Bad Wolf

In which The Author proves that what goes up must come down

They flutter behind you,
Your possible pasts.
Some bright-eyed and crazy,
Some frightened and lost.
A warning to anyone
Still in command
Of their possible futures,
To take care.
Pink Floyd, ‘Your Possible Pasts’, 1983
To understand hardware and software (as applied to the human brain) perform the following meditation.
Sit in a room where you will not be disturbed for a half hour and begin thinking, “I am sitting in this room doing this exercize because …” and list as many of the “causes” as you can think of.
For instance, you are doing this exercize because, obviously, you read about it in this book. Why did you buy this book? Did somebody recommend it? How did that person come into your life? If you just picked the book up in a store, why did you happen to be in just that store on just that day?
Why do you read books of this sort – on psychology, consciousness, evolution etc.? How did you get interested in those fields? Who turned you on, and how long ago? What factors in your childhood inclined you to be interested in those subjects later?
Why are you doing this exercize in this room and not elsewhere? Why did you buy or rent this house or apartment? Why are you in this city and not another? Why on this continent and not another?
Why are you here at all – that is, how did your parents meet? Did they consciously decide to have a child, do you happen to know, or were you an accident? What cities were they born in? If in different cities, why did they move in space-time so that their paths would intersect?
Why is this planet capable of supporting life, and why did it produce the kind of life that would dream up an exercize of this sort?
Repeat the exercize a few days later, trying to ask and answer fifty questions you didn’t think of the first time. (Note that you can never ask all possible questions) (Wilson, 1983, pp.20-21).
MARLOW: The rain, it rains. The sun, it shines. The wind blows. And that’s what it’s like. You’re buffeted by this, by that, and it is nothing to do with you. Someone you love dies, or leaves. You get ill or you get better. You grow old and you remember, or you forget. And all the time, everywhere, this is this canopy stretching over you—
GIBBON: (Determined to interrupt) What canopy?
Marlow stops. Glares. Seems about to speak, doesn’t. Then does.
MARLOW: Things–as–they–are. (Almost laughs in scorn) Fate. Fate. Impersonal. Irrational. Disinterested. The rain falls. The sun shines. The wind blows. A bus mounts a pavement and kills a child. And—
Then suddenly, with a savagery which implies the opposite of what he is saying.
—I believe in no systems, no ideologies, no religion, nothing like that. I simply think – Oh, it’s very very boring, this. Very – I just think that from time to time, and at random, you are visited by what you cannot know cannot predict cannot control cannot change cannot understand and cannot cannot cannot escape – Fate. (Little shrug.) Why not? ‘S good old word.
GIBBON: Accident.
MARLOW: What?
GIBBON: You say Fate. I say accident.
MARLOW: (Unimpressed) You can call it what you like. Either way, there’s sod all you can do about it. Right? (Potter, 1986, pp.171-2).
Those apparently unrelated epigrams will give you a clue where I’m going to go from this point on. They have one thing in common – in all of them, you’re invited to think about the nature of the Universe itself: the old argument about Free Will vs Determinism; whether we have any conscious control over our lives; whether we arrive to any point in space-time by accident or design – that sort of thing. It’s a topic which has been intriguing me for a long time, and for the past couple of years it’s become more and more important in my life.
If you’re a regular reader of this blog, then you already know that earlier this week I won two tickets to see Roger Waters performing The Wall live at Wembley Stadium.
If you’re new here, I’d like you to return to Robert Anton Wilson’s exercise at the head of this entry and try it for yourself.
How did you stumble upon this blog? What search terms were you using when you found it? Why did you decide to stay and read the whole thing? Is it the sort of blog you normally read?
Where are you reading it? Are you at home, in work, in a library, on public transport, in a pub, or somewhere else? What technology are you using to read it? How did you acquire this technology?
When did you first discover this technology? Are you a pure free-born child of the Twenty-First Century, completely au fait with the Internet and the idea of Cyberspace? Are you a Lotek, stuck with using it because you’ve realised that if you don’t come to terms with technology now, you never will, and you can’t afford to be left behind? Or are you somewhere in between, like the rest of us?
And so forth …
Take Dr Wilson’s exercise to heart and really contemplate the circumstances that led you to this exact point in Time and Space where you are reading my blog, right here, right now. Then think about all the possible universes where you are doing anything other than reading my blog. How many universes are there where you don’t even exist at all …?
