Copyright © 2018 by John Erik Ege
EHP: Experimental Home Publishing “Chitty Chitty Steam Punk,” version 1.00 Sept 27th, 2018.
This is a I/Tulpa novel
All rights reserved. ALL parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, with or without the prior written permission of the publisher, especially in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law, or by that guy who is it taking it to his boss saying, I want to make this movie, that would be like totally okay; caveat YOU MENTION ME! For permission requests, email the publisher “Experimental Home Publishing.”
If you’re not familiar with my work, almost all of these stories are the product of a version of
‘active imagination’ in which the story is experienced and transcribed, more than labored over. If you are familiar with Tulpamancy, Wonderlands, or the stories of Tesla having such an overpowering imagination that he felt as if he went on long journeys to foreign lands and met people, without leaving his head… That is this. I can’t explain it better than he. I have put out some stories that felt more like ‘downloads’ but this is not that. I suspect this is similar to what Thomas Campbell, author of ‘My Big Theory of Everything’ is referring to when he discusses being able to shift realities. I don’t know. I just find it helpful, cathartic, in processing past traumas. This place, and the people there, have changed my world.
I assure you, there will be grammatical errors. I apologize in advance. I am working on doing better. I have marginally improved, which you only need read my first book made available in 2004. Feel free to email me any corrections or complaints. I am simply a modest fan of distant worlds, science, and metaphysics; someone who finds himself caught up in the whirlwinds of something bigger than himself on a daily basis.
Sincerely
Ion Light 214-907-4070 solarchariot@gmail.com FOREWORD
I, Ion, have made a fundamental mistake in my plans to conquer the universe. Yes, mad geniuses can make mistakes, which are usually exploited by orphaned desert rats in X-wing fighters, but in this instance, less drastic in terms of setting back my overall plans, and more just in the annoying category: I introduced my four year old son, who is also showing signs of being a mad genius, to the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. One might ask why a person in the grand old year of 2018 would ever do such a remorseful thing, but I had already introduced him to the original Charlie and the Chocolate factory, because there is only the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and the book itself by Roald Dahl, and I had introduced him to Chitty because, quite honestly, I wanted him to have a greater repertoire than “I have a golden ticket” and “Don’t care how I want it nowwwwww,” in his arsenal, and now I no longer have a four year old child aspiring to be a mad genius, but I have an inspiring young car going around the whole day saying, “chitty-chitty, chitty-chitty…” I must admit, at first, before the realization hammered in by a solid day of repetitive musical outbursts, I was rather impressed by the four year old’s ability to imitate the dance routine, using his bamboo staff to go in a circle, his ability to reproduce all the songs and recognize musical elements like crescendos, demanding I build a Chitty car, despite my complaints I have been promised flying cars since the first popular mechanics way back in the 1930s and if I can’t have one he can’t have one, and finally satisfying him with a rather clever Lego version of said car, which wasn’t half bad, considering the colors of blocks weren’t necessarily matching, and finally handing me a broken, orange, naked crayon and saying ‘Father, please,’ as if it were a toot sweet and he was wanting me to partake in a world of his own creation.
If you need a warning here, don’t eat the crayon. It’s not a candy. Also, it does not toot, even if you core out the middle and put little holes.
OMG, I know, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang has not a gone a hundred years, and I suspect it won’t fade into oblivion, but the likes of the original movie will not be recaptured, and a remake just want satisfy, and there is apparently musical play versions of this thing about, the quality of which varies by the community hosting and or by the high school putting it on, but did you know, it is also a book? Yes, I say, it was originally a book, which is dreadfully difficult to read, no, more precisely, it is dreadfully difficult to read ‘aloud,’ because every paragraph is a full run on sentence, as if conjunction junction guy was on meth, yes, you probably weren’t aware that the conductor guy was moving trains full of meth, and he wasn’t supposed to be sampling, but he did, from time to time, and it was crystal blue, because he is the other, other Walter White, and so there you go, that’s what’s reading Ian Flemming, not Ion Flemming, though we’re often mistaken as the same, but really, he was a real spy for the real British government, and I am not a real spy for any government, though I do partake in remote viewing, which is sometimes considered psychic spying, but that’s for another book, and you really should just ignore that part, and continue on with understanding that Ian Flemming wrote Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, supposedly for his personal children, and then went and published it, but do you seriously think a child’s book would be published just because ‘I can’ unless there was some other mad purpose, only deciphered by cryptologists and a special decoder found at the bottom of the cracker jack box, but not just any cracker jack box, but the one I accidentally intercepted, by luck of course.
