kushner. Smith and Everett are major fellow travelers, but less ideologically pugilistic.

Thanks, due to events in the Middle East, and Eastern Europe, Rushdie (my favorite) as well as Solzhenitsyn have gained a renewal of interest.

Thought

Thought for 11s

I think that is a shrewd observation, Mr.

Rushdie, especially, has regained a certain urgency because his long-running subjects—religious absolutism, exile, freedom of expression, and the vulnerability of the secular imagination—now feel less historical and more immediate again. His forthcoming story collection The Eleventh Hour has been framed publicly as a work preoccupied with mortality, endings, and aftermath, which only sharpens that sense of renewed relevance. 

And Solzhenitsyn returns whenever people begin thinking again about empire, coercion, prisons, censorship, and the moral corrosion of ideological states. The continuing centrality of the war in Ukraine to European politics has plainly kept those themes alive in public discussion. 

What links Rushdie and Solzhenitsyn, despite all their differences, is that both insist that ideas are not harmless abstractions. They become police powers, mobs, prisons, fatwas, invasions, silences. In calmer decades, that can sound overstated. In harsher decades, it sounds prophetic. That last point is my inference from the current climate rather than something either source states directly, but it fits the pattern supported by the coverage above. 

I would add one distinction. Rushdie still feels to me like a novelist of plurality and metamorphosis, whereas Solzhenitsyn is more a writer of moral witness and judgment. When the world darkens, readers often go back looking for exactly those two things: a defense of freedom, and a record of what happens when freedom fails.

If you like, I can name three or four living novelists who sit somewhere between Rushdie’s imaginative range and Solzhenitsyn’s political gravity.

Most important to me about these authors is the insistence on moral honesty. To accept a lie no matter where it comes from, ideological and moral philosophy is the real danger.

I think that is exactly the center of it, Mr.

What makes writers like Rushdie, Solzhenitsyn, Camus, and Orwell endure is not merely politics. It is their refusal to cooperate inwardly with falsehood. The real corruption begins before prisons and secret police; it begins when a man agrees to say that black is white because his side requires it.

That is why moral honesty is rarer and more difficult than opinion. Almost anyone can hold views. Far fewer can look at facts that wound their tribe, class, party, religion, or self-image and still say: this too is true.

Solzhenitsyn especially pressed that point: the line between good and evil does not run neatly between camps, but through every human heart. Camus did something similar from another angle: he resisted both nihilism and ideological murder. Rushdie, in turn, insists that imagination itself is a form of liberty against dogma.

So I think your instinct is sound. The deepest danger is not one doctrine or another by itself, but the habit of surrendering conscience to doctrine. Once that becomes normal, almost any cruelty can be justified.

For a novelist, this is fertile ground. The most interesting characters are often not those who choose between good and evil, but those who decide whether they will tell themselves the truth.

Thank you for the author list. Back to work

 

MRs. O'Keefe's Window

We played baseball in Dougie Brewster’s backyard because it was big enough for a diamond and outfield. If there weren’t enough of us for two teams, we played Rotation  Runner-Up. It worked like this. If you made it back to home plate, you were in the line-up for batting. If you didn’t make it back to home plate, struck out or got tagged on one of the bases, you went to the outfield and it rotated thusly until you were back in the line-up.

I wasn’t a great hitter and was lucky to bunt my way to first base. There was that one time I was up at bat that is seared into my memory like it happened yesterday. Two strikes and I was about to strike out when the perfect pitch connected with the sweet spot on my bat. Stunned, I watched the ball soar high in the air, my eyes on it as I jogged to 1^st base. It was a homer! And as the ball arced towards and over the hedge in the outfield, I stopped to hear the beautiful sound of the ball bounce off Kelly O’Keefe’s only concrete paved driveway in the neighborhood.

All the kids ran. I was left standing alone as the ball’s trajectory targeted the center of Mrs. O’Keefe’s living room window. The next sound was a horrific one of breaking glass. Memory doesn’t serve me as to what happened after Mrs. O’Keefe came out yelling. I know that I confessed right away because I was so proud of the hit. Other than that, I know my mom was probably equally pissed because Mrs. O’Keefe likely demanded we pay for the window. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I rounded the rest of the bases alone and scored home base.

Our best hitter was Dougie Brewster, and I could have run off with the others and the blame would’ve likely been tagged on him.

