HIGH FREQUENCY, a blog novel by Nicole Jeffords & Bill Chancellor
Electronic / graphic / video novel. Satire, soap opera of contemporary adults set in Austin, Texas, a hedonistic, New Ager's, Liberal island surrounded by an ocean of the god fearing. Adult content.Monday
Welcome to High Frequency
Site Map / Table of Contents
Chapters 4,5,6. Chapters 7, 8, 9. Chapters 10, 11, 12.
Chapters 13, 14, 15. Chapters 16, 17, 18. Chapters 19, 20.
About the collaboration process. About the video process.
About the illustrations.
CHAPTER ONE, High Frequency
Site Map / Table of Contents
Chapters 4,5,6. Chapters 7, 8, 9. Chapters 10, 11, 12.
Chapters 13, 14, 15. Chapters 16, 17, 18. Chapters 19, 20.
About the collaboration process. About the video process.
About the illustrations.
CHAPTER ONE, High Frequency
“Holy Crap!” Juliet yelled out as she honked at a mangy dog that appeared out of nowhere. She braked her flamenco red BMW Z4 roadster on the nearly melted asphalt, tires squealing to a stop on this way-too-hot August afternoon.
Juliet Cooper was almost late for her appointment with the mysterious Dr. Lucien. She had twisted her ankle at the gym. A bum ankle meant she might not be able to work out for several weeks, and the image of her sleek body with any slight bulge made her physically ill. She was a wiry, bird-thin woman of about fifty, and devoted “too much time,” according to everyone in her life, to maintaining her youthful image. One of her yoga partners had told Juliet how fast Dr. Lucien could heal injuries, using only a few minutes of “energy medicine” rather than any injections, pills, compresses, splints or boring exercises.
Dr. Lucien’s office was off Sixth Street in downtown Austin, in an alternative medical clinic shared by chiropractors, body workers and naturopaths. Juliet slid off the hot leather seat and got out of the car, limping because of her injury.
A path led from the gravel parking lot to the front of the building. She picked her way carefully, unused to the Birkenstock sandals she’d borrowed from her partner, Fanny, whose feet were much bigger than hers. Inside, a receptionist handed Juliet a device the size of a Game Boy. “Please answer the questions on this little intake computer of ours, and put this other one,” she indicated another electronic device with a cord attached to it, “around your neck. It will take some electro-magnetic readings.”
Moments later a man in a crumpled linen jacket and slacks entered the room. He was about Juliet’s age, with a kind, almost innocent face, clear blue eyes and a shaved head. “Juliet Cooper?” he asked, sizing her up.
“Dr. Lucien?”
They shook hands. At the touch of his flesh a sizzle of energy ran through her. She handed him the two electronic devices and followed him down a corridor, noticing how erect his posture was and how he seemed to float on air rather than take actual steps. In his treatment room, he asked her to remove her jewelry and hop up on the table.
“Married?” he asked casually, checking the readings on the Game Boy.
“Not legally,” she said with a smile.
He looked up at her.
“I’m gay," Juliet said. "My partner and I have been ‘married’ for almost twenty years.”
“I see.” He paused. “Children?”
“Two, a girl who’s thirteen and a fifteen-year-old boy.”
“Fun,” said Dr. Lucien, indicating she should lie down. He ran his fingers over her ankle. “I can fix this in no time,” he said. “It’s the rest of you I’m concerned about.”
“What do you mean?” asked Juliet, alarmed.
“Your readings indicate that your brain is starved of certain key neurotransmitters, your adrenals are depleted and your digestive tract is working inefficiently. I can also see from your skin that you’ve been under a lot of stress recently.”
This was true. Gwenyth, the thirteen-year-old, had morphed from an angel child who loved Hello Kitty to a shrew who wanted an Iphone and Chanel sunglasses and didn’t have a kind word for either of her moms until she got what she wanted. Juliet’s son, Leonard, refused to come out of his room and didn’t seem to have any friends. And her partner, Fanny, had not made love to her in months.
“I’d like you to do ten treatments,” continued Dr. Lucien. “That way, not only will you start feeling much, muuuch better, but I can open a biochemical window that will enable you to make personal changes more easily. You can count on miracles appearing in your life … if you want them,” he added matter-of-factly.
