Yurugu Torrents

The Octopus, by Frank NorrisThe Project Gutenberg EBook of The Octopus, by Frank NorrisThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The OctopusAuthor: Frank NorrisRelease Date: July 8, 2008 EBook #268Last Updated: March 11, 2018Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8. START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OCTOPUS.Produced by John Hamm, and David WidgerTHE OCTOPUSA Story of Californiaby Frank NorrisCONTENTSBOOK 1. CHAPTER IJust after passing Caraher's saloon, on the County Road that ran southfrom Bonneville, and that divided the Broderson ranch from that of LosMuertos, Presley was suddenly aware of the faint and prolonged blowing ofa steam whistle that he knew must come from the railroad shops near thedepot at Bonneville. In starting out from the ranch house that morning, hehad forgotten his watch, and was now perplexed to know whether the whistlewas blowing for twelve or for one o'clock. He hoped the former. Early thatmorning he had decided to make a long excursion through the neighbouringcountry, partly on foot and partly on his bicycle, and now noon was comealready, and as yet he had hardly started.

As he was leaving the houseafter breakfast, Mrs. Derrick had asked him to go for the mail atBonneville, and he had not been able to refuse.He took a firmer hold of the cork grips of his handlebars—the roadbeing in a wretched condition after the recent hauling of the crop—andquickened his pace. He told himself that, no matter what the time was, hewould not stop for luncheon at the ranch house, but would push on toGuadalajara and have a Spanish dinner at Solotari's, as he had originallyplanned.There had not been much of a crop to haul that year.

Half of the wheat onthe Broderson ranch had failed entirely, and Derrick himself had hardlyraised more than enough to supply seed for the winter's sowing. CHAPTER IIOn the following morning, Harran Derrick was up and about by a littleafter six o'clock, and a quarter of an hour later had breakfast in thekitchen of the ranch house, preferring not to wait until the Chinese cooklaid the table in the regular dining-room. He scented a hard day's workahead of him, and was anxious to be at it betimes. He was practically themanager of Los Muertos, and, with the aid of his foreman and threedivision superintendents, carried forward nearly the entire direction ofthe ranch, occupying himself with the details of his father's plans,executing his orders, signing contracts, paying bills, and keeping thebooks.For the last three weeks little had been done. The crop—such as itwas—had been harvested and sold, and there had been a generalrelaxation of activity for upwards of a month. Now, however, the fall wascoming on, the dry season was about at its end; any time after thetwentieth of the month the first rains might be expected, softening theground, putting it into condition for the plough. Two days before this,Harran had notified his superintendents on Three and Four to send in suchgrain as they had reserved for seed.

On Two the wheat had not even shownitself above the ground, while on One, the Home ranch, which was under hisown immediate supervision, the seed had already been graded and selected.It was Harran's intention to commence blue-stoning his seed that day, adelicate and important process which prevented rust and smut appearing inthe crop when the wheat should come up. But, furthermore, he wanted tofind time to go to Guadalajara to meet the Governor on the morning train.His day promised to be busy.But as Harran was finishing his last cup of coffee, Phelps, the foreman onthe Home ranch, who also looked after the storage barns where the seed waskept, presented himself, cap in hand, on the back porch by the kitchendoor.“I thought I'd speak to you about the seed from Four, sir,” he said. “Thathasn't been brought in yet.”Harran nodded.“I'll see about it. You've got all the blue-stone you want, have you,Phelps?” and without waiting for an answer he added, “Tell the stableman Ishall want the team about nine o'clock to go to Guadalajara. Put them inthe buggy. The bays, you understand.” When the other had gone, Harrandrank off the rest of his coffee, and, rising, passed through thedining-room and across a stone-paved hallway with a glass roof into theoffice just beyond.The office was the nerve-centre of the entire ten thousand acres of LosMuertos, but its appearance and furnishings were not in the leastsuggestive of a farm.

It was divided at about its middle by a wirerailing, painted green and gold, and behind this railing were the highdesks where the books were kept, the safe, the letter-press andletter-files, and Harran's typewriting machine. A great map of Los Muertoswith every water-course, depression, and elevation, together withindications of the varying depths of the clays and loams in the soil,accurately plotted, hung against the wall between the windows, while nearat hand by the safe was the telephone.But, no doubt, the most significant object in the office was the ticker.This was an innovation in the San Joaquin, an idea of shrewd, quick-wittedyoung Annixter, which Harran and Magnus Derrick had been quick to adopt,and after them Broderson and Osterman, and many others of the wheatgrowers of the county. The offices of the ranches were thus connected bywire with San Francisco, and through that city with Minneapolis, Duluth,Chicago, New York, and at last, and most important of all, with Liverpool.Fluctuations in the price of the world's crop during and after the harvestthrilled straight to the office of Los Muertos, to that of the Quien Sabe,to Osterman's, and to Broderson's. During a flurry in the Chicago wheatpits in the August of that year, which had affected even the San Franciscomarket, Harran and Magnus had sat up nearly half of one night watching thestrip of white tape jerking unsteadily from the reel. At such moments theyno longer felt their individuality. The ranch became merely the part of anenormous whole, a unit in the vast agglomeration of wheat land the wholeworld round, feeling the effects of causes thousands of miles distant—adrought on the prairies of Dakota, a rain on the plains of India, a froston the Russian steppes, a hot wind on the llanos of the Argentine.Harran crossed over to the telephone and rang six bells, the call for thedivision house on Four.

