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It is of the nature of idea to be communicated: written, spoken, done. The idea is like grass. It craves light, likes crowds, thrives on crossbreeding, grows better for being stepped on.
—ursula k. le guin, the disposessed
Anarchy.
The word itself conjures a multitude of feelings and imagery. Masked looters ravaging the streets, battling the police with Molotov cocktails. Vigilantes who have taken the rule of law into their own hands. Crumbling infrastructure. It invokes the most terrifying Mad Max future, a landscape of lifeless chaos, debauchery, and lawlessness. Our culture is obsessed with the idea of dystopia (a perversion of the perfect society) as evidenced through major hits that audiences can’t get enough of, such as The Hunger Games, the Divergent series, or even The Walking Dead. We are afraid of it yet relish its excitement at the same time. Anarchy, in this day and age, has become synonymous with disorder.
But we have been led astray. This is not, nor has it ever been, the true essence of sociopolitical anarchism.
I believe that in order for a religious practice to be effective, it must adhere to the principles of a sacred anarchism.
At its base, etymologically, anarchy comes from the word 
(anarkhos), which simply means to be without a chief or ruler. An- means “without”; -arkhos is derivative of archon and implies a single source, a hierarchy of importance from which the rule of law flows. At its root, anarchy, anarkhos, doesn’t mean without law; it means without a single authority of law.
In seventeenth-century Europe, the word was used by royalty to demonize those who fomented disorder against the state. Their slander made the term derogatory in order to undermine criticisms toward the monarchies at the time, which were beginning to crumble in their political attempts to hold fast to an absolutist sovereignty over the people.
Having been the inspiration for revolutionary thought for centuries, anarchism as a term was never popularized until Pierre-Joseph Proudhon—a nineteenth-century French politician and philosopher—spearheaded its use in his 1840 treatise What Is Property? Proudhon’s assertion was that man has no right to be owner of—and therefore to abuse—land, because that land is a gift provided by the natural world. Property owners were hoarding the surplus, creating monopolies on the fruits of what the earth had to offer to all people. “How can the supplies of Nature, the wealth created by Providence, become private property?” Proudhon asks. “We want to know by what right man has appropriated wealth which he did not create, and which nature gave to him gratuitously.” 67
This sentiment fed wholeheartedly into Proudhon’s proclamation as an anarchist. In fact, he considered the ultimate form of an effective government, as many did at that time, to be a republic, though a republic being representative as an anarchist organization. He writes in Solution of the Social Problem that “the Republic is a positive anarchy. It is neither liberty subject to order, as in the constitutional monarchy, nor liberty imprisoned in order, as the provisional government understands it, but liberty delivered from all its obstacles, superstition, prejudice, sophistry, speculation, and authority; it is reciprocal, not limited, liberty; it is the liberty that is the MOTHER, not the daughter of order.” 68
Liberty delivered from all its obstacles. Anarchism is about a true equality among people and their relationship to the world, where no prejudice, no hierarchy resides. Where order arises out of freedom rather than the other way around.
And so anarchism evolved into being one of the primary proponents of revolution across the world, most specifically rooted in the labor movement. Errico Malatesta, Emma Goldman, Peter Kropotkin, and others are just a small few of many activists and philosophers who sought a social revolution against the capitalist grip on the workforce, where the laborer rarely, if ever, enjoys the fruits of the product of their labor. The German Rudolf Rocker was one of these revolutionaries who helped define anarchism as an economic model for workers to gain control within a capitalist paradigm.
In his seminal work Anarcho-Syndicalism, a treatise on anarchistic industrial unionism, Rocker defines a society of anarchism through the desire of the anarchist: “Anarchists would have a free association of all productive forces based upon co-operative labour, which would have as its sole purpose the satisfying of the necessary requirements of every member of society, and would no longer have in view the special interest of privileged minorities within the social union.” 69
Anarchism would see the fulfillment of each individual’s needs as a requisite to their common contribution to the community at large. Again, equality of economy and property is a key element in Rocker’s philosophy, much like Proudhon’s.