“Bring it on,” said Juliet, wondering if he were for real. How could someone with a face like that be anything but genuine?
She felt a faint electric bite as he dragged a device the size of a TV remote across her ankle. “This is a Scenar."The Russians invented it for their space program so astronauts could heal themselves on long-term missions. It’s just becoming known here in the U.S.”
He worked her ankle a few minutes and then asked her to remove her shirt and lie on her stomach. “I’m going to run the Scenar up and down your spine,” he said, turning his back almost primly as she unbuttoned her blouse. “All your injuries, even the ones incurred in earliest childhood, are recorded as chemical imbalances. This will find them and gradually readjust your whole nervous system.” Juliet flopped onto her tummy, bracing herself for she wasn’t sure what.
Dr. Lucien’s fingers were crisp and cool as he ran the Scenar over her skin. Almost immediately she began to feel good, so good that she was disappointed when he told her the treatment was over and she should put on her shirt and stand up.
“How’s the ankle?” he asked as she put weight on it.
“Amazing. No pain whatsoever.” She took a few steps. Nothing. "Wow, you're a wizard. Just like they said."
“Okay,” said Dr. Lucien. “Now we’ll go into the Holodeck for your chair session.”
“Holodeck?” asked Juliet. “Chair session?” The guy had fixed her ankle, but this sounded kind of nutzoid.
“Yes,” said Dr. Lucien. “You’ll see. The best part is yet to come.”
***
The Holodeck was a pleasant room with pale blue walls, a soft Oriental carpet and a beautiful painting of a golden-haired goddess reclining on an ivory sliver of moon. In the center was a circle of five very sleek and futuristic leather chairs.
Dr. Lucien sat Juliet in one, reclining it to horizontal. He placed a pair of acoustic headsets over her ears and handed her some goggles. “Through these,” he explained, “frequencies will be sent to the brain that will magnify the effects of the treatment you just had. Keep your eyes closed,” he warned as he left the room.
Almost immediately, a pleasant symphony started playing over the headsets. The goggles started to blink slowly. Even with her eyes closed, Juliet could sense the flicker of different colored light patterns. Amoebic neon blobs melting into one another. “An acid trip without taking drugs,” she murmured. “Wonderful!”
As Juliet relaxed into sleepiness, she became aware of a human form floating toward her through the geometric patterns. Was she imagining this? Her skin started tingling in anticipation. There was a rush of excitement in her groin. Her heart beat rapidly and her perineum was suddenly on fire. She was going to have an orgasm!
Unable to control herself, Juliet began to weave and thrash in the chair. She hadn’t had sex in months, so this was like a dam bursting. At the edge of climax, she saw the human form of seconds ago up close and personal: a man in a fedora and forties-looking raincoat. His face was blurry, but his eyes, a deep steel gray color she would never forget, looked right into her own. He moved to kiss her and in that instant Juliet screamed and came.
Afterwards she lay wilted in the chair. The lights stopped flickering. The music ceased. Dr. Lucien entered quietly and gently removed the headset and goggles. “Shall we set up another appointment?” he asked.
Juliet flushed scarlet. “Yes,” she exclaimed weakly. The sooner the better.
CHAPTER TWO
Martin and Hanna May pay an unexpected visit
Martin Havock lived in a small mansion on Valburn, overlooking the greenbelt. He was in his mid-sixties and the mansion, with its five bedrooms, six baths, professional kitchen, game room, dining room and library was far too large and formal for one person. But Martin was obstinate. He had shared the mansion with his beloved wife, Emily who had died eighteen months ago. He refused to part with it.
On this steamy August morning he was waiting, as usual, for his housekeeper, Hanna May to arrive with his Starbucks cappuccino and fresh croissant. She was late, which annoyed him. As he stared out the tall bay window of the front drawing room, her little red Toyota truck zoomed into the circular drive. She emerged with coffee and a bag of pastries in one hand and a dog, which she held by the collar, in the other. A big black dog. Martin hurried to open the door for her.
“What’s this? What’s this?” he cried.
“I found him on Mesa. I thought I’d get him back to his owner before a car hit him.”