As Prof. Richard Dawkins points out in his brief introduction to evolutionary thought River Out of Eden, it only needed that first cell division, three billion and some years ago, to go wrong, and then not one single living creature which has ever inhabited this planet would have come into existence. That’s a sobering thought. Possible pasts indeed …
Anyway, to get back on track. I received a phone call from National Express on Tuesday morning. The previous weekend had been pretty good, verging on the downright Silly in parts. When Sophie (who organises the National Express promotions) told me that I’d won two tickets to see Roger Waters, I had to take the phone outside the Library so that I could shriek in delight. After the preceding three days, it was the icing on the cake. I wrote an entry called On the Up – subtitled ‘In which The Author that feels his luck may be changing.’
Huw F. and Jon R. were already going to the gig, so I had a lift sorted for the journey to London. I booked the Megabus back from Victoria Station to Cardiff, leaving at 7.30 on the Sunday morning and arriving back at around lunchtime. Barring the engineering works on the Valley Lines (which caught Martin H. out in major fashion last weekend) I could be back in Aberdare by mid-afternoon. The whole trip would cost me about fifteen quid. That left only food and beer when I was there. I actually had a few quid in the bank for a change. It seemed like a fine plan. On paper, anyway.
Later the same day and into the early hours of Wednesday morning, I wrote possibly one of the most important entries in the five and a half years since this blog started – Making One’s Own Luck.
Personally, I’d rank it up there with Skirting the Issue, From a Land Down Under, Everything Changes, Not Born Beautiful, Nothing Short of a Total War, Walking the Dog, The Dog, The Dog, He’s Doing it Again and The Hands of Time as containing some of the most personal writing of my life so far. If you’re new to this blog, those would be my own selection of entries I’d recommend before reading on.
Making One’s Own Luck is (was?) significant for this reason: I’ve been a Pink Floyd fan since I was fifteen; I’d missed every other opportunity to see them because I couldn’t get a ticket, or I didn’t have the money, or some other external factor had got in the way; (most importantly) I didn’t have to pay a penny for them. I honestly felt as though some sort of ‘higher power’ (for want of a better phrase) had sent the tickets my way.
On Wednesday, once they were safely in my hand, I offered the spare one on Facebook to anyone who fancied joining me on the evening. Maria was the first to comment, saying that she was jealous. I teased her, telling her to throw a sickie and come up anyway.
A few minutes later James E. asked me if he could come. I’d thought about asking him anyway, as he’d invited me to join him for Górecki’s Third Symphony at the Proms the previous Wednesday. (I’d had to decline, as I couldn’t afford the trip to London. I got paid the following day. Fucking typical of the way my life works. He loves the music, it’s his favourite animation, and he could write it up for The Sprout (a Cardiff-based online magazine) afterwards. It seemed as though we were sorted. He’d have to make his own travel arrangements, of course, but we could spend the night walking around the centre of London and taking photos, as I outlined in A Superposition of States.
That was when it all started to go wrong. James sent me a message on Thursday morning to say that he couldn’t make it after all, so I rang Martin H. to see if he fancied coming instead. Unfortunately, he’s been fairly poorly, so he had to decline as well.
At that point, I wrote the previous entry Building the Wall. I threw the spare ticket out to anyone in Cyberspace within travelling distance of London, on a first come, first served basis. I was fairly certain that I could arrange to meet the prospective occupant of the seat next to me in a pub near the venue, exchange the ticket for a couple of pints, and then sit back and enjoy the show. I could still go into central London afterwards and kill time taking photos until the crack of dawn, before making my way to Victoria for the bus home.
In fact, until lunchtime yesterday, that was pretty much the plan. Huw said he’d pick me up at 8.30 this morning, we’d go to London via Porthcawl, (Don’t ask! Just don’t!) and by 7.30 we’d be ready for the show to start.
But I’m not typing this in a pub in London (or even in the back of Huw’s car using my Myfi).
I’m in a pub in Aberdare, as I would be on just about any other Saturday afternoon. It’s not the Prince of Wales, either. I’ve had a gutsful of that place, to be perfectly honest. Martin and I feel like Bill Murray’s character in Groundhog Day whenever we’re in there – the only ones aware that it’s actually a different day, and that everyone else is trapped in some sort of Time Loop (see Time Crash).