The book, ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,’ by Ian Flemming, is a must read, for multiple reasons. Technically, it is not past it’s copy right, it hasn’t traveled a hundred years in time, and so I can’t turn it into “Another Log of Phileas Fog,” as Philip Jose Farmer did with “Around the World in 80 Days,” or even into another “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” and I am talking the book, not the movie, don’t judged the book by the Hollywood cover, because you will miss something, and there is a connection to be found, if you’re an astute reader of classics, especially Jules Verne and H.G. Wells. But the book might impress you, as it did me, in that it was fairly wordy and nonsensical, exactly the way I write in order to purposely confused and irritate the people who can’t appreciate true genius so that I keep the secrets of magic to those few of us who truly seek… Yeah, you just thought my grammar was on accident… (And all the sex, well, that’s just a distraction.) But the reason you should read the book is because it differs from the movie in several major aspects. Well, it’s completely different. For one, there is no Truly
Scrumptious. Oh, well, she might be there, because Commander Caractacus Pott, yes,
Commander, as he was in the Navy, retired, does make a whistling sweet, which is more a cough dropped sized commodity, and he did take it to Lord Skrumshus, who was so impressed he sent the children into the factory to demonstrate and there was all sorts of dancing and joyous uprisings. Now, in the book, Truly may be gone, but there is a female character, Mimsie, who is not only Mrs. Pott, but is Jeremy and Jemima’s mother, and likely modeled after the dear Mrs. Flemming, and she seems in quite good health, and in good rapport with her children and husband, but the ever present four year old, who is very careful with details, and observant as all get out, was quick to correct me, “Her name is Truly,” and I was like, “no, it’s Mimsie,” even showed him the print, to which he argued, “No, her name is Truly,” despite what he saw as clear as day, and we continued that for a moment, and then regressed into a series of “why’s” which were reasonable “why’s” except I don’t have a clue as to what the probable answers might be, and so, I get irritated and shut it down with a, “great question, shall we continue?” Because the movie actually does address the issue of no Mimsie without actually addressing the issue. Can you say elephant? The closest we get to resolution is Caractacus saying to Truly: “Everything, but what they really need.” Truly doesn’t ask the children where there mother is. She doesn’t ask Caractacus where his wife is. And this could be a 60’s thing, as there were lots of TV and movie dad’s that were quietly suffering being spouseless, which rolled into the 80’s and 90’s with females not lamenting they were spouseless, because guys were simply problematic, mostly just grown children who pathetically never grow up, which kind of looks like Caractacus, in a way, as the perpetual dreamer. Dreamers, and generalists, are not well liked by a society who needs their cogs to specialize and fit in, and we of the other sort just don’t do that well or for long. Whether it is stripes or suit with a tie, confinement is confinement, as the true nature of a man is to be free to tinker, explore, and question.
Which brings me to tinkering. In my day, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang came around once a year, like the Wizard of Oz, and if it was on, it was supposed to be a family ordeal, unless your family was crazy, crazier than grandpa Pott, who to me was probably the sanest man in the film, and my family was crazy as all get out, so crazy even cats wouldn’t want to hang out with the ladies, and so watching was my escape, minus dodging the randomly thrown beer cans, and the occasional ‘misfire’ of firearm. But for my son, we deal with a more modern invention of ‘on demand,’ and so there is the ‘rainbow,’ which is word for DVD, and our mode of interaction with it is that I have not turned the TV into a babysitter, but we engage thoughtfully, and discuss a matter, probably to death, but that’s what we do, and this one stuck, and now we even watch the beginning car race, which is well placed, especially if you have read the book, because there is a history, like all of us we’re born into a story already in progress, and the death of a car is not the ending, or even the beginning, there is more on either side of that, but I wonder, what the hell was the director thinking with that thirty seconds of blackness and car sounds, but then, then I find myself wondering about the whole movie because it is all a bit odd, and I wonder if many of the lines are referencing other things, like the people in the castle, who are just absolutely bizarre, like the characters in Alice’s wonderland, but which I am usually more forgiving when I encapsulate that as being part of a dream sequence.