“Who’s his owner?”
“Don’t know yet.”
She put the coffee and pastries down on the vestibule table. Martin reached for the dog to check his collar. As he did, the dog growled and lunged. “Oh my God!” screamed Hanna May.
The dog’s teeth sank into the fleshy part of Martin’s hand. Hanna May kicked the dog off. It was over in seconds.
The name of a vet, Far West Hills Veterinary Clinic, was on the collar. They bundled the dog back into Hanna May’s truck and drove straight there. Three people were in the waiting room, all with cats. The dog nearly broke Hanna May’s arm, lunging at each of them. Martin marched straight up to the receptionist, whose name according to the tag on her rose pink scrubs, was Amy Cannon, a dark-haired, strikingly beautiful girl of about twenty-four.
“Who is this creature?” barked Martin, pointing at the black dog. “He bit me in the hand.”
He proffered his right hand, which had two inflamed marks where the skin had been broken.
“Oh, dear,” said Amy, blinking almond-shaped eyes sooty with mascara. “I just started working here. I’ll get Dr. Pitt.” She leaped up from the desk. While she was gone, Martin noticed a book entitled DMT, The Spirit Molecule, spread-eagled by the phone. Its cover featured a dying man with smoke coming out of his head. Behind Martin the room was very quiet. He turned and saw that Hanna May was sitting on one of the benches, stroking the black dog whose head was in her lap.
“That’s Baxter, the Schusterman’s dog,” a voice said.
Martin turned back to the desk and found himself face to face with a tall, handsome woman in her early forties. “I’m Dr. Pitt,” she said, extending her hand.
Martin placed his injured hand in hers. She stared at it frowning. “Baxter’s current,” she said. “He’s had all his shots. You should see a doctor for this. You’ll need antibiotics.”
“I don’t use antibiotics. I should call the police.”
“If you involve the police, Baxter will have to go into quarantine.”
“So …? He bit me. He’s dangerous.”
“I don’t believe in antibiotics either,” piped up Amy, sliding back into her seat. “One session with the Vibe Machine and your hand would be good as new.”
“I’ll keep Baxter here under observation, how’s that?” interrupted Dr. Pitt.
Martin shook his head. “I want to meet these Schustermans. Who do they think there are, letting their dog loose?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional,” said Dr. Pitt, gliding over to Hanna May and taking possession of the dog. “Give Amy your information so we can call you later in the day. I’m going to completely check him out.”
Martin supplied Amy with his name and cell phone number. Normally he didn’t like doing that, but she was so sweet and pretty he couldn’t help himself. “What’s that you’re reading?” he asked, pointing at the book with the dying man on its cover.
“This?” said Amy, picking up the book. “It’s about dimethyltryptamine, this substance the brain excretes right before dying that takes you to mystical realms. Ever heard of Ayahuasca?”
“Can’t say I have,” said Martin.
“Well, it’s the plant form of DMT. If you take it, you go to the spirit world and learn all sorts of stuff.”
“You mean like talk to the dead?”
“Uh hunh.”
“You’ve done it?”
Amy sized him up out of sexy, sea-green eyes.
“I’ve communed with a boyfriend who died in a car wreck three years ago.”
“I want to know more,” said Martin, leaning toward her.
The phone was ringing off the hook. Reaching for it, Amanda nodded at him. “You can borrow the book. If you promise to bring it back.”
“I’m a quick reader,” said Martin.
He was eager to communicate with his late wife, his beloved Emily. This might be just the thing.
Martin Havock lived in a small mansion on Valburn, overlooking the greenbelt. He was in his mid-sixties and the mansion, with its five bedrooms, six baths, professional kitchen, game room, dining room and library was far too large and formal for one person. But Martin was obstinate. He had shared the mansion with his beloved wife, Emily who had died eighteen months ago. He refused to part with it.
On this steamy August morning he was waiting, as usual, for his housekeeper, Hanna May to arrive with his Starbucks cappuccino and fresh croissant. She was late, which annoyed him. As he stared out the tall bay window of the front drawing room, her little red Toyota truck zoomed into the circular drive. She emerged with coffee and a bag of pastries in one hand and a dog, which she held by the collar, in the other. A big black dog. Martin hurried to open the door for her.
