THE NINE (ORIGINAL) ZIPPIE PRINCIPLES.
I remember Fraser and I sitting up all night working on the nine principles, and then in the morning day-break we headed out looking for a café… satisfied with results and very stoned and happy! Here they are again folks, published again by increasing popular demand!
1. EROS – Rules Very ok!
2. INALIENABLE LIBERTY MUST EQUAL PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY -or we can all go homeless…
3. PEOPLE ARE AREAL, THE STATE IS IN THE MIND.
4. NO REVOLUTION WITHOUT PERSONAL EVOLUTION.
5. HARMONISING THE HEMISPHERES. 80’ = 60’S HIPPY + MULTINATIONAL MAN.
6. WE ARE THE WORLD IS YOU. All in this together…
7. PEACE, LOVE AND A FAIR PROPHET.
8. SAY YES FOR A CHANGE.
9 S.M.I. L. E.
I wanted to try and somehow represent Fraser in the broadest possible way, besides his work and ongoing legacy, I think there is nothing better expresses this, than the wonderful email I received from John Allan after Fraser died -and who lightly, deeply touches on the breadth and depth of Fraser’s connecting and networking influence. Thank you John.
Here is what he wrote.
Dear James Hamilton,
Writing you to thank you for your keeping me in touch with Fraser’s victorious death, and your brilliant and touching resume of Fraser’s creative life. I knew him and liked him very much; knew some of inner Rave Circle much better but these people’s qualities made me admire him for his ability to attract such intelligent, hip, and loving co-operatives on such historical breakthroughs.
He and an inner circle of Zippies planned the Pronoia tour of USA at the October Gallery and kindly invited me to sit in on it. I was invited to speak at Megatripolis about a year after it opened, and when I told my ‘guide’ that it was one of the best audiences I had ever given a science based talk to (on biospherics); she nonchalantly replied, ‘one third were probably on Acid, one third on E, and one third on Skunk’. I saw a representative of every external class in the audience, from down-and-outer to Lord ‘Blumbo’, but all these masks were temporarily at least dropped at Megatrip and real humans emerged. I went back three times to enjoy this brilliant reprise of 1967 Haight Ashbury where I was lucky enough to have started a House and a Theater; it was, like, Authentic.
An amazing, even stupendous feat.
I knew some of his close associates who invited me to some dashing Raves, which I believe were the transforming factor in making London the wonderful City it is today by polishing off many of the old conventional and boring remnants of gone Past.
He often sent me emails on what new things he was up to; I last saw him for a conversation at an October Gallery party about two and a quarter years ago; Tim was a great friend of mine and I was happy when they got together. Well, I would sure like to meet you. I’ll be in London sometime this spring. All the best to you and thanks for your part in making Fraser’s dreams actualize and in keeping us up on his remarkable transition.
John Allen is the inventor of Biospher 2 and an outstanding pioneer of planetary consciousness. Check out his memoir: Me and the Biosphere, published by Synergetic Press.
WWW. Synergetic press.com
You will be hearing more about John Allen and his pioneering work soon!
JUST RELEASED: Me and the Biospheres — a Memoir by the Inventor of Biosphere 2, John Allen
An astonishing book. Inspiration guaranteed! Ralph Metzner
Synergetic Press – Books for Comprehensive Minds
1 Bluebird Court
Santa Fe, NM 87508
We proudly present the first ever public appearance of ‘Shazam’. Fraser Clark’s’ first novel, which was almost published by New York publishers Scott Meredith way back in late sixties.
Back then few mainstream publishers would publish anything on drugs, and drugs are never mentioned outright in the book . And yet it is one of the first ever psychdelic novels to be written at the time about an LSD experience. In that sense and if nothing else, it is a time capsule, a microcosm of the times.
He was advised by them to revise it, but he never did – and up until now Shazam remained unpublished. So here it is as it was then written in that glorious golden dawn.
