Bio

You were born the Jon of a country doctor and a piano teacher. Your mother died when you were jive. and your dear father never
took it well. Growing up he read you poetry inJtead oj bedtime JtorieJ, and you/earned early on you have a gift for writing, and are deJtined
to be a dreamer. At age Jixteen. K.ingJport could no longer contain you . Tired of living buried under the weight of your father!
grief, you Jet out to make your way in the world. to write. and to find yourJe/j. Prom one coaJt to the other you roamed. working carniva!J, railroadJ, driVing
truckJ. Jogging, whatever could get you to the next town. At /aJt. you Jigned on to ajiJhing trawler in California at age nineteen. and wound up in AJia.
Back home. the world around you never Jeemed real. Jomehow. Jomething waJ wrong with it, Jomewhere . ln the Jqualor of the Par E;aJf, however. you
found life much more honeJt. It waJ a Jtruggle to get by, but an honeJt Jtruggle: Jtarvation makeJ one humble. and keepJ illuJiom of preJtige or luxury from
dulling the JenJeJ . At a bookJeller in Hong Kong you came acroJJ a curiouJ book. NameleJJ CultJ, by Von)unzt. AlwayJ curiouJ about hiJtory and the occult,
you picked it up and read it, not knowing the impact the helliJh book might have.)unzt wrote of hideouJ, alien godJ which had reJided on £arth Jince time
before man. and the degenerateJ who worJhip them to thiJ day. The calm. rational pictureJ of time and Jpace which Jcience haJ knit for modern civilization iJ
nothing but illuJion. he argued, and the true nature of the univerJe iJ too horrific for man to graw AlwayJ a Jemitive man. the wordJ took hold of your mind
and you Jaw it all fall away, the illuJionJ of cauJality, worth. and happineJJ. You Jaw the truth in the book. and Jpent the next JiX monthJ locked in a hellhole.
Jcreaming. Your voice iJ Jti/1 raJpY, and you Jti/1 have nightmareJ. There! a new force to your poemJ, however. that a/moJtjrightem you JometimeJ.
In Tibet you recovered. meditating in a tiny monaJtery. You live with a Jtrange new Jecurity, whatever may happen to the univerJe. you do exiJf, and
while you ‘II never have faith in any God again. you ’ve come to believe in yourJe/j. At laJt you returned to the land oj your birth. ready to turn away jrom the
dark edgeJ ojthe uniVerJe . No Juch luck . You came home only to be comcripted, and now you’re in a nightmare JO terrible it proveJ Von)unzt waJ right. You
Jti/1 write, a poem a day in your journal (arguably your jondeJt poJJeJJion). and JometimeJ you even Jhare them with the guyJ in your Jquad. You/ike E;mmett
R.Yan. He! young and naive-you WiJh you could get back to that Jtate Jomehow. ParkJ iJ the only one who can truly appreciate your poemJ, but he! Joju/1
of book -learned ja!Je awareneJJ that you pity him more than you like him . McNalley iJ jUJt Jome Jtreet thuq. like Jo many otherJ you ’ve Jeen. all over the
world. You tend not to truJt him . MaJon. the poor lad. iJ juJt too jar out of hiJ element. There! no luxury in a trench. and a machine qun doem ’t care how rich
you are. Maybe the Jtripping away of all hiJ ii!UJiom will do him qood. Grimm you reJpect, almoJt admire. The man jaceJ battle with a calm you find amazing;
hejuJttruJtJ that he ’ll Jurvive . He$ got that Jamejaith in himJe/jthat you ’vejound. and you hope you can be aJ Jecure in yourJ aJ he iJ in hii. Maybe that
way you ’ll Jurvive