“What’s this? What’s this?” he cried.
“I found him on Mesa. I thought I’d get him back to his owner before a car hit him.”
“Who’s his owner?”
“Don’t know yet.”
She put the coffee and pastries down on the vestibule table. Martin reached for the dog to check his collar. As he did, the dog growled and lunged. “Oh my God!” screamed Hanna May.
The dog’s teeth sank into the fleshy part of Martin’s hand. Hanna May kicked the dog off. It was over in seconds.
The name of a vet, Far West Hills Veterinary Clinic, was on the collar. They bundled the dog back into Hanna May’s truck and drove straight there. Three people were in the waiting room, all with cats. The dog nearly broke Hanna May’s arm, lunging at each of them. Martin marched straight up to the receptionist, whose name according to the tag on her rose pink scrubs, was Amy Cannon, a dark-haired, strikingly beautiful girl of about twenty-four.
“Who is this creature?” barked Martin, pointing at the black dog. “He bit me in the hand.”
He proffered his right hand, which had two inflamed marks where the skin had been broken.
“Oh, dear,” said Amy, blinking almond-shaped eyes sooty with mascara. “I just started working here. I’ll get Dr. Pitt.” She leaped up from the desk. While she was gone, Martin noticed a book entitled DMT, The Spirit Molecule, spread-eagled by the phone. Its cover featured a dying man with smoke coming out of his head. Behind Martin the room was very quiet. He turned and saw that Hanna May was sitting on one of the benches, stroking the black dog whose head was in her lap.
“That’s Baxter, the Schusterman’s dog,” a voice said.
Martin turned back to the desk and found himself face to face with a tall, handsome woman in her early forties. “I’m Dr. Pitt,” she said, extending her hand.
Martin placed his injured hand in hers. She stared at it frowning. “Baxter’s current,” she said. “He’s had all his shots. You should see a doctor for this. You’ll need antibiotics.”
“I don’t use antibiotics. I should call the police.”
“If you involve the police, Baxter will have to go into quarantine.”
“So …? He bit me. He’s dangerous.”
“I don’t believe in antibiotics either,” piped up Amy, sliding back into her seat. “One session with the Vibe Machine and your hand would be good as new.”
“I’ll keep Baxter here under observation, how’s that?” interrupted Dr. Pitt.
Martin shook his head. “I want to meet these Schustermans. Who do they think there are, letting their dog loose?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional,” said Dr. Pitt, gliding over to Hanna May and taking possession of the dog. “Give Amy your information so we can call you later in the day. I’m going to completely check him out.”
Martin supplied Amy with his name and cell phone number. Normally he didn’t like doing that, but she was so sweet and pretty he couldn’t help himself. “What’s that you’re reading?” he asked, pointing at the book with the dying man on its cover.
“This?” said Amy, picking up the book. “It’s about dimethyltryptamine, this substance the brain excretes right before dying that takes you to mystical realms. Ever heard of Ayahuasca?”
“Can’t say I have,” said Martin.
“Well, it’s the plant form of DMT. If you take it, you go to the spirit world and learn all sorts of stuff.”
“You mean like talk to the dead?”
“Uh hunh.”
“You’ve done it?”
Amy sized him up out of sexy, sea-green eyes.
“I’ve communed with a boyfriend who died in a car wreck three years ago.”
“I want to know more,” said Martin, leaning toward her.
The phone was ringing off the hook. Reaching for it, Amanda nodded at him. “You can borrow the book. If you promise to bring it back.”
“I’m a quick reader,” said Martin.
He was eager to communicate with his late wife, his beloved Emily. This might be just the thing.
CHAPTER THREE
Carla and Amy go to a Party
Carla and Amy go to a Party
Dr. Carla Pitt was going through a hard time, a fact she tried to cover up as best she could. She had broken up with her boyfriend of a month ago and was now living alone with her horse and three dogs in a ramshackle house on a few acres Southeast of the city. She had many acquaintances but few good friends and she was lonely.Sensing this, Amy, who had only worked at the vet clinic for a few weeks, invited her to a party in South Austin that evening. “It’ll be lots of fun,” she told Carla. “Music, food, a hot tub, dancing. Everyone’s real laid back and friendly.”