You see, the Black Dog is back. Regular readers will know that I’m not talking about Stella, the crazy Labrador whom I used to go walking with every day. I’m talking about a far less amenable and much less predictable creature. Winston Churchill had his own famous black dog, and Round the Horne producer John Simmonds had one as well, as I’ve noted previously. Mine was waiting for me when I got home on Thursday night, after what I half-seriously called a ‘business meeting’. This time he’s in a capricious mood, and I never know how he’s going to act from one day to the next – or even from one hour to the next.
But let’s go back in time two days and take things from there, in some sort of illogical sequence.
The business meeting was more of a catch-up with an old friend masquerading as a ‘client conference’. My pal Josie is finishing her PhD (barring accident or incident) in a few months’ time, and I’ve been volunteered to proofread her thesis. It’s extremely interesting stuff, dealing with dreams and the extent to which our external experiences find their way into the strange fantasy land we inhabit when we’re asleep. Several of the entries here relate to my dreams; dreaming (and especially lucid dreaming, which I’ve experienced many times over the years) have been an abiding interest of mine for a long time.
Initially, Josie asked me if I’d be interested in joining one of the study groups, keeping a dream diary and comparing it with my daily experiences to look for possible correlations. I decided against it after a couple of days’ consideration. It turns out that I made the right decision. My daily experiences aren’t usually remarkable enough to be able to distinguish one day from another.
Nevertheless, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed reading Josie’s distillation of many different approaches to the subject, and I’ve realised that I wouldn’t have been any use to her study after all. I don’t remember my dreams often enough, or in sufficient detail, to produce a worthwhile set of data. Those which are worth recording usually end up here. The rest vanish along with the morning dew.
Anyway, I got the proofreading gig, which I didn’t mind. (I even get a mention in the finished article, which will be nice.) Josie and I arranged to meet on Thursday evening in Treforest. We met in the Rickards Arms and went through her work together, thrashing out points of style and presentation over a drink before having a general catch-up. We had a good laugh as always, even though the Rickards seems to have stopped being a student pub and become a chav pub instead.
The strange thing is, about an hour or so before we met, I’d experienced something I’d never experienced before. It frightened me, to be honest, and made me wonder whether I’d be better off postponing our meeting until I got it checked out.
I was sitting in the Prince of Wales, having a quiet(ish) pint with Lew M. and Ed L., when I suddenly felt a sharp pain at the base of my sternum. It was very difficult to describe – it felt as if I’d been drinking some soup and some of it had spilled onto my shirt.
The boys saw my startled reaction and asked if I was okay. I told them what had happened, and it happened again a few moments later. Ed asked me if I suffered with heartburn, and I was able to say I never have. The third time it was worse, and I actually winced. The boys were concerned straight away, and Lew asked me if I had any pins and needles in my arm, or felt any trouble breathing. That had been my first thought as well.
After all, I’m 47 years old and don’t lead an especially healthy lifestyle. Okay, so I’ve never smoked, but I like a drink, and (apart from walking Stella) it’s been a long time since I did any regular exercise. I’ve been vegetarian since I was 21, so my cholesterol levels should be within a reasonable tolerance. But I’m not getting any younger. Leighton P. had his first heart attack when he was only a bit older than I am now; my friend Dean had his first (and last, sadly) when he was only in his late thirties.
I did feel a bit short of breath for a few moments, but I think that was more from the shock of the initial pain, rather any congestive lung condition. I stretched my arms for a bit to see if I felt anything out of the ordinary, but all systems seemed to working normally. Even so, the very strange pain kept recurring for about twenty minutes or so.
Ed got me to make light of it, suggesting that one of my ex-girlfriends was putting a cigarette out on a voodoo doll of me. I’ve never had a cigarette put out on me, I hasten to add, (none of my ex-girlfriends have been that fucking crazy!) but I imagine that it must feel something like the pain I was experiencing in very short bursts of a second or so every couple of minutes.
I decided to chance it and walked to the station for the 1752 train. I felt a bit light-headed on the way there, and wondered if there was, in fact, something seriously wrong with me. I got a bit more worried on the way down, when I did feel a slight tingle of pins and needles in my left arm. It soon passed, fortunately, and Josie and I had a nice couple of hours together. We’ve promised to do it again when the ink is dry and she’s finally got her life back.
