Spyoptaelip the Cryptic

SCIENCE FICTION ~ MAGICAL REALISM

PUBLISHED 2020 

195 PAGES

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          Spyoptaelip the Cryptic occupies a real never-never land in the soul-mind of Amos Lammon, the main protagonist. The favorite haunts of this indweller are the disordered lives of those who seek wholeness. He’s tenacious and resilient, moving through time and space with an eerie intra-beingness; a super-amalgamated acronym cypher that spans centuries and inhabits reincarnated tenant souls—soul groups—egging them on. He’s there in the late ‘90s as a cyber-discovery. He’s part guardian angel; he’s an indwelling incubation popping up in soul retrieval sessions in the early 21^st century; in multiuniversity intrexor sessions, circa 2323 A.D.

           The book opens with glimpses into some fantastical soul regression journeys of Amos Lammon. Amos’s waking life presents many possibilities for varied experiences. Add to these some seemingly impossible detours into the imaginal realm, to include bumping up into large-looming, fictionalized, alter ego doppelgangers. Then counterpoise these as red pill adventures way beyond the normative world and you’re ready to taste the pungent, savory stew served up in Spyoptaelip the Cryptic.

          In his younger days Amos had agreed to undertake a covert family assignment from his grandfather that would peculiarly affect his life. He’s interested in so many things: God, current events, the Q phenomenon, the secret space program… His devotion to his faith and to his family name guides him steadily through a mad house, a spiritual house of mirrors, ending in a surprisingly beautiful denouement.

          Three centuries later, Soma, Amos’s spiritual heir, discovers his own calling as an historian, uncovering Amos and his dynamic work. Through Spyoptaelip the Cryptic, Soma comes to grips with his past spiritual ancestors and with planet Earth’s traumatic history, while reaffirming its blessed future. It becomes a journey of self, and of past and future history, as Soma happens upon the workings of the McGyre Group, an entity set in motion long ago by Amos. Almost by accident, Amos had established something of a royal family line with staying power, surviving the End Times and lasting down through the Millennium and beyond.

          Through those centuries Spyoptaelip the Cryptic flits, barely noticeable or even alive, really, in the normative sense. He’s more of a noospheric legend—a gossamer, a diaphanous anchor, a synchromystic soul presence voyaging through time and space reincarnations.

          The “suits of clothes” worn by a soul in each lifetime come from a portmanteau whose bodily raiment reveal the semiotics of iconic images, signs, and symbols recurring in successive ages. Shamanic-like traces are to be found in the record, in writings, books and photographs supporting the history of a people’s free will, of human actions taken within a complex adaptive system.

          Read and journey along through Suss and Wicket’s joint creation, Spyoptaelip the Cryptic.

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Jackasses on Parade

Citizens Wearing Masks Are Wacko Conspiracy Theorists

I refuse to wear a surgical mask or rubber gloves. I refuse to use sanitizer or keep a “social distance of six feet.” I refuse because doing such things are asinine markers of sheep-like activity that indicate you’ve been indoctrinated by propaganda. Thus, I do not wish to join this parade of jackasses.

Whatever this thing is that’s been bio-weaponized, I do not fear it. Neither do I “fear for others” that I am “spreading it” by sticking to my guns on the issue and being a “refusenik.”

The Coronavirus Mask Charade Continues

When I see folks around me giving into the hype and demonstrating what jackasses they are, I just think they are obviously getting their news from the wrong sources, viz., the fake, lamestream media. The regular, seasonal flu kills more people than this kungflu has. Do we become jackasses during the regular flu season? Uh, no.

"Essential" businesses are forced to buy into the program whole-hog or not remain open to sell their goods. They plaster signs at the entrances, stating the half-wit rules and requirements for shopping there. Likewise, consumers are conned into the game as well. As for me, I’d rather fast or go through all of the frozen food in my freezer first. Luckily, I joined a buying club a while back. It’s a consortium of farms that delivers pre-paid orders to its members at a central location once per week. Oh how fortuitous this has turned out to be. And if I must I do without I don’t regret a thing.

I see and hear “emergency workers” and newscasters—jackasses all—supporting the hysteria. I see home-made, posted signs in front yards gleefully showing their “support” for those on the “front line” who are fighting this “pandemic.” I say it’s a “plannedemic” and a “shamdemic.” There’s no doubt in my mind. And those signs…more jackass activity.

And what irks me most is that state government leaders have bought into this lunacy, issuing proclamations to “protect us.” Signs on the highways tell us to shelter at home and avoid unnecessary travel and other such nonsensical platitudes for the general safety and wellbeing of the citizenry sheeple. Non merci!—as Gérard Depardieu exhorted in the film, Cyrano—I will have none of it!

Even conservative talk radio goes on and on about this topic until I just want to scream. They’re forever talking numbers of deaths (all inflated of course) and yapping “we’re all in this together” and “we’ll get through this,” until I slap the channel off in disgust.

Hey, fools, there’s a cure for this whatever-it-is, whether you want hydrocholorquine plus zinc or prefer chloral hydrate (CDS), if you get it you can get rid of it—simple as that! No dangerous “vaccine” is necessary, jackasses! But, more than likely, you are probably ready to line-up for your toxic vaccine shot and your certification, proving what donkeys you all are.

So to all you jackasses out there, enjoy your drama and your conforming, jackass behavior. Enjoy glaring and talking under your breathe at guys like me who disregard this nonsense; go to hell with your better-than-thou comments or body language. Non merci!  I’ll never join your parade—NEVER! Rock on wit’ yer idiot selves, jackasses—rock on, foolish masses.

And if you feel the way I do but you have no choice about wearing a mask, etc.—because it’s either do this or not work to feed your family—I empathize with you completely. These are the true heroes of this debacle (if there are any). And all of those "nonessential" small business owners and wage workers who have been denied their right to engage in an occupation and are needlessly suffering—these are the heroes who are managing despite this shamdemic whose resiliency is a testament to their wills to survive. 

Pastors of churches should rise up and exercise civil disobedience against this overreach by the state. They should lead the way. Instead most of them act like, you guessed it...jackasses, shutting down their churches like good little doobees.

To those of us with eyes to see and ears to hear, the tyrants who want to take away our liberties in the name of protecting us from this plannedemic's “invisible enemy” are being exposed. And to those who are rising up to call this what it is—an exercise in stripping us of our freedom and our dignity—I say right on and stay the course of all protests against every one of these jackasses on parade!