Who Was J. Scrib, Forgotten Thinker of the New Age - by Elina Garone

Who Was J. Scrib, Forgotten Thinker of The New Age?

BY ELINA GARONE

In 1967, the name of J. Scrib name emerged in the field of speculative linguistics, which imagines the evolution of language under hypothetical contexts. Scrib—real name Sam Stanton—was an accountant for a mayonnaise company based out of suburban Ottawa. Coworkers described him as “professional,” “inscrutable,” and (on more than one occasion) “about as alive as stale soda.” Though he never showed an affinity nor aptitude for writing, on his 50th birthday he submitted to a local publication posing as an academic and quickly developed a cult fanbase.

A DISCLAIMER FOR THE IMPRESSIONABLE: Scrib’s followers have been known for their fanaticism. In 1972, Pat Gilmartin, a suburban landscaper and avid collector of Scrib’s articles, began communicating exclusively in high-pitched barks. Others followed suit, speaking in bodily contortions, guttural screams, and, most commonly, radio static. Several have been hospitalized for attempted self-lobotomy. (When asked why, one answered, “to access the cosmos of consciousness!”) For these reasons, Scrib is criticized for promoting “a kind of collective schizophrenia masquerading as mysticism” (See: The Comprehensive Guide to Infectious Mental Illnesses). While the writer of this article maintains complete faith in the readers’ discernment, it is nevertheless the wishes of this publication that readers approach his texts with no more than half of their minds, preferably to be read in a waiting room or while sitting on the toilet. In other words, DO NOT DIGEST.

Ottawa-based occult magazine (which, incidentally, doubly functioned as a mattress catalog).

“IMAGINE!!: A Japanese woman and a Mexican man are in bed together, i.e., they are having sex. The two climax at the same time, it’s wonderful, it’s like they become One Being, they grip at each other in a rapture. He yells: Me vengo!

(I’m coming!) She screams: Iku! (I’m going!) He comes, she goes. Thus, language fails these lovers in a moment of total physical unification. This is how it goes–we live in constant compromise between the immediacy of our experience and the symbols which cannot directly convey it.

If only we could access the minds of others, the consciousness of animals and other earthly beings. What I’m talking about is a new form of communication, anchored not in the limited individual consciousness but in the anima mundi—the world soul. A language beyond language, which allows us to enter into the experiential realm of rocks as they tumble into a stream, or leaves as they are blown against cold wind!

From the personal diary of J. Scrib, published posthumously: April 24, 1978. “Last night while I was having my post-dinner cigarette, they decided to bring me to the future. They warned me against speaking about it in depth, but what I can say is that they chose me for an experimental brain operation. By the time I returned home, the process had already begun.

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