A prime contemporary advocate of anarchism as a sociopolitical movement is the linguist, historian, philosopher, and activist Noam Chomsky, who is one of the most respected intellectuals of our day. Chomsky is quick to note in conversations about anarchism that it is definitely not about chaos at all, but “a highly organized society, just one that’s organized democratically from below.” 70 Anarchism is not about an absence of order. It implies that the horse must lead the cart, rather than the cart before the horse. A government, the state, cannot govern the people as if it were some lone entity with powers from on high. The people are the government; therefore, they govern themselves. Rather than top-down leadership, anarchism promotes bottom-up collaboration.
The anarchist ideal has not always been just a political doctrine. In fact, its ideals have roots in the Greek’s philosophy of self-governance, Loa Tsu’s Tao Te Ching, and Jesus’s Beatitudes, all the way to Rousseau’s contributions about natural freedom to the Enlightenment.
In fact, anarchism’s sensibility has even inspired modern-day business models of management. Major companies like IBM and the New York Times are proponents of bottom-up management styles because of the increase in employee morale and productivity. Research has shown how an anarchistic style of self-initiation in the workplace utilizes the full potential of workers. “In fact,” writes Josh Bersin, contributor to Forbes, one of the leading business publications in the world, “our research shows that the best companies develop leaders from the bottom up.” 71
Perhaps the greatest example in literature that portrays a purist vision of anarchism can be found in Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed. The crux of the story inside this science-fiction classic revolves around two planets: Urras and Anarres. Urras is a wholly capitalist planet divided into numerous states that are constantly at war. Anarres, on the other hand, houses a smaller society that ascribes to an anarcho-syndicalist philosophy called “Odonianism,” developed by Anarres’s anarchist founder Laia Odo. The plot centers on Shevek, a scientist of Anarres who is invited to Urras as part of a research exchange between the two planets (who are usually mutually in opposition) regarding the development of a new theory in physics.
Lacking in action but not intrigue, the book itself is a discussion on the merits of a society based upon communal exchange or enterprise. The reader is threaded through numerous conversations on sociology, economics, science, and even relationships. The overall premise leans toward anarchism as a productive, but not necessarily utopian, means to a stable society. An example of Odo’s philosophy shows some of Le Guin’s attempts to answer some of the common criticisms of an egalitarian labor society: “A child free from the guilt of ownership and the burden of economic competition will grow up with the will to do what needs doing and the capacity for joy in doing it. It is useless work that darkens the heart. The delight of the nursing mother, of the scholar, of the successful hunter, of the good cook, of the skillful maker, of anyone doing needed work and doing it well—this durable joy is perhaps the deepest source of human affection, and of sociality as a whole.” 72
As you can see, like Rocker’s anarcho-syndicalist philosophy, the ability for individuals to expresss themselves through their labor is in accordance with the needs of the community at large.
Reciprocity
Erudite and lucid, Le Guin goes to great lengths in her novel to describe the function of an individual in an Odonian (anarchist) society. Considering her depiction, I have often considered the Quechua shamanic peoples of Andean Peru to have a similar cultural framework. The Quechua are hardy people, living in the cold, harsh highlands of the second-highest mountain range in the world. An agricultural society, the Quechua are noted for likely being the descendants of the Inca from precolonial times.
It would be unfair to depict the Quechua in a strictly anarcho-syndicalist point of view; however, there are elements within their way of life that bear strong correlations to an anarchist approach to living.
The Quechua are known most for their farming and llama herding. While their bulk crop is potatoes (three thousand varieties of potato can be found across Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, and Chile), they are also adept at growing coca, quinoa, and corn, among others. The conditions of the Andean environment are harsh; over the centuries, the Quechua have learned to adapt and build a community of interaction that benefits the whole rather than the individual. Catherine J. Allen, professor emeritus of anthropology and international affairs at George Washington University, has devoted much of her research to studying the Quechua people. Her book The Hold Life Has presents a comprehensive identity of the Quechua culture. She writes, “The essence of social relations [for the Quechua] … is to be found in the give-and-take of reciprocal relationships of mutual aid. Andean people are strongly conscious of reciprocity in its various manifestations, and the Quechua language contains a fairly elaborate vocabulary referring to modes of exchanging labor and goods. By far the most important modes are ayni and mink’a.… Life revolves around ayni. Nothing is done for free; in ayni, every action calls forth an equivalent response.” 73
Ayni is a reciprocal exchange of shared work among the Quechua in order to ensure an equality among their labor system. It provides a framework, a sort of hub, of social understanding. In a way, it could be considered their collective constitution, albeit in a nonwritten context. As with most concepts in the Quechua culture and language, everything is dual, everything has its opposite.