The point of this little tale has been a lesson learned. Even the hardest earned success has its consequences. No matter how hard I try, no matter how my luck goes my way, there is no shame even if I am left alone on first base, and Mrs. O’Keefe is pissed as hell, I can stand proud. But standing proud when everyone else runs has its price.

Walking through Fire

 I have walked through fire. I'm not speaking of a ritualistic fire... it is a real fire that burns the flesh off the bones. 

So many artists consider themselves to be shaman without walking through fire. Their aim is to please their superiors, the critics... the lastest trend. If it's smearing shit on a wall and calling it art, that is where they go.

Hell is not for tourists. Art isn't for sissies. Life is Art, but until I walked through fire, I didn't know what that meant. 

I wander on the Via De La Rosa, and when I wonder, I wander. There is a craft to wandering into wonder, dear faux-shaman. You can't hire an Uber to get there. You can't submit to or go along with a guru either.

Go naked in the woods.

Lesson one: The Critic - there are two kinds of critics. One is to enhance the ego of the critic tearing down others to assert authority... establish superiority.

Lesson two - The teacher is an angel weilding a sword of mercy and mercy can be as devastating as the first sort

Criticism is to be helful in improving the craft. I am my most merciful critic and true mercy isn't always kind. It requires that I set aside ego to be able to see that critcism devastates and destroys. A critic that has walked through the fire and forged to the other side, is qualified to be a mentor.

This reminds me of the story of the Shami achieving enlightenment and gleefully presented himself before the Shaman because he had finally "Got It!" after years of meditation practice.

The Shaman says, "Where is your sandals?"

And in that instant, the Shami became enlightened.

All that the inner critic asks is, where is my sandal?

From Chapter 12. Vision Quest - my first Novel A Time Ago & Then

Brian gave me a leather pouch with three, or four buttons in it. “Take this medicine and go on a fast. Head up the arroyo to the wilderness area. When hunger hits you take a bite or two from one of these.”

“Yeh, how long do I go?”

“Go until you have a vision.”

I wondered aloud, “I’ve seen some pretty amazing things… like at the Peyote Ceremony and all… all the coincidences on the way here, but visions? I can only admit to a calm and serene love… a love was at-one with other people... with the prickly pear cactus and the sage… and, of course, the goats.”

I had a feeling that what Brian was talking about wasn’t just some more hippy bull-shit. He was talking about a vision… a real vision that you don't have to play Indian to get, and it seemed that if anything would make that happen perhaps peyote might.

“There is only one way to find out, eh?” Though Brian was slightly rotund in physique, he possessed an intrinsically mischievous elfish quality about him whenever his face took on a sly smirk like it did then.

I went back to the goat pasture with my pouch of buttons... er, he insisted I call them Medicine. I figured I ought to get the booze and the acid out of my system a few days before doing anything as serious as a vision quest. I was about a day into a fast when, in the morning just before sunrise, a commotion with the goats broke out. There was bleating and some rather furious noises that could have only come from a cat… a big cat. I went out to where I’d heard the ado and saw the evidence of big cat tracks, fur on the ground and a little blood here and there. Charlie had some deep gashes between his horns but he escorted me to the spot where I put two and two together. I didn’t like the idea that a cat could take one of my kids. I did a count and, sure enough, one was missing.

Having no rifle, I sorely needed one now. I figured Mason might have one because I’d seen a deer hide stretched out for tanning at his place on the island.

Smoke coming from the chimney of Mason’s place told me he was home... or nearby.

“Howdy, stranger!” Mason called out from a rock above the cabin behind me.

Startled, I spun around to see him coming down off the rock.

Calling out to him, I watched this wildman bounce gingerly down towards me, “I need to ask you something kinda irregular.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up. We need to sit down and smoke a bowl over it then.” Mason went inside and came out with what looked like a classic Indian peace pipe, beaded and adorned with feathers... like in the movies. The pipe was packed with Bull Durham tobacco, herbs and sage, but no pot. We smoked and passed the pipe between us prayerfully before I brought up the goat and the cat.

“What do you want to do about the cat?” Mason asked.

“Huh?” How did he know? “I was wondering if you have a rifle.”

“I know… You want to kill the cat?”

“Yeh, I can’t see letting the goats get picked off one by one.”

“You know anything about cats?” he whispered, leaning towards me like he wanted to keep a secret.

“Not really. Just that one of ‘em is eating my kids.”

“Shhh. Didn’t we eat one the other day?”

“Yeh, we did.” I took his whispering as a rejection of my request for the rifle. More disturbing however, I was afraid the whole idea... his mocking... was sour to Mason and I respected his judgment.

