I never met Philip K. Dick. He died when I was ten. Over the course of the quarter century I've been studying his life and work, there have only been a few times I've felt him spinning in his grave. Mostly when I was hanging out with his ex-wives. But there have also been a handful of times when I sensed his excitement from the cold storage of half-life: hanging out at various Dick-fests, footnoting The Exegesis for publication, discussing his life and work at Harvard University.
But I think Phil is really excited about this: on January 17th, I'll be leading a community discussion of his literary novel Confessions of a Crap Artist in Point Reyes Station, where the novel is set, and where Dick lived, off and on, between 1959-1964.
For those of you living under a rock, I have spent the last nine months as the "Chief Troublemaker" at the Point Reyes Reality Investigation Center, or PRRIC!
As part of my PRRIC-ular duties, I have been getting to know the locals in the tiny town of just under 850 people. I spend a couple days a week inhabiting Dick's slow-paced pastorale landscape: walking by Cheda's Garage, shopping at The Palace Market, and working in my office above The Old Western Saloon. The experience has enriched my reading of Confessions of a Crap Artist, which is about Dick's time in Point Reyes Station, as well as his marriage to Anne, who I knew pretty well.
So for an expert, which Henry Kissinger famously said is someone who knows more and more about less and less, it doesn't get much better than this. I will post some study materials for those of you interested in reading the novel along with us. Until then, enjoy these pictures of locations from the novel courtesy of Henri Wintz and The Philip K. Dick Bookshelf.
If you're in the Bay Area, GET YOUR ASS TO POINT REYES, on January 17th.
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