Symmetrical relationship implies a function of fulfillment among the people. Like Le Guin’s Odonian, the Quechua citizen is happy to fulfill their role within the organism of their ayllu, or family unit. There is a difference, of course, between the fictional Odonian of Anarres and the Quechua of the Andes: for the Quechua there is integration with the modern world around them. The Andean language is an amalgamation of Quechua and Spanish, and often Quechua citizens will mill throughout the cities to buy or sell goods. Again, it is not a completely anarchist system, but there are connections nonetheless.
There is also a spiritual approach, not just a cultural one, to the principle of ayni. Author Joan Parisi Wilcox has written many accounts of her interactions and training with the Quechua paqos (priest healers). She pinpoints ayni as one of the seminal components of Andean spirituality, essential to connecting with the unseen forces of the world:
Ayni is the seminal operative principle of behavior and of being in the Andes. In the social structure, ayni expresses itself as a system of communal, shared labor, where, for example, farmers help work each other’s fields. Ayni also is a guiding moral principle, similar to the Christian concept “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” In this light, ayni operates within a moral and personal code of conduct. Within the indigenous spiritual cosmology, however, ayni takes on an even greater significance, for it is an implicate, creative principle of the natural world.74
Ayni is a way of life. It is something to be lived as one’s core philosophy and practice. While I was in Peru, my interactions with the local Quechua populace revealed to me that sacred reciprocity is—above all else—an agreement, a contract between the practitioner and the unseen. Before ever engaging in a ceremonial process—indeed before even treading into certain areas of the wild—the Andean peoples would be sure to honor the spirits of that land first and foremost. Wilcox says, “Andeans owe the very conditions of their lives [to the spirits and the earth]. Therefore, every action they undertake is necessarily an act of ayni, or reciprocity, with Pachamama. Before any food is eaten or liquid is drunk, a portion is offered to the Earth Mother.” 75 As such, sacred reciprocity is the building of a relationship between oneself and the unseen. It is actually the language that allows one to interact with forces and energies that are otherwise unavailable to the normal human faculties of communication.
My own teacher don Oscar Miro-Quesada was taught by the esteemed paqo don Benito Corihuaman of Wasao. In his own autobiographical account, don Oscar relays a message he received from the unseen realms that was a direct proclamation regarding the style of shamanic sacred relationship. At one of the lowest points in his life, during his own dark night of the soul, don Oscar received this dictum: “This isn’t about being delivered by some enlightened being. This is about promising to do something. Get on your knees and pray.” 76
Compare this to Le Guin’s Odonian ideology on relationship, most specifically dissecting the practice of monogamous relationships. To an Odonian, marriage was a joint federation between two individuals. If it worked, it worked; if it didn’t, each individual had the freedom to leave the partnership. The idea was based on the premise that one’s freedom to be able to choose whether or not to leave the partnership actually made the partnership meaningful. Law in marriage did not a marriage make, as that would defy the validity of the vows made and the complexities inherent in relationship. Freedom is essential in any form of commitment in order to bring meaning to the commitment.
A spiritual walk, whether it be mystical or magical, must always be questioned as to the effectiveness of what it is trying to achieve. Why have a spiritual walk at all? Is it in trying to find a connection with God, the universe? It is in finding peace? Is it in trying to change something about yourself, or your environment?
Odo’s promise, as outlined by Ursula K. Le Guin and referenced by Oscar Miro-Quesada, regards establishing a purpose, a function for one’s work, whether it be spiritual, physical, etc. And through that pledge can be found the freedom within the individual soul that we all seem to seek in one form or another. It is through that promise that our human purpose is formed.
It is especially true of the mystic path, in which the primary focus is interacting with various intelligences within the unseen, that sacred relationship is so important. A relationship of mutual cooperation, of ayni, often populates the analogues of the soul realm.