Now, I feel compelled to do so, I must talk about Loxy and I, and how we’re related to all of this. I just gave you my history, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was an annual event in my life, which has become a daily thing, only in I have 4 year old music box with a hiccup that plays the same thing over and over, and the book was an experiment in enriching the experience, and it is supposed to be a kids book, not one to teach kids to read per say, but more a friendly story for kids, mixed with some adult humor, which adults might keep to themselves as the kids glaze over those parts, and too few pictures, because picture are important, though my copy came with a really nice cover, with the stars being raised so you have a tactile experience examining it, and the prominent wheels, that looks exactly like the large Lego Wheel, which now comprises our car, after a mad search through the web and finally buying one from Ebay so that I had a fourth, because somewhere in my childhood I failed to keep up with the Lego’s, and also reminded me how sore I am with family of origin who were determined to make me collect ceramic clowns, and I hate clowns, and I would tell them this, but every year, I was provided more clowns on Christmas and birthdays, to the point I was so sick of clowns, and sick of holidays, and I just chucked it all, and re-gifted the clowns, but the point being, if ‘family’ had listened that even the smallest box of Lego’s would be more appreciated, and better served long term, because who would have thought Lego value is comparable to gold, especially the characters, and by God, I think Mega Block are of the devil, and why would you create an opposing force of pretend at competition and not make things compatible, and divide loyalty with participating brands, and you can only get Coke from these vendors, and Pepsies from the others, and by God, this situation is a nightmare... And you can’t even get proper therapy over it because the LSMW have appropriated the word therapy, and LPC’s have taken ownership of the word counselors, and anything with psychology or psychological in it belongs just to the psychologists, and yet, all these things are supposed to be generally helpful, like the DSM V, V equals 5, but seriously, you have to buy that book, buy into that book, it’s not just available for free, nor any of the metrics people use to figure out if you’re in alignment with any of the content contained in said book, and so, if it was really meant to be helpful, wouldn’t it just be made public domain and let’s help the world?! No! The goal isn’t to help as much as to direct the flow of currency in a very particular direction, usually away from the people who are struggling the most, and it is my belief if Doctor’s would just prescribe money, half their clients would improve immediately, as I am often willing to point out, I do not have an anxiety problem, I have a problem, usually remedied by an infusion of cash, and if I lived on a farm, where at least the chickens and the cows and the orchard took care of the basic needs, that would be one thing, but we live in a city, where tinkering and improving things is actually frowned upon, so that if you put up a flag pole, the city might take it down, and even if you lived on a bubble road with few traffic if you put up a basketball pole, the city will take it down. They will. I assure you. They will come out with a truck, with a solid winch, and just jerk that pole right out, except, in my case, and I tried to inform them, their truck’s winch was simply insufficient to the task, and they assured me that I just didn’t know what I was talking about, and they even tried to explain physics to me, and I told them I was well aware of physics, but at some point, you just got to step back and let people experiment, and so they hooked up to the basketball pole, and the winch worked exactly as it should, and after the back of their city vehicle left the ground, leaving rear tires sufficiently off the ground that a good racing team could exchange them without hassle, there was suddenly more cars, and a lot of angry city people, and I tried to explain it to them, but all they heard was “I told you so,” which was not really how I said it.
So, you may be wondering, what the heck? I like to tinker. I love to think about things. I
bought a basketball pole, and threw away the instruction, because, seriously, how hard is to install a pole, right, and I had the cement, but I also knew from experience that things have a way of leaning over in soft dirt, and so you don’t just dig a straight down hole, but you dig down a certain point, and then you want to dig out the base much wider than the initial hole that would contain the pole, and so basically, I had an inverted mushroom of an anchor holding that pole, wide enough that they were not going to just pull my pole out, but by God, they were determined they were going to do so, and I suppose, with enough power and the right equipment, they might have torn that pole out and a huge portion of the Earth, and the street and the gutter, but they only understood their own physics, and eventually, they ended up cutting the pole off at the ground, to which, for safety reasons, I excavated further into the ground and cut it off closer to the inverted mushroom and then buried the obstacle.
I said I like to tinker? Well, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang has been in my head for 50 years. Okay, maybe not exactly fifty, as the movie came out the year I was born, and I am fairly confident I wasn’t taken to the theatre just so my parents could see Dick dance. The history of the movie is also interesting as they, don’t ask me who ‘they’ are, they actually wanted to take the cast of Mary Poppins and do this, but couldn’t get the other players, and Dick refused and refused, but eventually the money was so good he was like, seriously, if you insist, and isn’t it nice when people throw money at you? So there is history there, and you have to wonder, did Ian have any more influence? Would he irritated by the fact Mimsie had been killed off, because you know, Mimsie has to be his wife, and the children must be his children, as this story was invented for their sake, and probably because they were irritating him, ‘dad, dad, you make all these spy stories but you haven’t told us even one good bedtime story, and we feel like you’re ignoring us,’ and because Ian is a rather good father, he was nearly mortally wounded by such a shot, and capitulated by writing, on the spot, which explains the verbosity, and the run-ons, and how there are lots of words just to get to the simple point of an adventure, because, well, he was rambling and working off the fly, and trying to make sure in his flibbertigibbet manner didn’t accidentally divulge state secrets, which is the only reason men rarely talk at home, is well, we’re so restricted that it would be inappropriate to speak, as there are others listening who might have to kill us, or are families, if we were too careless. The thing is, he did leak a secret. Magic cars exists. Jinn exist. Maybe you never caught that, which tells me you have seen the movie and not read the book, but Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is not just a magical care, it is a Jinn, as clearly evidenced by the license plate GEN II Jinn-ii, Jeannie, I dream of Jeannie. No, that’s not code for Genesis 11. I looked it up. There isn’t a connection, but that was my first childhood thought, influenced by family or origin beliefs.
