This is Not a Pipe

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7/23/19

Load

I am a convict. I prefer to get that out, straight away. I’ve accomplished a few things, sure. I’ve published, run companies, worked as a salary man, and even took a few turns at being a carny. But first and foremost, I need you to know that I am a convict.

Since a young age, the thought of being distrusted has frightened me. I’ve seen how quickly an old foundation of trust can be whipped away by a careless misstep. No one taught me the rules, so I worked at it backwards. I did my best not to lie or to conveniently leave out details. The reasoning seemed sound. If I could consistently demonstrate that I was honestly, forthcoming, and helpful, then obviously such qualities would be noticed and appreciated. It sounds nice, in concept. All of it could have been set straight if someone, anyone, had simply explained that trust between people has no connection to honesty.

I didn’t learn that lesson until after I was a convict. See, the real trick to trust is being liked. If you like someone, it doesn’t matter how insane their claims are. Trust, it seems, is built on attraction, obligation, and desire.

Walled Gardens

This shittiest part about growing up in a cult was growing in the wrong cult. Sure, being told that I was a sexual deviant at age nine because I had the poor sense to be born with cancer sucked. Being branded apostate and poison to mankind when I left as a teenager was also unpleasant. But really, the frustrating part is how mundane it all managed to be.

I first saw In the Mouth of Madness (starring the phenomenal Sam Neill) at age seven. That’s a fantastic age to be introduced to the occult and I am being sincere here. There’s enough imagination and magic left in youth to get a transcendent impact, but still enough time for rationality to set and allow for the gears of modern thought to grind to dust the archaic sentiments. I say that up through the teens, it is the season of Lovecraft and Crowley. Perhaps, my perspective is skewed. I am an ex-cultist convict after all.

Just as I had the very precise fortune of being born with cancer, I also had the exacting privilege of being born into a cult that is second only to Mormons in how mundane it is. Recruitment is modeled after McCarthy fear mongering and everyone wore suits. The creepy archives? They were literal archives. Metal file cabinets, floor to ceiling, in the basement of a converted church. The florescents flickered just like you’d imagine. These cabinets were full, sagging with aimless knowledge. In each folder, a name and a record of their therapy. Secrets, shameful and malicious, slept in those individual files. You’d think insane to keep such a thing in modern times, but its still there, right off of what should be a stretch of MLK Jr., Way.

In a broad intellectual sense, it’s impressive. In a precise sense, though, it sucks. No mystic skulls, ancient scripts, sex-spells, sacrifices, or eldritch amulets. I left because I saw how ridiculous it was. Outside, I discovered how, being forged by their community, ridiculous I am. Fifteen years in a cult, and all I got was branded as a pariah.

A Brief Introduction

Hello, I am Zak Sparling. I used to be a father, husband, and writer. I am widower with no one left to talk to, so I figured I’d make a void of my own to yell into. Expect aim ramblings about emotional binds and half finished narrative threads that I’ll likely never pick back up. I welcome feedback, comments, or questions of any kind.