Thus, Miro-Quesada elucidates the shamanic commitment that a connection with the sacred is indeed a relationship fostered by mutual benefit: “To harness the spiritual power of creation, as did our ancestral peoples, we need to return to a deep understanding of how sacred relationship works.… By doing earth-healing rites and ceremonies, we reestablish a conscious, awakened, sacred relationship with the Earth. This encourages all the conscious beings who inhabit our beloved Pachamama to feel more comfortable revealing themselves to nurture and support us. This is the nature of ayni.” 77
So it is understood why the shamanic system works so well within the Western esoteric context. As mentioned before, all the ideas explored during pathworking are symbols, simulacra. These simulacra—whether they be pictures, magical glyphs, Hebrew letters, Quechua words, or mantras—each have a force behind them, a living energy field (in Quechua, kawsaypacha), if you will. These images, in a sense, are alive, not static mechanical forces. When a magical image is built in the mind’s eye—within our own consciousness—connected to an archetype in the collective consciousness in humanity, a catalyst of power ignites within the human soul. This power becomes a living thing to harness and utilize for the betterment of one’s own life and the lives of others.
As these magical images become living things within the consciousness of the individual, they are then dependent on a rapport. A relationship must be fostered and nurtured, just like any other thing one might be in relationship with: a friend, a partner, a spouse. This rapport builds up skill. Just as with any skill, if one does not practice, if one does not dedicate oneself to the mastering of that skill, the inspiration or drive is lost. The magical images will then lose their power and effectiveness.
Managing the relationship of these magical energies is the prime modus operandi of the adept magician or mystic, who in effect should also be a proficient psychonaut.
Psychonautica
To be a psychonaut means to be a navigator of the soul.
According to Jan Blom’s A Dictionary of Hallucinations, “The term psychonaut comes from the Greek words psuchè (life breath, spirit, soul, mind) and nautès (sailor, navigator). It translates as ‘sailor of the mind’ or ‘navigator of the psyche.’” The term psychonautics “is used to denote the exploration of the psyche by means of techniques such as meditation, prayer, lucid dreaming, brainwave entrainment, sensory deprivation, and the use of hallucinogens or entheogens.” 78
This is exactly what the Great Work is, actually: sailing and navigating the mysteries of the mind and of the soul itself. The soul is both inner and outer, residing both within and without the universe and man. It is neither and both at the same time. It is paradox.
That all sounds rather nebulous, doesn’t it? For centuries philosophers have sought to answer what exactly is the soul? This is a question, I think, that can never be truly answered; nor should it ever be, perhaps. Soul is the Great Mystery itself, with which we are always at play.
Much growth has been made in pinpointing a definition for soul throughout the centuries, specifically by the Rosicrucian movement. Known as the predecessor to the Golden Dawn and other modern mystical orders, Rosicrucianism dates back to 1378 with the birth of Christian Rosenkreuz (“Rose Cross”), who is cited as being the author of the first published Rosicrucian documents. Built upon a library of alchemical symbolism from Hermeticism, Christianity, and Qabalah, the Rosicrucian paradigm brought a scientific methodology to spiritual practice. Rosicrucian orders have evolved over time, much like and with many ties to the Masonic fraternities.
