In putting this material on the internet, I have attempted to preserve the original aspect of this singular document as best possible - if document is indeed the correct word for it. The text here derives from a package I received from a Griston Reeves postmarked Weatherford, TX - a shaggy mass of papers scattered with scrawls and doodles stuffed into a manilla envelope. Most of it was written on yellow steno paper, some was neatly copied and peppered with red editorial marks while other parts were nearly illegible. It has taken quite an effort deciphering these musings, sorting out the notes from the text, all the while attempting as best possible to retain the author’s stylistic intentions. I will admit to certain adjustments, and additions of my own personal philosophy, but the overall presence remains the author’s. The idea of presenting it as a non-linear novel is mine as well; however, considering the number of incompatible outlines included in the package, I believe it is the format that best suits the "the work."

Griston’s is a voice that needs to be heard. His is the voice of those who are eternally voiceless and impotent, the schizo dude in the Denny’s filling notebooks full of anagrams and acronyms. We have all been accosted by types like these and most likely ignored them. Whether their madness speaks for ours seems less relevant a question than it did when I first read through the strange parcel which had come into my hands. I must confess that when I first received this material, I could not recall having met the man at all. My first thought was that it had been mailed to me by fan of my band, The Anti-Muzak Serum. It wasn’t until I came across the chapter entitled, "You Egg! Young Fry of Treachery!" (which my friend Bo Medlar claims is a line from Hamlet,) that I recalled my encounter with the young Griston. I have to admit that I recollect nothing of the man. I had but one meeting with him many years ago, and at the time (like so many other times) I was unfortunately too tanked for my own good. Why he chose to send the work to me out of the myriad strangers he surely must have spoken to over the years, I am not sure. Possibly, I babbled something about "publishing connections," and he saw in me a potential agent. Whatever responsibility I hold for the course of event his life took, I can only hope was minimal. I would like to think that things would have been much the same for him had I not suggested he run away from home, but of course I sometimes wonder. I guess there’s a price one must pay for presenting oneself as a "Reverend Doktor." I can only posit my youth and inebriation in excuse for such hubris.

As to the manuscript itself, I have attempted only to impose what order I could on a true a morass of documents written in various hands at various times, while changing as little as possible. The process of assembling the fragments according to Griston’s conception of the "triptych apocalyptic" has been painstaking, as his pages upon pages of outlines range from the vague to the indecipherable, and what I could make out was usually contradictory. Probably the best way to view this work is as twenty-seven separate vignettes, which combine and interlock, micro- and macrocosms of one another. One story told forty ways. This is truly, as Griston descibed it, "a mansion with many mysteries," and there are indeed countless ways through the hedge maze.

Through the auspices of asymmetric.net and the technological wizardry of El Perezoso, we have added to this concept, allowing you to present your own questions, thoughts and dreams to Griston for answers about your life. For the first or card, I recommend questions, thoughts, concerns. Excerpts from a philosophy that has intrigued you, selections from the Bible, the I Ching, the Book of Urantia ... The + card is a good place for dream logs, acid visions, poetry. For the 1 card, write about your day, something weird that happened to you recently, paste in an email you just wrote to a friend, the text from a spam email or that site about lemurs you found on Google.

Griston was convinced that his writing would change the world. I was not so sure at first, but the more I have worked with the cards, the more strange truths I have found. I feel I have come to know Griston quite well through this process, and I hope you, too, will enjoy the chance to "try on someone else’s head" for a while, and perhaps in the process by spreading Griston's word, we really can create the Secret Telecult Brotherhood that Griston dreamt about.

A final matter that may be of interest to some readers is the eventual fate of Mr. Reeves. Unfortunately, I have little to offer. I have searched the internet for an arrest or an obituary for Griston Reeves and found neither. All my searches for his name have come up empty. Perhaps Griston is an alias or a nickname, or more likely Griston has never had a phone or used a computer and there are no records of his existence on the web. I have called random G. Reeveses across the country to no avail. Reeves is too common a name to inquire with every name listed in the telephone book. I spent an afternoon calling all the Reeves, G. or not, in the Orlando white pages and asking about a Griston, but none of them gave me any information.

So it seems we have little to go on. Which in a way, I think is how Griston would have wanted it - nothing but words remain. Still, though, I find myself hoping he is still alive, looking around for him while waiting in line at the grocery store and the bank, on walks home at 4 a.m. On a last hopeful note, if anyone reading this has any information about Griston or wished to have their cards read by a professionally licensed Reverend Doktor, please feel free to get in contact with me at rokgalaktik@yahoo.com.

Here’s hoping you’re still out there, Griston.

Christopher Staley

Tucson, AZ 2002