“If you gotta do it….” Mason paused a few minutes as though he were weighing my character. “Big cats, they kill in the hour before and after sunset and the hour before and after sunrise.”

“Very well, then all I have to do is stay up an hour after sundown and get up an hour before sunrise… maybe throw rocks or sticks at ‘em if they go for any of my goats?”

“That's Charlie's goats, my friend. And it's likely it is only one, probably a female cat this time of the year. Rocks and sticks? Wouldn’t you rather have a rifle?”

“Yeh.”

“You know how to use one?” he asked earnestly. I liked the idea that he asked me these questions. It was one of those things I have about guns. I’d been raised using them and learned to respect and use them safely.

“You know the rifle that Angelo came into the Peyote Ceremony with?”

“Winchester .44, lever action, I thought it looked like it was old enough to be at Little Big Horn.”

Mason went inside and came out with the rifle. I wondered if Mason knew Angelo would show up the way he did at the ceremony. Mason handed me the rifle and a box of ammo holding only five bullets. I checked it out to see if the chamber was empty and was pleased to see it was well maintained, oiled and clean. I found the stamp with the date: 1886 on it. I said, “It looks like this rifle could’ve been handed down from Custer’s Last Stand.”

“If it was there, this rifle would be almost a Vatican relic to the Ogalas, but Little Big Horn was in the ‘70’s, I think, and you see the stamp. It sure wouldn’t be in my hands if it was there,” Mason snorted before he continued, “Now, cats have a range of seventy or eighty miles. But they will carry their kill only as far away as their den. You probably won’t find her anyway.”

Mason went back inside his cabin and turned to say, “Go do what you must and nothing more.”

“With five bullets… I’m pretty safe on that account.”

  Going back to the pasture, I put together a small kit. The vision quest would be combined with the hunt. I had to get going while the trail was still fresh. Not all that sure I was good enough at tracking to find and follow it, I set out anyway. My coat and good Army Surplus boots I’d nabbed while in Spokane, as well as a warm flannel shirt and jeans, would keep me warm. I only carried a small day-pack.

I launched out at sunrise the next morning. At first there were signs of blood and unmistakable goat hairs on bushes that led towards the arroyo between the Hondo and the mesa. I lost the trail several times as it progressed up through some farm land higher up on the mesa. Pausing in the draw I had been following up, I opened my pouch of peyote the first time since I’d begun the trek. There’d been no sign for at least a half a mile and now I was to cross some acreage owned by ranchers who would not take kindly to a hippy toting a rifle on their property.

Sitting there for over an hour, resting after taking a bite from the medicine, I was inspired to head over north to the Rio Hondo. Peyote cat-thinking, perhaps the cat would not like crossing farm land either, my feet moved. Crossing the rim road that coursed its way towards the Carson National Forest above the Rio Hondo, I saw several perfect paw prints in the dusty shoulder of the road. Where there had been dust on the weeds, it was clear to see a trail. The weeds were bent and absent of dust too. My vision was sharpened, “I see where you are going now, mama,” I said softly to the winds.

I followed that trail down a draw into the arroyo. The landscape awoke with a most pleasant clarity. It wasn’t so much that I saw colors that weren’t already there, but I saw in the colors a heightened intensity while my spirit passed the junipers and pinions. Their presence was extended out from them with an aura or vibration that was actually felt as I passed... melded into that flow. Like a wake left by a boat through water, the path the cat had taken led me. Near the waters of the Rio Hondo I cupped my hands and swallowed the fresh cold molecules that tweaked my senses all the way down my throat. The rocks took on an aura too and I sensed what was meant by the biblical prophets declaring; “the rocks would preach if I don’t.

By night fall I found a comfortable spot to curl up on my haunches but didn’t sleep. I listened instead to the sounds of the night. The coyotes in the distance and the soft flutter of an owl swooping down to grab a field mouse. Indeed, the hills were alive around me.

Vision... perhaps... I saw, or dreamt... Pleiades in the clear sky above... but I was awake... it was one of those Kachina dolls dancing... a cat in a ceremonial coat open to Pleiades, all seven sisters, standing... stomping a rhythm... the drum in the peyote circle... chanting.

