Editors Note: "Letters from the Burning Pyramid" is a new column debuting this month; but if it doesn't work out, we'll go back to running prison-sex chat line advertisements in this space. We hope this was worth the shipment of freshly radiated clams, shellfish and mollusks the writer demanded we send as payment before he’d send in this first column. If there's a good reason for that request, we don't want to know what it is. We're not entirely convinced the writer isn't, in fact, a hyper-intelligent space walrus being held captive and chained to a specially designed keyboard. We've only talked to him by phone, and come to think of it, his voice was strangely muffled... but we'll let you decide for yourselves.
Oh hello. Sorry if I don’t get up, I’m still sponging the residue from the prison-sex chat ads off the walls. Here, let me just move these books, sorry about the mess – I just moved in and I’m still unpacking my stuff. Okay for now? Alright? Good.
Let’s introduce ourselves then.
I’m Sebastian Gregory and I create. I’m a writer, an artist, a musician, actor – anything that allows me to express the thoughts and ideas that churn in my mind. When I heard that there was an opening for a column writer, I almost injured myself trying to volunteer.
I had a cushy government contract job for years, catering to the Information Technology needs of a bureaucracy staffed by drooling, shambling wage zombies. I could have stayed there until I retired at eighty-five, taken my golden Boot To The Ass and tottered off to die.
But I'm not like that. Why should I grind myself into a box full of crematory dust instead of flinging my creative crap at the world? Working in a cubicle for a big IT company on a government contract was lucrative but hardly creatively rewarding.
So I quit. Scariest thing I ever did, too. The week after my last day I sat around the house in a fog, waiting for the phone to ring, demanding that I return. The phone never rang. Corporate America and the U.S. Government went right on wasting your tax dollars without me.
And now I’m starting my writing career. “You’re going to do what? Be a writer? Better ‘brush’ up on those broom skills," my co-workers snarked as we raised our farewell pints down at Gibney’s Pub.
Who’s laughing now, guys? Look at the masthead, what does that say? “Letters from the Burning Pyramid”. That’s right, no broom pushing here – not yet.
Which brings up the columns title - a little odd, I know. But it’s also very meaningful on a personal level. Let me explain.
When I was a kid in middle school my Mom showed me some artwork by someone she'd dated back in the day. These amazing pen and ink drawings, done with so much style and individuality, sparked my imagination in new and exciting ways. I was never the same after my initial exposure to John Carter from Mars. Without ever meeting him, the man fired my creative spirit.
He really was named John Carter, but he added the “from Mars” bit in homage to the Edgar Rice Burroughs character, and it was fitting because John was a tall, athletic, good looking guy. He also had a wicked sense of humor and a bottomless appetite for getting high. Or so my Mom tells it!
I studied his art with intense concentration, trying to glean some tricks of the trade from his prints. My own art began to imitate his style. My art teachers were concerned; I flaunted my new found creative power in class and paid a price for going against the institutional plan.
I've had several creative mentors along the way. But John Carter from Mars was unique in that I only met him as a baby and he dropped out of sight years and years ago. He was no more knowable to me than Salvador Dali or Ritchie Blackmore. But unlike the other writers, artists, and musicians I've followed from afar, I felt like I almost knew John Carter – but not quite.
One of his images was a simple pyramid with a flaming top. It was such an iconic symbol of all that John Carter meant to me and the growth of my creative power and imagination that I started incorporating it into my own artwork years and years ago.
In fact, I've always wanted to own a publishing house called Burning Pyramid Comics; that was my tag on my artwork for the longest time. And it just feels right to use it at this juncture. It symbolizes the place inside me where creativity is nourished. When I'm writing, when I'm tapping away on this keyboard, I'm really writing letters to you from the shadow of the burning pyramid.
This column isn’t going to be serious, logical, or heavy. I don’t want to persuade you, cajole you, or put myself on a pedestal. Read me and it’s like a twist on the cultural kaleidoscope. I’m going to bring a little of everything: high brow and low, slow rolling or flash fast. My greatest pleasure is communicating with my good friends, telling my stories, letting people laugh with me, at me, and maybe even at themselves. I’m not interested in changing minds; there’s enough of that going around already! If I happen to enlighten your viewpoint on a particular issue, well, that’s just a happy byproduct of all this gabbing.
As we spin around the sun a few more times, let's swap stories and tell lies and watch the sparks fly. We can bicker and bitch and complain some other time, right? Let's see where this goes!