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It was the most distant, the most isolated pointon all the ranch, situated at its far southeastern extremity, where fewpeople ever went, close to the line fence, a dot, a speck, lost in theimmensity of the open country. By the road it was eleven miles distantfrom the office, and by the trail to Hooven's and the Lower Road all ofnine.“How about that seed?” demanded Harran when he had got Cutter on the line.The other made excuses for an unavoidable delay, and was adding that hewas on the point of starting out, when Harran cut in with:“You had better go the trail. It will save a little time and I am in ahurry. Put your sacks on the horses' backs. And, Cutter, if you see Hoovenwhen you go by his place, tell him I want him, and, by the way, take alook at the end of the irrigating ditch when you get to it. See how theyare getting along there and if Billy wants anything. Tell him we areexpecting those new scoops down to-morrow or next day and to get alongwith what he has until then.

How's everything on Four? All right,then. Give your seed to Phelps when you get here if I am not about.

I amgoing to Guadalajara to meet the Governor. He's coming down to-day. Andthat makes me think; we lost the case, you know. I had a letter from theGovernor yesterday. Yes, hard luck. Behrman did us up. Well,good-bye, and don't lose any time with that seed.

I want to blue-stoneto-day.”After telephoning Cutter, Harran put on his hat, went over to the barns,and found Phelps. Phelps had already cleaned out the vat which was tocontain the solution of blue-stone, and was now at work regrading theseed. Against the wall behind him ranged the row of sacks.

Psychiatry could be, and some psychiatrists are, on the side of transcendence, of genuine freedom, and of true human growth. But psychiatry can so easily be a technique of brainwashing, of inducing behaviour that is adjusted, by (preferably) non-injurious torture. In the best places, where straitjackets are abolished, doors are unlocked, leucotomies largely forgone, these can be replaced by more subtle lobotomies and tranquillizers that place the bars of Bedlam and the locked doors inside the patient. Thus I would wish to emphasize that our 'normal' 'adjusted' state is too often the abdication of ecstasy, the betrayal of our true potentialities, that many of us are only too successful in acquiring a false self to adapt to false realities. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her-flirting to herself at sink-lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers-ragged long lips between her legs-What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold-later revolted a little, not much-seemed perhaps a good idea to try-know the Monster of the Beginning Womb-Perhaps-that way. Would she care?

She needs a lover. In dormant seed form, the plasmate slumbered in the buried library of codices at Chenoboskion until 1945 C.E. This is what Jesus meant when he spoke elliptically of the 'mustard seed' which, he said, 'would grow into a tree large enough for birds to roost in.' He foresaw not only his own death but that of all homoplasmates. He foresaw the codices unearthed, read, and the plasmate seeking out new human hosts to crossbond with; but he foresaw the absence of the plasmate for almost two thousand years. We hypostatize information into objects.

Rearrangement of objects is change in the content of the information; the message has changed. This is a language which we have lost the ability to read. We ourselves are a part of this language; changes in us are changes in the content of the information.

We ourselves are information-rich; information enters us, is processed and is then projected outward once more, now in an altered form. We are not aware that we are doing this, that in fact this is all we are doing. In seeing Christ in a vision I correctly said to him, 'We need medical attention.' In the vision there was an insane creator who destroyed what he created, without purpose; which is to say, irrationally. This is the deranged streak in the Mind; Christ is our only hope, since we cannot now call on Asklepios. Asklepios came before Christ and raised a man from the dead; for this act, Zeus had a Kyklopes slay him with a thunderbolt. Christ also was killed for what he had done: raising a man from the dead.

Elijah brought a boy back to life and disappeared soon thereafter in a whirlwind. 'The Empire never ended.' II, being deranged, at once tormented, humiliated, rejected and finally killed the micro-form of the healing psyche of her healthy twin. After that, hyperuniverse II continued to decay into blind, mechanical, purposeless causal processes. It then became the task of Christ (more properly the Holy Spirit) to either rescue the life forms in the hologramatic universe, or abolish all influences on it emanating from II. Approaching its task with caution, it prepared to kill the deranged twin, since she.