Yesterday I spent a few hours in Aberdare Library as usual, working slowly through Josie’s thesis. We’d come up against a problem with one of the tables. It’s too big to be displayed in portrait format, and we couldn’t turn it to landscape format. I hadn’t expected Microsoft Office to have anything like a workaround for that problem, but I was fairly sure that LibreOffice would. After all, it’s written by computer users for computer users (as opposed to written by a bunch of corporate programmers for the sake of the company share price), so it seemed likely that someone would have tackled the problem head-on.
I searched a few online discussion forums until I found a fix. Unfortunately, it necessitated installing the newest version of LibreOffice onto my Netbook, which wasn’t as easy as it should have been. To make matters worse, it looks as though I’m going to have to file a bug report, as the Rotate feature in Draw doesn’t seem to work properly. I ended up retyping the table myself, exporting it as a PDF, rotating and cropping it in GIMP, and then inserting it into the thesis as a JPEG. So far, it seems to work okay. Watch this space …
I decided to call into the Prince for a swift Coke, mainly because I desperately needed a piss, and Aberdare Library no longer has public toilets. (They were closed several years ago, as the town’s growing population of smackheads used to use them as a shooting gallery.) Martin rang me while I was on my way there, and I tried to get him to change his mind about tonight. He still wasn’t feeling well enough to risk the journey, and I had a bit of a flashback to the previous afternoon, and the weird pain in my chest.
It crossed my mind to call into the Glosters instead, as it’s usually a lot quieter than the Prince. But then I remembered that it hadn’t been open for a couple of afternoons while it was being decorated. At least I knew the Prince would be open. The Glosters wouldn’t take me far out of my way, but it would be far enough to make a difference. Foolishly, I decided to stick with Plan A and headed to the Prince.
It was a colossal mistake. The place was full of Time Loopers (see Time Crash) and Space Invaders (see Freaks, Geeks and Space Invaders), with the Same Old Songs on the jukebox. I hadn’t even had time to put my stuff down when Taff called me over to the bar. He’s a chronic alcoholic of many years’ standing, a fully paid-up member of both AAPAA (the Aberdare Afternoon Piss-Artists Association) and the Groundhog Day Mob. I was fairly sure that whatever he wanted wouldn’t be that urgent.
I said, ‘Hang on a sec,’ took off my coat, and headed for the Gents’. He was still gesturing at me to join him so I said, a bit more firmly this time, ‘I’ll be there now.’
I made it to the toilet with a few moments to spare. When I got back to the bar, Taff was still gesturing frantically at me. I bought a can of Coke, walked straight up to him, and stood with my face close to his.
‘Right!’ I said, very loudly so that the entire pub could hear me. ‘What is so vitally fucking important that it can’t wait until I’ve taken my coat off and had a piss?’
Mary behind the bar cautioned me to watch my step, but I didn’t care. It turned out that Taff had just learned of the incident I related in The Dreaded Netbook Hurler of Old Mountain Ash (which took place over four months ago.) News travels fast around here, you see. He wanted to know …
Actually, I don’t know what he wanted to know. He was so pissed that he was totally incoherent. It was about three o’clock, if that. Meanwhile, a woman sitting by the bar asked me where ‘my friend’ was. (Breaking News: I’ve got more than one friend, boys and girls!)
I said, ‘He’s just been on the phone – he might come up later.’
She said, ‘No, your friend with all the tattoos and piercings.’ She meant Gema.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘I haven’t seen her all week.’
‘Oh, she’s very opinionated, isn’t she?’ the woman continued. She started rattling on about some petty argument which she and Gema had had (and which I don’t even think I was party to). I walked away without saying anything more to her. I sat near the door (perfectly positioned for a sharp exit) when Taff decided to weave his way across the room and sit opposite me. He burbled away in some unintelligible language until I had a gutsful and put the Emergency Protocols into action.
Do you remember the classic war movie Ice Cold in Alex, where John Mills downs a pint in a single gulp? I did exactly the same with my Coke. I grabbed my coat and left without a word to anyone. I went straight back to the Library, carried on potching with Josie’s thesis until I got hungry, and went home in time to catch the second half of PM on Radio 4.