A novel by Fraser Clark
Words do not express thoughts very well, everything immediately becomes a little different, a little distorted, a little foolish. And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another. Siddartha
PART ONE “INSIDE OR OUTSIDE”
Chapter 1. No further to run and no more illusions
So, there we are, the first ten words are written. How strange. So many were the possibilities that milled round my head for so long, so many the clever and arresting opening lines, and yet, after all, this was all that came out. If only you know how many other ways I might have started, but no, it is done and you will never know. The sun is rising, I begin. The sun rises many times of course: has anything changed to explain this feeling I have this time, at last, the setting sun will throw a long shadow over a large manuscript? Yes, something has changed. For now it has come about that, though I have still no reason to write, at least and at last I have no reason not to write. For small mercies let me be thankful. And yet, after all, has anything changed apart from my perception of events and my attitude towards them? Oh no, I shall fall into that trap again. Just accept, question not. You have made a good beginning. Do not falter into self-doubt. You have made a good beginning. Question not the cause but accept the effect. There are no causes, only effects, or if there are causes they are not discoverable, or if they are discoverable the discovery of them only spoils their effects. So gratefully accept this, that you have made a good beginning. Very well then, I accept. I shall not say better ones for that would be to pull to pieces before I have completed building, a thing more basic to me probably than sex, to take only one example, quite at random I assure you. But good beginnings aplenty have I made. My life is strewn with good beginnings. Oh ho, very pompous. Deep in the jungle of monkey farts. Forget not what you are. You have not escaped it yet. Do not rise above yourself. That way lays disaster. Not that disaster does not lie the other way as well whatever that might be – but at least it is not inevitable or, if inevitable, I am not aware of it as being so. I am not sure of it. STOP. I almost said I was not sure of anything. Words, words, words. But what else have I come to this as I am? Come to what, you ask. It is most unfair? Unfair to you, that is, for where is the drama then? Any yet I sense your impatience to know what I have to tell, if anything. I do not wish to loose your interest, my only hope now, or shall I tell you this: perhaps it will help you to have a little patience with me if you understand at least some of the difficulties I labour under in telling this story. Without further-ado then, or, being no more than myself, with as little ado as possible, I shall hasten on to relate by what unhappy and unwished for coincidences I happen to be hanging suspended upside down in this windmill in the middle of I know now what English country. That must sound intriguing to anyone who is not himself hanging suspended upside down in a windmill in the middle of you know not what English country it is not in the least intriguing. It is almost the usual condition. It is dark in here and I cannot see the roof but comes straight down out of the blackness above me and winds itself around my feet. From that point my body hangs rather mournfully down, my chest and arms on the floor. The floor is covered in dust. Do not ask me why they have left me thus for I do not know. All I do know is that it is excruciatingly painful in my spine, and maddeningly humiliating to my ego; which, come to think of it, probably answers your question. It is at least not cold for it cannot be later than late September or early November. A weak haze of daylight strains through the grime and cobwebs on the window, a very small window, but it is enough to let me see the words I am scribbling on this paper, the words I hope one day get to you. It is my own fault; I see no point in trying to protect my vanity from the truth. I came of my own free will when, realising I could not run forever, there seemed no point in running further. I imagined that they would be less harsh if I gave myself. Up. How immature and romantic that was. It did no good for now I have no more illusions. I expect no mercy.
CHAPTER 2. An Almost Unconscious But Very Real Sniper
So, enough of these tantalising titbits, let me begin my story and bring you up to date. And when I have caught up with where I am I shall have said all I have to say. But where to belong? Like everything it begins, I began and ended twenty odd years ago. Julius Caesar was born, lived and died twenty odd years ago, all in a second. However, unless I am going to describe everything in the world and bore you indescribably in the process, I needs must choose a random point in what is a continuum. How to add, that I am comparing my life to the flight of a bullet. Too short. A meteor perhaps. Does it begin when finger tightens on trigger? Or when trigger begins to move? Or when trigger reaches sufficient and scientifically discoverable point of depression, or when firing pin begins to move? Or when firing pin strikes cartridge? Or when cartridge begins to explode? Or when force of explosion reaches bullet? Or when bullet begins to move? Or when the bullet springs madly from end of barrel? Or when marksman first awakes and decides to go shooting in afternoon? And since the flight of a bullet is so much shorter than my life story how many more possible starting points must anything have which I have related! My point is simply this that I have to make an arbitrary choice. If I choose badly, blame me not. There are bound to be questions left unanswered. My main fear is that I begin too far back and have no time to reach where I am before they do whatever it is they are going to do to me…Or I escape. That completes the thought logically, not actually. But I must waste no more time. I begin, then. But first I take a rest. This much has take me two hours. I am not dissatisfied. He who hangs upside down must needs accept and expect a lowering of artistic output.
I begin again half an hour later. During the half hour it has struck me that I am wasting too much time on the present, at the expense of the past. By its very nature my present is bound to be less stimulating than my past. Enough. I am still discussing my person. Suffice it to say that today’s sun is two and a half hours old. If I want my past to catch up with my present before they come for me I must waste no time.
