PULP NOIR: THE TIME OF FINDING THINGS OUT

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PULP NOIR: THE TIME OF FINDING THINGS OUT

 

Many solar cycles ago…

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As the small child of human parents, I learned about the world—my version

of the world—in the usual manner: through sight, touch, smell, taste, sound,

vibrations…by the ingestion of impressions through intake points of my body

and its neurological complexities…by rearranging the patterns inside my head

to match up with—and sometimes differ with—the ideas generated by thoughts

and feelings, feelings and thoughts.

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One enormously interesting way of learning about my world was through the

absorption of words, words composed of alphabet and numbers, strung together

and spaced in order to form sentences and passages and stories and essays both

true and manufactured.

.

As I absorbed more and more of these words, learning how to distinguish fiction

from fact, learning how to tell when “fact” was fiction, when “fiction” was indeed

fact…I began to see how much fun it was—and how sensible—to toy with words,

allowing them to exist as realities in my imagination but never letting them force me to

believe them. You see, I believed in their power, but I always knew the difference

between reality and fantasy.

.

Knowing this difference has formed me into the person I seem to be this day—a

secular dreamer, a realist who knows how to operate the spigot—the valve that

can be switched from hot to cold at a moment’s notice. I am astride two

worlds—living in the myth-based, superstition-driven, make-believe world

most of us inhabit each day…and the real world, the one that just is, the

world that operates as if human beings are a momentary figment in the passage

of time—which, of course, they are.

.

Once my feet were planted solidly upon these separate universes, I could get on

with the process of living my life and deriving pleasure from the kinships and loves

and ideas I most cherish—ignoring all the made-up stuff most folks spend their time

obsessing over.

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Part of my early education came from reading pulp fiction, the kind written by visionaries

and philosophers such as Ray Bradbury and Walter Gibson and Kurt Vonnegut and

Aldous Huxley and the hordes of individualists who emulated them in the soft and brittle

pages of pulp magazines.

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Pulp literature was so filled-to-the-brim with ideas and joys that a person could learn just about anything about anything…and metaphor became the way pulp readers got through life.

*

Understanding a good metaphor is worth a thousand books, a million words. Metaphor can take you by the hand, by the mind, and lead you safely through a forest of dragons any day.

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Want to know more? Come to the shop  and look at samples of the enormous

selection of original, collectible pulp fiction on display here at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond

Memories. Maybe in so doing, you’ll find out that I’m full of useless whimsy…or maybe you’ll

discover you, too, are a metaphor-chaser, blithely tiptoeing past the potholes and explosives of life,

experiencing joy despite all those whose task in life is to make you screamingly bored or miserable.

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Come along with me and  for a moment obscure this chaotic world

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© by Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

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