Last night, I started thinking more seriously about the pain in my chest. I decided that maybe it had been some sort of warning sign, to de-stress and avoid highly charged situations. Judging from my own research (based on an admittedly limited sample of Stereophonics at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, back in the days when they were still a big enough name to sell it out), a stadium rock gig with tens of thousands of people, loud noise, loads of adrenaline, and an extremely high emotional content, probably qualified as a stressful and highly charged situation. I put a status on Facebook saying something like, ‘I’ve got a feeling that there’ll be two empty seats at Wembley Stadium tomorrow night – I don’t feel well.’
It didn’t take Huw long to see it and text me. I told him that I’d probably be wise to give it a miss. He offered to pick the tickets up anyway and try and sell them on my behalf. I told him that he might as well call round as arranged this morning, and I’d see how I was feeling. I plodded through some more of Josie’s thesis until I reached a natural break, took my medication, and went to bed.
Even so, the Wembley Scenario was still in my mind. It would be the gig of a lifetime. I set my alarm for seven o’clock, which would have left me plenty of time to have a bath, eat breakfast, and generally prepare myself for the trip. Then I curled up and tried to get to sleep.
I don’t think I managed it at all. I know I was awake at half past two, because I checked my clock. I was lying in bed, still feeling the occasional jab at the base of my sternum. I listened to the rain hammering down outside (I’d got soaked twice yesterday already) and wondered what it would be like once the gig finished.
Huw and Jon bought their tickets as soon as they went on sale, months and months ago. It gave them plenty of time to arrange somewhere to stay overnight. In fairness, I didn’t even know myself that I’d be going until Tuesday morning.
Looking back on it, National Express must have had those tickets in hand months before they decided to run the competition. It was only about three weeks ago that it appeared in their email newsletter; the phone call on Tuesday morning left me barely enough time to book my transport. If I’d been working, I might not have got the call until Tuesday evening. I might not have even able to take the day off. It seemed like a classic case of Lack of Forward Planning. Finding affordable accommodation at that short notice was going to be impossible.
At some point I experienced a flashforward which threw me twenty-four hours into one of my Possible Futures. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to go on with.
I was walking through the centre of London, soaked to the skin, with nowhere to go except (possibly) McDonalds, where I could drink hot chemicals labelled as chocolate until it was time to make my way to Victoria Coach Station. Even though I had enough money to see me through the night, I didn’t relish the thought of paying a fiver (at least) for a pint. Westminster City Council have been clamping down on late-night drinking anyway, so it seemed unlikely that I’d have been able to get a pint at all. There was no point trying to take photos in that sort of weather. I was looking forward to spending the night sheltering in a shop doorway and trying hard not to look like a rough sleeper during his first night on the streets.
The more I thought about it, the more stupid my plan seemed. I heard my neighbour setting off for work at about half-past six this morning, and I knew I had to make a decision pretty quickly.
When the alarm sounded half an hour later, I had to make a life-changing decision at the press of a button: Snooze or Stop.
I hit Stop.
Two parallel universes came into existence at that moment in Time and Space. It’s been happening to me throughout my life, of course, just as it does for everyone else. I’ve become more and more conscious of it over the past ten years or so. However, I don’t think I’ve ever before been able to pinpoint the exact four-dimensional coordinates when it’s happened.
Huw knocked the door just after 8.15. He was earlier than I’d anticipated (he’d said 8.30 in his text) but I suppose he was excited and keen to be on his way. I answered the door in my dressing gown. I told him I didn’t feel up to going to the gig – I was worried that the crowds and the noise might turn the odd pain in my chest into something really serious. I gave him the envelope with the tickets in, as we’d arranged last night, and he said he’d try and get a good price for them. Then I told him to have a great time, locked the door again, and went back to bed.
Some time during the morning I had a lucid dream. I was on the phone, telling Huw that I was feeling much better, and that I wanted him to turn around and pick me up as originally planned. I know it was a lucid dream because I knew even while I was dreaming it that I’d never have done such a thing.
He’s just texted me. He and Jon have been able to get £60 for the pair of tickets. He also said, ‘I think you made the right decision staying home, it’s freezing cold up here and raining on and off.’ My flashforward must have been right.