I choose then an arbitrary moment in my past and, lo, it is as two thirty in the afternoon of a Thursday in May. I could—but I shall not – state the exact date; it is irrelevant, and these facts, unlike the many irrelevant details I have already pained you wish and the multitides I shall no dub use to rub salt in the open wound, would seem pregnant with a meaning which quite frankly they are unable to support. Even the mention of two-thirty on a Thursday afternoon is absurb but excusable in that I remember distinctly looking at my watch and remarking—in the French sense, since I was alone and am not mad—that it was indeed two-thirty. That it was Thursday I also know because these events I am describing—forgive me, I shall very soon describe them—happened on the afternoon of the day before the day of the party, a Friday, which was to be the prelude to the Love Scene. So those among you who are searching for the dirty bit—and lets face it, we all are—can rest assured that the narrative is now only thirty-six hours short of their heart’s desire. Breasts. Breasts. Breasts. Breasts. I trust that, like mine, your appetite has been whetted. Thirty-six hours. Not bad. Soon be there. But the fellow is inclined to ramble on a bit. Who knows how many volumes he can fill in thirty-six hours? A timely reminder I thank you.
The sun—did I say it already—was shining from the blue spring sky. My apologies for such an irrelevant piece of scenic description but it is in fact relevant as it explains why I happened to be lying stretched out like some abandoned ex-virgin upon the grass in the town’s main park. (When I mentioned the sun did you all think I was going to tell you how old it was—is—that—day—today?) Suddenly I interrupted what to a casual observer might have seemed a daydream in the sun but which had been far removed from that. Partly it was to turn onto my front and gaze once more up the brownly nyloned limbs of the girl lying further up the slope, but the main reason (and here we eave what might be called the frivolities, not to say inanities, and begin the story proper) was that I became aware I was being watched. It was an unpleasant feeling and one that was strange to me. I had been dimly aware of it for the past half hour or so, and it had been growing stronger by the minute as I tossed and turned in van effort to fall asleep. After all, I told myself they were unlikely to try anything here. They were becoming more persistent, it was true, and more daring inot the bargain, but things had surely not yet reached the point where they would try anything in broad daylight, in a crowed park. But who was I fooling? Not even myself. For all the time, down they’re in the darkness of my guy an almost unconscious but very real sniper was picking off my defences one by one. I tried putting myself in their position. It was obvious that the quarry had of late been more on his guard than usual. He bad been avoiding solitude, He had given up his books, his writing, his solitary walks. He had thrown himself into the social whirl of pubs, parties, and discussion group. It was becoming more and more difficult to find him alone and vulnerable. Also he was more on his guard. Even on the few occasions when he was alone he was seldom off his guard, seldom relaxed. Only when he imagined he was in the relative safety of a crowd did he allow himself to relax. That then must be the moment, I reasoned, viewing it as they would view it. If the only time I was off guard was when I imagined I was safe then that would be the moment they would choose. It was obvious. I sat up: I looked their positions? Two men seemed closer, but I could not be sure. What was undeniable was that I was now almost surrounded by people where, two hours before, I had shared the slope with scarcely half a dozen others, dotted about, as only we absurd humans can do, so that each of us was surrounded by a sixth of the entire area of the slope. Since about one o’clock the slope had been filling up and now I could scarcely breathe for people. Virtually all means of escape seemed blocked. I had to leave before it was too late. I looked at my watch, partly from reflex, partly to make them think I had remembered some appointment, and scrambled to my feet, pulled on my shirt, and, grabbing my jacket, set off down the slope at an angle, which I had chosen as seeming safest. My heart was thudding as I picked my way among the pinkening bodies and gained the path. I walked quickly along to the bridge over the river, not looking round till I had reached it. The two men were following me about twenty yards behind, walking slowly and seemingly uninterestedly. I looked about, trying to fight down my panic, though still reasonably sure they would not try anything in the crowded park, but I could not take chances. Oh God: If only I had remember that later! I crossed the bridge and took the fork to the left, trying not to run, but I sweat was beginning to prick its way onto my skin and it would be running. It came to the empty bandstand where, every year, the crowds are given the same tunes played at the same speed and in the same style, by the same men with the same instruments as in all the other years, which the people fondly hope they have forgotten but never have. I thought of jumping over the railing and hiding behind an awing there, but strangely the fact that the passers-by who would be bound to see me shamed me out of it. Better dead than embarrassed. I hurried on then suddenly cold, then hot, then sweaty, as I saw how near I had come to playing right into their hands. To hide in the bandstand alone and unprotected by the crowd would have been a bad move. I shuddered. That was what came of panic. I forced myself—not altogether unsuccessfully to calm down. I even tried —not altogether unsuccessfully—to exult in the knowledge that I had not fallen into that trap. I sauntered quickly through the park gates into the main street, which borders the park and stopped to look back. There was no sign of the men. But that meant little as a corner and some trees hid even the bandstand, which had so nearly been my Waterloo. At any second they could come round the corner and be only twenty strides from where I stood. There was no sense in hanging about. A bus came heavily along and I jumped aboard, rather enjoying the melodrama now that I was safe.