Johnson Family Bible
The Johnson Family has evolved into American mythology
Riding into Tamaghis, Ray Johnson saw a Portuguese woman kneeling by a soldier’s body. Her daughter was just six years old but she kept watch while her mama stole that soldier’s ring and forty-seven dollars. Ray tipped his hat and he half-smiled on the side of his face turned to the child and the other side it photographed the mother. (Poppy Trail, a ballad, by author)
Last week I began writing about the Johnson Family. Always in the back of my mind there has been, “The Johnson Family Bible,” composed of stories about good people in difficult situations. As in fairy tales, what gets you safely through the situation in one, would get you killed in another. There are no rules that will help, and the only thing that consistently works out is following the advice of the magical animal.
The argument of the moralist is that without religion and the police department things would go crazy, and that is absolutely true. It would be chaos with blood in the streets. But because we are blessed with these institutions we are as Kodachrome cheery as the white folks in the first scene of Blue Velvet. But beneath that parade of good order and high quality there is an equal and opposite outlaw class. That was where Burroughs chose to be. That’s what a Bohemian is.
Bohemians identify with the class below, not the one above.
In, The Western Lands trilogy Burroughs summed up what a Bohemian with an upper class education in literature and medicine was bringing back from his journey through the outlaw class underworld. He will be the focus of future generations because from a distance he is American mythology, and the summation of the gifts he brought back from the land of the dead are in his final trilogy. A moralist will think, I can’t get past the junky, queer, wife killer, part, and a Johnson will think, How did he survive that and get back across the border with the gold?
The ballad I wrote was about a Persian story from Burroughs (reproduced below), about a journey that we have to take in order to reach the destination, the twin cities of illusion, beyond ordinary knowledge. The five cities (the last two count as one) must be passed through in the right order, which might take many lifetimes. In each city there is a relationship between truth and permission. It is the journey from, it’s as true as you think it is, and it’s permitted if you can get away with it, to, nothing is true, therefore, everything is permitted. The journey begins in the instinctual behavior, warlords and riots and heads on pikes, then moves to a second stage, which is like modern day America.
This is the city of Ba’dan:
Ray rides on toward Ba’dan behind a three mile caravan of caviar and European water. There’s a red-headed rider on his right and a rider in black who’s headed back to a temple dedicated to his mother. He left her back in Tamaghis to build the family business so she’d be proud to pass it to her daughter.
Ba’dan is a city of contending partisans, with a precariously placed elite, a disgruntled middle class, and an outlaw class of roughly equal size. The individual is similarly split into ego and shadow, with a precariously placed sense of Self connecting with the road ahead, which leads to Yass-Waddah, ruled by the Countess de Gulpa and the Countess de Vile, who, with the council of the select, plot to subjugate the other cities.
The Countess dressed in black and white has a voracious appetite and everything is food that surrounds her. Selected men they worship her, they kiss her cat and learn to purr how they’ll kill anyone who offends her.
Beyond this, the road to Waghdas, the city of knowledge, where it’s true if you can prove it is, and you have permission to the limits of knowledge. This is the departure point, and to get to it you have to cross a river of shit, the duad.
Ride on Ray hear Wagdas call from those ivy covered walls that close around your natural understanding. Here it’s true if you can prove it they shrink your mind and remove it for a little polishing and sanding. Ride to the cities of illusion sculpt your face from this confusion nothing’s true therefore you have permission.
You’d better ride you’d better run, you’d better learn to use those guns and kill the guards who have secured the border. Ride on through that bullet hole and make those covered wagons roll We’re riding away forever to the Western Lands.
“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.” The last words of Hassan i Sabbah, Old Man of the Mountain.
“Tamaghis . . . Ba’dan . . . Yass-Waddah . . . Waghdas . . . Naufana . . . Ghadis.”
It is said that an initiate who wishes to know the answer to any question need only to repeat these words as he falls asleep and the answer will come in a dream.
Tamaghis: This is the open city of contending partisans where advantage shifts from moment to moment in a desperate biological war. Here everything is as true as you think it is and everything you can get away with is permitted.
Ba’dan: This is given over to competitive games and commerce. Ba’dan closely resembles present-day America with a precarious moneyed elite, a large disaffected middle class and an equally large segment of criminals and outlaws. Unstable, explosive, and swept by whirlwind riots. Everything is true and everything is permitted.
Yass-Waddah: This city is the female stronghold where the Countess de Gulpa, the Coutess de Vile, and the Council of the Select plot a final subjugation of the other cities. Every shade of sexual transition is represented: boys with girls’ heads, girls with boys’ heads. Here everything is true and nothing is permitted except to the permitters.
Waghdas: This is the university city, the center of learning where all questions are answered in terms of what can be expressed and understood. Complete permission derives from complete understanding.
Naufana and Ghadis are the cities of illusion where nothing is true and therefore everything is permitted.
The traveler must start in Tamaghis and make his way through the other cities in the order named. This pilgrimage may take many lifetimes.
(The Cities of the Red Night, William Burroughs)
One of my favorites from Adelia Ritchie:
Here’s a good story from Steve Williams:
I really like this poem by Marta Calderon, MScE