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Cannot be healed; i.e. She will not allow herself to be healed because she does not understand that she is sick.

This illness and madness pervades us and makes us idiots living in private, unreal worlds. The original plan of the One can only be realized now by the division of hyperuniverse I into two healthy hyperuniverses, which will transform the hologramatic universe into the successful teaching machine it was designed to be.

We will experience this as the 'Kingdom of God.' Within time, hyperuniverse II remains alive: 'The Empire never ended.' But in eternity, where the. ON OUR NATURE. It is proper to say: we appear to be memory coils (DNA carriers capable of experience) in a computer-like thinking system which, although we have correctly recorded and stored thousands of years of experiential information, and each of us possesses somewhat different deposits from all the other life forms, there is a malfunction - a failure - of memory retrieval.

There lies the trouble in our particular subcircuit. 'Salvation' through gnosis - more properly anamnesis (the loss of amnesia) - although it has individual significance for each of us - a quantum leap in perception, identity, cognition, understanding, world- and self-experience, including immortality - it has greater. Two realms there are, upper and lower. The upper, derived from hyperuniverse I or Yang, Form I of Parmenides, is sentient and volitional. The lower realm, or Yin, Form II of Parmenides, is mechanical, driven by blind, efficient cause, deterministic and without intelligence, since it emanates from a dead source. In ancient times it was termed 'astral determinism.'

We are trapped, by and large, in the lower realm, but are through the sacraments, by means of the plasmate, extricated. Until astral determinism is broken, we are not even aware of it, so occluded are we. 'The Empire never ended.' Fat developed a lot of unusual theories to account for his contact with God, & the information derived therefrom. One in particular struck me as thought-provoking. It amounted to a kind of mental capitulation by Fat to what he was undergoing; this theory held that in actuality he wasn't experiencing anything at all. Sites of his brain were being selectively stimulated by tight energy-beams emanating from far off, perhaps millions of miles away.

These selective brainsite stimulations generated in his head the impression—for him—that he was seeing & hearing words, pictures, figures of people, in short God, or as Fat liked to call it, the Logos. But, really, he only imagined he experienced these things.

They resembled holograms. What struck me was the oddity of a lunatic discounting his hallucinations in this sophisticated manner; Fat hadintellectually dealt himself out of the game of madness while still enjoying its sights & sounds.

In effect, he no longer claimed that what he experienced was really there. Did this indicate he had begun to sober up? Now he held the view that 'they' or Godor someone owned a long-range very tight informa-tion-rich beam of energy focused on Fat's head. Inthis I saw no improvement, but it did represent a change. Fat could now honestly discount his hallucinations, which meant he recognized them as such.

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But, like Gloria, he now had a 'they.' It seemed to me a pyrrhic victory. Fat's life struck me as a litany of exactly that, as for example the way he had rescued Gloria. The exegesis Fat labored on month after month struck me as a pyrrhic victory if there ever was one—in this case an attempt by a beleaguered mind to make sense out of the inscrutable. Perhaps this is the key to mental illness: incomprehensible events occur—your life becomes a bin for hoaxlike fluctuations of what used to be reality, & not only that—as if that weren't bad enough—you, like Fat, ponder forever over these fluctuations in an effort to order them into a coherency.

When in fact the only sense they make is the sense you impose on them, out of the necessity to restore everything into shapes & processes you can recognize. The first thing to depart in mental illness is the familiar. An unearthly whiteness began to bloom on the hedges. I passed a gap and glanced through. For a moment, my lights picked out like searchlights the girl's naked body, slight as a child's, ivory white against the dead white of the snow, her hair bright as spun glass. She did not look in my direction. Motionless, she kept her eyes fixed on the walls moving slowly towards her, a glassy, glittering circle of solid ice, of which she was the centre.

Dazzling flashes came from the ice-cliffs over her head; below, the outermost fringes of ice had already reached her, immobilized her, set hard as concrete over her feet and ankles. Despairingly she looked all around. She was completely encircled by the tremendous ice walls, which were made fluid by explosions of blinding light, so that they moved and changed with a continuous liquid motion, advancing in torrents of ice, avalanches as big as oceans, flooding everywhere over the doomed world. Wherever she looked, she saw the same fearful encirclement, soaring battlements of ice, an overhanging ring of frigid, fiery, colossal waves about to collapse upon her. Frozen by the deathly cold emanating from the ice, dazzled by the blaze of crystalline ice-light, she felt herself becoming part of the polar vision, her structure becoming one with the structure of ice and snow.

As her fate, she accepted the world of ice, shining, shimmering, dead; she resigned herself to the triumph of glaciers and the death of her world.