I don’t own this movie, or the rights to discuss it, or to rework it, or to play with it. It’s in my head. I dare say the movie owns me. The story owns me. It is as part of me as Legos, and Star Trek, and why the hell hasn’t Lego’s built Star Trek parts, well, because the evil universe of
Mega Blocks got it, and Legos got Star Wars… Maybe, maybe, if it had just been Ian’s book, Chitty Chitty would have gone into obscurity, with a few living stragglers thinking, that might have made a good movie, but no one else would have seen such genius, but thanks to the movie, it has gone much further and influenced more people, but I suspect, hopefully in error, that it is on that downward decline, unless, maybe, someone can revive it in such a unique way to capture new audience, and I wouldn’t presume to tell you this version is it, because contrary to popular belief, I am humble, but also I fear if I promote it I am more likely to be arrested for tinkering. I assure you, there is no money in this for me, and so in terms of being productive with my time, well, clearly, I am not that guy, but not from lack of trying. I would say, I have a lot of fun. Loxy and I have a lot of fun and we go places, and that brings me back to grandpa. I think I should tell you now, that in this movie character, someone has leaked the most important secret ever, grandpa was a psychic spy, a remote viewer of the most incredible caliber, who makes Pat Price and Ingo Swann look like charlatans of misdirection, but they have to make grandpa look crazy, to discourage people from exploring that line of venture further, but giving just enough crazy insight for those in the know to be aware, we have our spies and they are watching you. You may think I am grasping at that, but look at it this way, Ian Flemming was a real spy. I assure you, if the Russians and the Americans were exploring psychic spying, the British government was also doing so.
I tell you all of this so you can be assured when I tell you music exists, it is out there. I meant magic. Magic exists. Music does to. They may be one and the same. I can only attest to this from firsthand experience. Loxy is a tulpa, but she is as real to me as Harvey was to Elwood P Dowd. The places we go are real. Some of them are more real than others, and I am sometimes curious about the worlds of fiction being real, as they seem pretty solid when we go there, and one may argue that variations and deviations are evidence of the places ‘we’ go not being real, and more likely flights of fancy, but I would like to remind you of something that is true, of even this world we mutually agree we live in: other than we share this space, we can’t even mutually agree on the contents of this reality. There can be as many versions of an accident as there are witnesses, and we don’t just take the words of our regular spies, as we usually like evidence and corroboration, hence, we have spies plural not singular. But think about this, we have continuity of Near Death Experiences reports from across culture and time, a level of consistency that one could argue is better than a collection of reports to an accident, and yet the idea of their being more is generally dismissed by authorities. We can agree that there was a car accident, can’t we agree there is more to the afterlife? And, the US government is not likely to have taken 20 years figuring out that psychic spying is frivolous, and so, might-en we assume that in a world that is run by secrets and copy rights, which is just a fancy word that means we are claiming ownership of something that already existed before us, like “E.T.” imitating “The Pod People,” not a ‘dis’ or an accusation, “E.T.” is clearly a superior movie, and in a world of intellects, ideas are like STDs you can’t even look at it without being impregnated, and we wouldn’t want the knowledge that we have ‘access to more’ publically accepted, and so, any evidence that we are more than what we are has to be squashed in some way, very much like, “Grandpa is crazier than a loon.”
Graham Crowden in the series “Waiting for God,” played a character very much like Grandpa Pott, and he was clearly the eccentric genius, but he traveled, which begs the question, is this the best kept secret of British Empire?