The party was given by Duke Landon who owned a compound of houses on top of a wooded hill near Zilker Park. Carla followed Amy there in her Silverado truck, but it was so crowded she had to park several streets away. She found Amy, who’d found a spot closer to the party, in her little Geo smoking a joint. “Want some?” said Amy, opening the window.
Carla didn’t usually smoke pot because it made her anti-social. But she decided to have a hit this once, so she got in the car with Amy. “What’s this Duke guy like?” she asked, drawing smoke deep into her lungs and coughing a little.
“Way cool,” said Amy. “He’s old, maybe fifty, but looks much younger.”
“What’s he do?”
“Owns a bar. The Savoy up in the Arboretum. I think he has money.”
“Married?”
“No. He always has girlfriends, though.”
“Oh,” said Carla, losing interest.
Amy took a last hit and deposited the roach in a sleek silver cigarette case. Carla used the car mirror to apply some lipstick and check out her hair, which fell into her face in fine, silvery blond wisps.
“You could use a conditioning,” said Amy. “Aveda’s always good.”
They got out of the car. It was a soft beautiful night. From a few streets away they could hear drumming. “Oh, this is going to be so great!” exclaimed Amy.
Carla could feel the effects of the marijuana, her brain suddenly powerful, wanting to explore every avenue of thought. The drumming grew louder the closer they got to the party. Above them the moon was big and full. In Duke’s driveway several young people with piercings and dread-locked hair stood around murmuring to one another. “Is this potluck?” asked Carla, anxious because she always liked to do the right thing and she was empty-handed.
“Yes, but you can leave a donation,” said Amy, pointing at a glass jar on a table in front of the garage.
Carla fished in her wallet and dropped a ten-dollar bill in the jar. Amy giggled and said she’d forgotten her handbag. They proceeded into the party where perhaps sixty people danced to drum music around a small bonfire. All of them looked like hippies to Carla, the women in long shapeless gypsy dresses and dangly earrings, the men in tie-dye shirts, many of them older, with gray beards and ponytails. Wow, thought Carla. She wasn’t a hippy, but she could feel at home here with her messy hair and ill-matched clothes. She’d always felt uptight about her height – she was five foot ten – but here in the dark of Duke’s party, with the urgency of the drums and the warmth of the fire, she sensed safety and acceptance. She turned to Amy, but Amy had wandered off into the crowd. A man approached. “Hi, I’m Bird Dog,” he said. “You look as if you could use a Deeksha.”
“What’s a Deeksha?” said Carla.
“A transmission of divine grace. I just came back from India where they teach it. You’ll see. You’ll feel wonderful. Sit down on this lawn chair here.”
Carla complied. Bird Dog looked about her age, forty-two, in pale orange baggy pants and a turquoise shirt. He stood behind her and placed his hands on her head. Automatically she closed her eyes. She could smell a mix of Patchouli and body odor emanating from him on this hot August evening. Her skin tingled. Was it because of the Deeksha that she was feeling vibrations on her scalp? Suddenly nauseous, she opened her eyes.
In front of her, not three feet away, was a strikingly handsome man: bright blue eyes, thick brown hair, a vigorous body far taller than her own. He was wearing a skirt … a long, graceful, oddly masculine skirt. As she watched, he began to twirl around, the skirt billowing out from him like a diaphanous bell.
“Who’s that?” Carla asked, stunned.“Shush! Deeksha in progress!” said Bird Dog.
“I need to know who that is,” repeated Carla.
“It’s Duke,” said Bird Dog. “Our host. Now be quiet a minute.”
Carla wasn’t sure if it was the deeksha or a physical reaction to Duke, but a wave of bliss surged through her like a hot flash. “Are you almost finished?” she asked. She saw that Duke had ceased twirling and was about to walk away.
“Yes,” said Bird Dog, circling around so he was in front of her. “But for the deeksha to be effective, I need you to sit here quietly for ten minutes or so.” He dropped his hands to a reverential Namaste position, bowed and disappeared.