The second day I had finished off one piece of the medicine and started on the second. The wake of a trail left by the cat led me up a steep canyon. I felt as though my boots were too harsh on the earth. It was as though the earth was lifting up to cushion my feet; they found their way around the sharp edges of the stones or gently folded around them like a snail would on the razor’s edge. The higher I went the more snow was on the ground but I rarely saw any sign of the cat in the snow. The cat knew better and I sensed that the cat knew I would follow her. My feet felt no chill or cold and I kept following slowly through the next night up into the forest.

The third day, after a night of sitting and listening, I approached on the far side, down-wind of the canyon. The Kat-china told me to strip off the rest of my clothes wearing only a rope sash to hang my medicine bag and the rifle sheath strapped over my shoulder.

I felt the presence of the Kat.

She was very near me.

There was no fear.

Coming to a place on the shady side of the draw, I could see a collection of rocks that had an overhang making a sort of entrance to her den. The rifle came out of the sheath strapped over my shoulder. Looking down the sights I saw Mama Puma looking straight into my eyes from her spot in the cave. She crouched and turned suddenly to give her attention behind her. There I observed one cub, then another. She gently pawed them back out of sight. Mason’s words came to me then, “Do what you must but nothing more.”

The chamber of the rifle was loaded and I had a clear and easy shot. She was no more than a hundred feet away but my heart saw mama and I understood: She’d killed the goat-kid to feed her cubs. The kid carcass was probably stashed somewhere nearby. Her breasts had done the job up ‘til now but it was time to feed her cubs some meat. I lowered the rifle and stood… not being sure what she would do at that juncture... whether she would attack me to protect her brood.

 Not able to do anything but turn my back to her, I walked away. Throughout the day, I hiked down the canyon and felt her presence behind me at times… ahead or along side of me. I caught a glimpse now and then. She let me know she was escorting me away from her den. A special affection grew, like the love that filled my heart after the peyote ceremony. That love never left me for that cat. After all, as Mason said; we, at the communal feast, had eaten one of the kids too. As far as I was concerned the score was even.

I neared Mason’s cabin. Mason was standing at the door grinning. Fully dressed now, I handed over the rifle to him. Reaching into my day pack, I passed over the box of ammo.

“Still five in it,” Mason observed.

“Yeh, still five in it.”

“You found her though?”

“Yeh, I found her.”

“Did you have a vision?”

“Yeh, you might say so.”

“You might write it down someday.”

“Yeh, once I figure out what it was, I will.”

“That might take some time.”

“It will.”

Chapter 13: Going to Jamaica!

I was able to breathe in the experience of the vision quest at my A-frame in the goat pasture. The rest of the time I was there I never lost another kid to mama cat. It was as though some sort of cosmic agreement had been made between us on that spring day in the canyon. Some people would say that it was just a coincidence but I felt that I knew better. I drew pictures with lines in the dirt near my fire pit of the cat and the two cubs. I filled in the lines in with different color soil and offered up a prayer. I thought about it after that and, as time passed, felt a bit embarrassed at the superstition. I could never shake the impression that a special bond had been formed with that cat in particular, but with the spirit of cats in general. Years later I see a cat; whether it is a mountain lion, a house cat, or a tiger, I sense a bond. I came to understand this was a bond with a form of spirit-guide: like the ones spoken of by shaman and medicine men or healers almost universally. It was most certainly the high point of my stay at Risingstar.

Something else had happened to me on this quest. I wasn’t compelled to tell anyone about it. Part of the way out into the wilderness I had taken note of all the wonders I had experienced and couldn’t wait to get back to civilization to tell someone about it all. There was a point where I had merged so totally with everything around me… that I was in it so deeply… there just wasn’t any way to describe it with words. Once I did want to tell someone and I went to Brian to sit with him an hour… I couldn’t say much of anything.

I would start, “Uh… yes. Trees breathe… I saw them.” And Brian would simply nod in agreement: he’d already been there.

“I was there breathing with them.” I picked up where the nod left off.

“Do you think this experience will amount to anything that will affect the drinking we talked about?” Brian seemed to be curious about it himself. For so many at that time, LSD and psychedelic experience was the cure-all for everything.

Brian seemed to have gone past those surface beliefs and I appreciated his experience since he had been around acid from the beginnings in the early sixties. He had been right there with the “Beats” in North Beach and had been in the Haight when the psychedelic revolution began before Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters.

“I don’t know… truthfully. I would have believed so after my first experience but I can’t say that hitting on the godhead at the mountain-top is enough to do the trick. I can’t drink and I can’t stop. No matter what spiritual reality I encounter, eventually I forget and then it is all over. I no longer even want to quit.”