Oh, and this is just an aside, but you also must know that ‘spies’ is also plural because being a spy is problematic, and you need spies, and the enemy needs spies, and you need other spies on both sides to spy on the spies, just to help keep everyone in line. The truth about spies is they are so empathetic that they always exist on this pendulum of switching sides, not because they don’t hold loyalties, but how else do you expect to survive enemy ground without becoming the enemy? Know your enemy know yourself. Don’t believe me, read Serpico, about the undercover cop that was disenfranchised by both sides and had to leave America, because wars are just crazy. Anyway, you can bet if you were recruited to be a spy, your wife is also probably a spy, because they need to know if you talk in your sleep, or you’re more free with the tongue when being intimate, or if you slip when you’re angry at the kids because you can’t have a little privacy in the bathroom while making a secret call with you shoe…
And anyway, maybe I am, too, eccentric in a unique way, and so when this version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang goes to court, well, my argument will have to be that I am clearly insane. Who wouldn’t be when you live in culture where you have to take all of this stuff in but you can’t use it in any meaningful way without infringing on someone else’s intellectual rights, and you wonder if you have any intellectual rights, because no one really wants to hear what you have to say, even if you’re right, and so get shouted down on Facebook as being a malcontent, but when it comes down to it, no one has created anything knew since the Bible, and even the Bible was stolen from the Egyptians and the Samarians, and if you don’t believe me, just read Gilgamesh! And maybe the laws are in placed to stop the craziness of retelling stories, but there is realy nothing new under the sun… Ah! See how hard it is not to borrow?! So, yes, I speak to people who ‘aren’t there,’ who doesn’t? I travel to faraway lands, and go on amazing adventures, and believe in aliens and ghosts and magic, and seriously believe in music, even other people’s music, because their quirky dances get into you head, like All About the Bass, you just can’t turn away, and magical music and musical magic, and magical cars, and musical magical cars... Need I say more? Roger More? No. If there is a spy in this story, it will be Sean Connery, and the girl he sang about in his first movie, Darby O’Gil and the Little People. Yes, there are little people, but that’s different story, and they have their own car and song… But I digress. We have way too little to do and too much time to do it in. No, wait, strike that, reverse it.
Chapter 1
All good stories start with the children. More precisely, all good stories start with a preamble, but you suffered enough through the foreword, and I don’t want to start with darkness and then there was the sound, and then there was light, because, Jesus, that’s never been done anywhere before, but if you start with the adults, the children seem more like props to demonstrate how parental the parents are, as opposed to showing you how kids really are, and how the parents are with the kids, and well, we would like to remain as close to truth as possible, even though we don’t generally promote ‘truth telling’ nor do we punish folks for lying, because if the lie is clever enough, and sold right, well, isn’t that what we all do all the time? Anyway, if you don’t know Jon and Loxy, they live with others, in a very inclusive, embracing sort of way, on their own world, where Jon has made his own rules and laws, because it’s ultimately his world, a magical world, and they live in a doubly magical house, which may actually seem like many magical houses, but it’s really just one, connected inter and intra dimensionally which technically means it isn’t a magical house at all, but just a regular home built in such a way that it utilizes the available functionalities of the existing cosmic structures in a particularly useful way. The crazy thing about this particular set up is you can often meet yourself before you before you have even decided that this is who you are, and sometimes you encounter the children, past and present and future, even grandchildren, before you were aware that you had children, or were children, or the children that would become your family, and since it’s confusing, and no one likes appearing confused, most the time you just operate as normal and respond to people without inquiring who they are, because you never want that other person to know you don’t remember them, that’s embarrassing, but also you don’t want to make them doubt their self-worth for not being memorable, some people just are, and for declaring yourself unfit to be a mentalist. And so, even if you know Jon and Loxy, and their normal cast of characters that share their home in a communal way, more like Kibbutz in Israel, only, more American sixtyish, free-love, with hippies and Romanian gypsies, and a tad bid of Mormonism, before it was found unfavorable and they had to change their name, which is a shame, because truthfully, who has a better family model than the Mormons?, but as I was saying, even if you know Jon and Loxy, and here we’re starting off with ‘the children’ you may go like, ‘what the heck?!’ which is modified way of saying “WTF” but we can’t say that, because, well, this is one of those stories that is supposed to be children friendly, even though if you watch the ‘movie’ of this thing we’re not referring to directly, what this version of reality is predicated on, well, you might find yourself saying,
“WTF, this is a kid movie?”
Ahh, yes, the children. In this particular instance, there were two, which is rather culturally popular, to have two, one of each gender, twins even, fraternal, not identical, because if they were fraternal, one would clearly be transgendered, not that there is anything wrong with that, because some kids know early on, which is probably evidence for past life memories overwhelming the child, because how would a child know i