In 1930 the Supreme Grand Lodge of the Ancient and Mystical Order Rosæ Crucis (AMORC) published a manuscript by the Imperator of the Rosicrucian Order of North and South America, Dr. H. Spencer Lewis, called Mansions of the Soul: The Cosmic Conception. Although the book has more specifically to do with the Rosicrucian theory of reincarnation, it provides a very concise definition of the soul for our use:
It is to the effect that the real part of man is the infinite, Divine, or intangible consciousness and essence which constitutes the inner self. For this inner self many names have been invented and universally adopted at various times. The most general of these names is that of soul, and we find it associated with another word, which means the breath; and for many ages the inner self of man was associated with the idea of breathing an invisible essence which constituted the spiritual nature of man. A second general principle most universally and consistently adopted was the idea that this soul of man is a distinct entity, or a spiritual something, that is immortal, and at times separates from the physical body. 79
We see here that a description of soul is not so easy to pin down. Dr. Lewis gives us two distinct ideas to work with; maybe soul is both and neither at the same time. Probably one of the most underrated occult scholars of our current era, Patrick Harpur, wrote a comprehensive treatise of supernatural phenomena in his work Daimonic Reality: A Field Guide to the Otherworld. In the tradition of Jacques Vallee and Carl Jung, Harpur draws upon and alludes to the dual nature of soul. He suggests there is indeed a personal soul, but that it is incomplete to talk about soul without referring to the World Soul, Anima Mundi. Soul is both individual and collective. Harpur explains, “Soul is not a ‘thing’ in itself, not a substance (this is why I do not call it the soul); rather, it is the imaginative possibility in our natures, a set of perspectives. Soul, that is, imagines; and the images it imagines are daimons that not only manifest as personifications, but also—invisibly—as perspectives. They are the many eyes that see through our eyes. We call the particular perspective of our daimon ‘the world’; but there are as many ‘worlds’ as there are daimons. Reality is primarily metaphorical, imaginative, daimonic.” 80
Because we live in a world whose quality of knowledge has suffered in the analogues of quantity, it must be reiterated that a daimon is not a “demon” or “evil spirit.” Daimonic means the Gnostic-Neoplatonic notion of an entity that is not entirely physical or spirit, not one or the other, but both and neither at the same time. As Harpur stated, they are images of soul.
Harpur references Jung’s own terminology of individuation, which is essentially initiation, the process of transformation via making the unconscious conscious: “The daimons are archetypal images which, in the process of individuation, conduct us toward the archetypes (gods) themselves. They did not have to convey messages; they were themselves the message.” 81 They are intermediaries between the worlds of gods and men.
Kamasqa
Nonetheless, navigating the soul can be an abstract task for some. It’s a lot like looking at a painting from Mondrian, Rothko, Kandinsky, or even Matisse without any knowledge of an artist’s philosophy or intentions … The surface level appears nebulous and even simplistic; the brain doesn’t know what to do with the information.
This is one reason why learning the symbology of the unseen, the markers that point the way along the road, is important. Also, understanding the emanations of creation assists, at an unconscious level, the initiate with sailing the deep waters of soul. In Peruvian shamanism there is a concept—or an essence, if you will—called Kamasqa. Through her years in training with the Quechua paqos, Joan Parisi Wilcox portrays Kamasqa as a derivative of the word Kamaq, which is “the supreme creative principle in Andean cosmology. Pachakamaq is the creator of the world.” 82
She describes Kamasqa as also one who has been called to the sacred path without formal training, one who is the experience of the outpouring of creation, of soul, into the world. Even though he has had formal training, don Oscar Miro-Quesada is one of those whom I have met who is the embodiment of that outpouring. As a Kamasqa curandero and my own teacher, I went to him to uncover the mystery of Kamasqa, to pinpoint an accurate translation of this nebulous Quechua term and its relationship to the goal of the Great Work.
In a personal conversation with me, this was Miro-Quesada’s explanation:
As all power, Kamasqa is both an effluence, an etheric light fluid, as well as a dreaming. It is an active imaginative space. It has a temporal component, and it has a spatial component. It is always creative, just as any river that is born of the melting of the glaciers, which starts as a trickle and then becomes the roaring rivers that feed the ocean. Along its way it creates habitat through life, it creates opportunities, lands to be cultivated and the people to be fed from it. I, personally, as with everything that is good medicine, take the stance of the poet when it comes to my relationship with Kamasqa. I try not to define it too much. I try just to understand that it visits me in different expressions, and every one of the expressions allows me to be more creative as a soul because I am anointed and touched by its flowing through me. It never composes me, it never defines me, but it does inspire me. And it does help dream me into being. And that’s how I understand Kamasqa to be. Creative power is a good definition, but there is much more to it.83
As the river forms the landscape, so too it seems that Kamasqa, the creative effluence, forms our soul growth along the sacred path. The key to this, as Miro-Quesada points out, is that Kamasqa is “an active imaginative space.” Imagination, it seems, is the vital component to tapping into the divine outpouring from the higher realms, the Hanaqpacha, onto the physical plane.