Oh shit, thought Carla, looking around wildly for Duke who had also disappeared. Every cell in her body pushed her to get up and find him, not sit here like a dodo. Hoping Bird Dog wouldn’t notice, she stood and searched the crowd. Ah, there he was, over by the food table. She started toward him, so nervous she could feel perspiration at the back of her neck and in her armpits. When she was beside him, her mouth was too dry to form words. She picked up a plate.
“Do you think that’s good?” she managed, pointing at a bowl of soggy-looking pasta.
He smiled at her. His teeth were white and perfect. His eyes twinkled. “I’d pass,” he said. “Try the vegetables instead. Here, let me help you.”
He took her plate and loaded it with grilled bell peppers, zucchini and mushrooms. Carla felt bubbles of excitement crash and burst against the walls of her stomach. No way was she going to be able to eat.
“My name is Duke Landon,” he said, handing her the plate.
“I’m Carla Pitt,” she said with a big silly grin. “I want to thank you for having me here at your party, I’m having such a good time…” She would have babbled on endlessly, but her phone rang. Worried it was a client, she put the plate down on the table and dug her phone out of her bag. “Excuse me a second,” she said.
But it wasn’t a client. It was her ex-boyfriend, Tommy Kucera, calling to say he was so depressed he wanted drive off the edge of a cliff. And he had his gun out.
“I’ll be right over,” cried Carla, alarmed.
She clicked off the phone and turned to Duke. But Duke was gone again and she felt his absence as keenly as if the life blood had been drained out of her system.
Now in hard copy:
High Frequency: High thrills and chills in this steamy novel of New Age romance, revenge and redemption among the enlightenment seeking, trance dancing, karma healing, saints and sinners of Austin, Texas. 120 pages, 90 illustraions.
About the authors and artists
Nicky and Bill met in 2005 during a workshop teaching them to operate a Russian bio-feedback device. Nicky, who’d published a novel (HEARTS OF GLASS) a few years back, was looking for possible new subjects. Bill, an idle wizard, suggested that she simply write about the many alternative, 'new age' investigations they’d played about with and all the interesting characters they’d met along the way. Nicky emailed Bill a few paragraphs of Chapter One and he replied.
The collaboration began there and grew to include other art forms. Nicky was learning to paint portraits at the time so they decided to add portraits of the main characters. This grew to include several illustrations per chapter. With the magnified creative possibilities afforded by the internet, the project added e-publishing, hypertext links, audio and video clips into their fiction writing.
They decided to find actors for the audio and video parts. The actors' lives began influencing the writing of the fiction. For instance, they asked one of the men if he minded wearing a kilt for a shoot. He said he thought kilts were much too militaristic but he would wear a Sufi dancing skirt since he was working on a line of skirts and dancing trousers for men. So they rewrote the character to wear skirts.
Pretty soon the novel took on a life and personality of its own. Since it was published weekly and used local Austin people as characters (many from the dance group, Body Choir) it quickly developed a following. Bill found Photoshop much to his liking given his background in photography, photo gravure and printmaking. Nicky’s fascination with portraiture grew and intensified. Her mother Franyo was a painter as well.
After twenty chapters, the two decided to print a hard copy version of High Frequency and see what happened.
The collaboration began there and grew to include other art forms. Nicky was learning to paint portraits at the time so they decided to add portraits of the main characters. This grew to include several illustrations per chapter. With the magnified creative possibilities afforded by the internet, the project added e-publishing, hypertext links, audio and video clips into their fiction writing.
They decided to find actors for the audio and video parts. The actors' lives began influencing the writing of the fiction. For instance, they asked one of the men if he minded wearing a kilt for a shoot. He said he thought kilts were much too militaristic but he would wear a Sufi dancing skirt since he was working on a line of skirts and dancing trousers for men. So they rewrote the character to wear skirts.
Pretty soon the novel took on a life and personality of its own. Since it was published weekly and used local Austin people as characters (many from the dance group, Body Choir) it quickly developed a following. Bill found Photoshop much to his liking given his background in photography, photo gravure and printmaking. Nicky’s fascination with portraiture grew and intensified. Her mother Franyo was a painter as well.
After twenty chapters, the two decided to print a hard copy version of High Frequency and see what happened.
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