It’s not as though I’m out of pocket. All I’ve spent on the deal is £5.50 for my Megabus ticket. I won’t get that money back. It doesn’t matter either way. It just means that there’ll be an empty seat on the trip back to Cardiff tomorrow morning. The really funny part is this: National Express’s fares were so high that I decided to go with their competitors instead. They haven’t made a penny out of my winnings after all.
The psychologist and writer Kay Redfield Jamison has written a book called Touched With Fire, in which she explores the psychiatric case histories of artists, writers and musicians. I bought a copy in Aberdare Library’s never-ending clearance sale a few months ago. Dr Jamison herself suffers from mental health problems, and her own book An Unquiet Mind is a revealing and disturbing account of her own condition. Until now, the doctors and I have been working on the basis that I suffer with straightforward depression. Looking back on the past seven days, however, I wonder whether we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.
I’ve got a feeling that I display more of the signs of bipolar disorder – what used to be known as Manic Depression. Last Saturday through to Tuesday or Wednesday, I was definitely on the upswing. Unfortunately, what goes up must come down. I started to come down some time on Thursday night, and I’m still going. By eight o’clock, in this universe, I’ll be in my house, watching Doctor Who on DVD and maybe doing a bit more work on Josie’s thesis afterwards. In the Universe Next Door, I’ll be in Wembley Stadium watching the greatest gig of my life.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the most suitable surroundings, mind you – after all, The Wall is the story of a man having a fucking nervous breakdown.
I’ve called this entry Bad Wolf. There’s a good reason for that. Doctor Who fans will know that ‘bad wolf’ are the words which Rose Tyler scatters through Space and Time at the end of ‘The Parting of the Ways’. Back in her own time, she realises that the words are written everywhere. She and the Doctor have been hearing them since they first teamed up. They’re a sign that she can take the TARDIS back to Platform 5, save the Doctor and Captain Jack Harkness, and wipe out the Daleks.
She and the Doctor go on to cheat death, have extraordinary adventures, and party and bullshit for another day before their final cataclysmic encounter with the Daleks and the Cybermen at Canary Wharf divides them (almost) forever in parallel universes. It’s a heartbreaking moment. I still cry when I watch that episode.
My own Bad Wolf is a genetic throwback to the early days of our species’ relationship with domestic animals. You never what my Bad Wolf is going to do from one day to the next – sometimes it’s friendly and fun to be with; on other occasions I wish it would just fuck off and die. On certain occasions, when it moves in for the duration, I wish I were dead as well.
The doctor (my GP, not the Last of the Time Lords) asked me years ago, when I first thought I was having some sort of nervous breakdown, whether I’d thought about suicide.
I replied, ‘Oh, come on, everyone who’s ever read Hamlet has thought about suicide. Anyone who’s seen It’s a Wonderful Life has thought about suicide. If you mean, “Have you thought about committing suicide yourself?” – then, no, I haven’t.’
But I was lying. I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it a lot over the years. I’ve never done anything about it (obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be typing this now, would I?) However, suicide has touched my life a few times, and I’ve seen what happens to the people left behind. Like any sudden and unexplained death it leaves an enormous person-shaped hole left in Space and Time which all the photographs and memories in the world can’t possibly fill.
However, think about the Many-Worlds Hypothesis of Quantum Physics for a moment. Think about Kurt Vonnegut Jr and his Tralfamadorians, with their overall view of Past, Present and Future as one indivisible moment. (So it goes, and all that …)
Here I am, with only my Bad Wolf for company. The fucking thing has made itself comfy on the chair next to mine and shows no sign of shifting its arse any time soon. But now I’ve got some sort of consolation for the people I leave behind.
Just as long as the Internet continues to exist in some form, I can take these words and scatter them in Time and Space. I’ll always be here (in some sense). I just won’t always be there – which is a different thing altogether.
For now, I’ll settle for being comfortably numb. It’ll do …

REFERENCES

DAWKINS, RICHARD (1995) River Out of Eden. London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson.
JAMISON, KAY REDFIELD (1996) Touched With Fire: Manic-depressive illness and the artistic temperament. London: Simon & Schuster.
POTTER, DENNIS (1986) The Singing Detective. London: Faber & Faber.
WILSON, ROBERT ANTON (1983) Prometheus Rising. Tempe, AZ: New Falcon.
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