Fire in the hole - A review of the novel The Iron Cage by Amos Keppler

   The Janus Clan series of novels starts off in The Defenseless as a fairly ordinary story about a seemingly all-American family. It changes slowly from that, turning into blood and strife, ghosts and shadows.

  There are several images of symbolic nature in the series. There is the river, the desert, the shadow and the fire, all important throughout the series.

  The Iron Cage is the tenth book. It is the last being published, but there are three more books that have already been released. This one is still an ending of sorts.

  Don’t expect anything even remotely mainstream here. Some mainstream people will be scared out of their wits if they should stumble upon this book. Seekers and open-minded people and those wanting a true description of the ongoing modern inhuman society will love it.

  Amos Keppler’s books can’t really be categorized, no matter how hard you try. They are far beyond any average attempt at doing that. Perhaps the entire Janus Clan series can be said to lean towards science fiction, but even that is a stretch. Each of the novels can touch anything, any genre, really.

  Most of all they are both a grim and optimistic tale about the modern world and those not fitting in there.

  The is about a different world in the late eighties, with both similarities and notable differences from our world. Ronald Reagan has become downright unpopular. The entire idea of neoliberalism and western establishment society have been seriously questioned by many people, not merely those walking in the Janus Clan’s tracks.

  The story follows the clan of warriors and subversives at various squatted buildings across the United States, in Miami, Chicago, and eventually Las Vegas, where everything crashes and burns, exploding both literally and metaphorically. A parallel story follows Mike and Linda, as they gather their other group of subversives and warriors. Those two groups have much in common, but not everything. The differences seem bigger than the similarities.

  Everyone should write about what Amos Keppler is writing about. The stories are so potent and powerful, so well describing human existence. This book is no exception in that regard.

  The last four chapters taking place in Las Vegas are a pleasure to read. An event that has been hinted at in several other books is finally happening. The payoff is amazing, the final chapter impossible to give proper praise. My advice is to read all the books in the series. The long story told in thirteen books is a modern classic transcending all genres and expectations, an epic story, in the true sense of the word.

  This is my first blog post in almost eight years, but the book is an event, so the occasion fits well with that.

The house of the rising moon

  The moon is rising above our derelict building. Loud shouts and moans are spreading from our big bed in our bedroom and to the streets outside. I feel sweaty bodies push against mine, hot skin rubbing mine, and I feel an ecstasy that will always pleasantly surprise and overwhelm me, like a tall wave on the beach embracing me and pushing me far away.

  My friends and I live together, breathe and fuck and move together. The poignancy of it all keeps stunning me, as the years pass by.

  We live together in a collective, which is always difficult. There is bound to be quarrels and disagreements, but I would say we handle that splendidly.

  There is no jealousy, nothing even resembling it. In my opinion it is only a problem with truly fucked up people.

  People keep telling us that there should be, that there should be more unrest within our four walls, but the way I see it, that’s merely them making an effort at projecting their own bias and limitation unto us.

  It is inevitable, of course. We call ourselves witches and we are obviously something closely resembling a fertility cult. Our wild parties aren’t exactly a secret. We are doomed to be hassled by a despairing world. Most of the pressure comes from the outside, not the inside, not from us. We love who we are and the life we have chosen for ourselves.

  There is solitude when we feel we need it. We are, after all far stronger individuals than most people, in the world outside our walls. But it isn’t like we’re being pushed at the group. We seek its power and its joy almost constantly, but we are our own beings, fiercely independent humans.

  And it is that we bring to the group, to the tribe, in this, our brief home on the wave of eternity.

New life

We held a small party for the tiny addition to out tribe recently, the son coming to us seven months ago. Why celebrate that he is seven months, you may ask? I say and we say why not?

He isn’t my biological son, but born by my sister across the table. I have previously written about how we see things concerning children and family in our Circle. Feel free to read it.

We are many around the table. The ruckus of the last few months has actually increased our number, and that pleases me, pleases me greatly. We celebrate and are enjoying ourselves, and the new life in our midst is filling us with joy and fire.

No one knows who his biological father is and no one cares, because all the males around the table are his father, just like all the females are his mothers. It is possible, possible to live a different life. There are countless examples of that. Societies like ours exist all over the world, societies where people live in a world of living dead. We are laughing heartily where we sit, where we toast and eat and sing and dance, and the tombstones surrounding us are fading in our hearts.

Spring Dance

The scent of spring burns in our nostrils. Feet hammer the ground. Drums beat our hearts. In the circle we dance. In the dance we sing. Our other sounds are blacked out. All other sounds are surrounding us. We hear the whistle of the forest in the crystal clear, misty air. Fire dances in our eyes. Our fire eyes burn through everything, echoing the molten sea in our veins. The Song of spring makes us deaf, and we hear better than ever. Naked bodies dance to the beat of the forest. I am Maxine the witch, and I fill myself. I drink from a cup never empty. The wolf is calling me home. I hear its call, and I heed its crystal clear voice. Voices of the circle dance respond, crying out in wild abandon, letting go of everything not life.

It's January. Branches are sprouting. The fields are turning green, here in the far, far north. We know the terrible and joyous song: The Earth is calling us home. The tribe dances to the rhythm of the noisy night.

The wolf meets me in the forest glen. My spirit meets me. I face it, I feel it, in every beat of my heart, every drop of blood flowing through my veins.

The Song thunders through the night, through the gray office spaces of current, half dead humanity.

We sing, and it is a song both silent and loud. Listen. Listen to the true voice of the Human Being.

THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING
THOSE NOT BUSY BEING BORN ARE BUSY DYING

The Good Neighbor

The neighbors stare at me. I’m a practicing witch and the neighbors know this, because I have never made any attempt at hiding it, any secret of the life I lead, but on the contrary calmly explained it every time I’ve been asked, treating my craft as a completely ordinary thing, as natural as any craft, any way of life. Which it is. At least it would have been in a society approaching sane.

I work with herbs, a healer in my own right, using the ingredients nature gives me, without resorting to poison and unnatural compounds. I light fires in the night and dance naked around the seething and scorching flames.

Rumors are abundant. I sacrifice chickens when no one is watching. The children are restless and I am to blame.

I am to blame for everything, from disease to a boring life, for all the poxes mankind has visited upon themselves.

I’m alien to them to them, a curiosity, exotic, worrisome and dangerous. My confidence in self, my ability to stand out from the crowd, to seek what is unknown and different, is a threat to the Big Lie they have created to sustain their mundane lives.

So they stare, and Hunger for what they don’t dare grab, and their hunger turns sour, turns to fear, resentment and hatred. They see a person free as a bird, see it possess what they have lost, and they want to cage it, and if they can’t cage it, destroy it. Their distorted hunger is a horrible thing. The good neighbors stare at the witch with envious eyes.

At best they want to manage and tame us. At worst they want to burn us at the stake… and they will... unless we stop them.