The English poet William Blake once wrote that “Man has no Body distinct from his Soul.” 84 Known perhaps as one of the greatest Western poets who ever lived, William Blake was a Romantic. Romanticism was a reaction to the modern destruction of nature and humanity brought on by the Industrial Revolution in the nineteenth century. The Romantic movement emphasized the expression and inspiration of the artist and the individual as not only a rebuke of modernization, but also as a re-engagement with the mysteries of the universe.
Blake was fascinated with the imagination; he saw it as a tool for connection with the Divine. As expressed by one of the phrases upon his engraving Laocoön,
Roger Whitson, professor of English at Washington State University and author of William Blake and the Digital Humanities, has presented Blake’s relationship with the imagination as a means of liberation from his concept of the veil constructed by a celestial being that controls the material world: Urizen. Urizen was Blake’s own take on the Gnostic concept of the demiurge, an antagonistic deity subordinate to the Supreme God yet who masks itself as God. Whitson expressed to me, “In some ways, Blake did believe that the imagination could help us move past the illusion of Urizen (note the play on words: U-rizen, your reason, horizon, etc.).” 86
Whitson notes Blake’s use of printmaking as a medium for expressing imagination as a means of liberation from Urizen. Blake is well known as a pioneer of the use of image and text working together in a singular context to convey an idea. Whitson then went on to explain Blake’s imagery as a developed system that itself induces a form of interactive alchemy: “What’s interesting here is that Blake is interested in a complete system, in a complete material practice, in a mode of communication that places all these contraries in a dialectic or dialogue. It doesn’t mean that they agree, or that they synthesize, but they are interacting. Soul and body, image and text, materials and ideas, etc. Printing is, for him, a form of transmutation.” 87
Blake was a psychonaut if ever there was one. In his works, he regularly used his imagination as the vehicle for tapping into the fluidic depot of soul, the Kamasqa storehouse that both inspires and requires action upon the material plane. That Blake exposes this “dialectic or dialogue” as the schema of this interaction with soul is significant. Ayni, sacred reciprocity, is a relationship, a dialogue.
Anthropologist Catherine Allen writes that “reciprocity is like a pump at the heart of the Andean life,” 88 and, likewise, it is most definitely the pump at the heart of shamanic Qabalah. For a mystic, an efficient psychonautic practice must be able to build a rapport with the unseen, create a dialogue. Otherwise, the system breaks down, and instead of an anarchistic aggregation of relationship … you get chaos.
67. Pierre-Joseph Prodhoun, Property Is Theft!: A Pierre-Joseph Proudhon Anthology, ed. Iain McKay (Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2011), 103.
68. Prodhoun, Property Is Theft!, 280.
69. Rudolf Rocker, Anarcho-Syndicalism: Theory and Practice (Edinburgh, Scotland: AK Press, 2004), 1.
70. Noam Chomsky, On Anarchism (New York: The New Press, 2013), 20.
71. Josh Bersin, “It’s Not the CEO, It’s the Leadership Strategy That Matters,” Forbes, July 30, 2012, http://www.forbes.com/sites/joshbersin/2012/07/30/its-not-the-ceo-its-the-leadership-strategy-that-matters/#7e91d7235a3e.
72. Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2015), 247.
73. Catherine J. Allen, The Hold Life Has: Coca and Cultural Identity in an Andean Community, 2nd ed. (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Books, 2002), 72.
74. Wilcox, Masters of the Living Energy, 26–27.
75. Wilcox, Masters of the Living Energy, 27
76. Glass-Coffin and Miro-Quesada, Lessons in Courage, 50.
77. Glass-Coffin and Miro-Quesada, Lessons in Courage, 61.
78. Jan Dirk Blom, A Dictionary of Hallucinations (New York: Springer Science+Business Media, 2010), 434.
79. H. Spencer Lewis, Mansions of the Soul: The Cosmic Conception (San Jose, CA: Supreme Grand Lodge of AMORC, 1954), 39–40.
80. Patrick Harpur, Daimonic Reality: A Field Guide to the Otherworld (London: Viking Arkana, 1994), 126.
81. Harpur, Daimonic Reality, 38.
82. Wilcox, Masters of the Living Energy, 320.
83. Oscar Miro-Quesada, personal communication with the author, February 2017.
84. William Blake, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,” in The Poetical Works of William Blake, ed. John Sampson (London, New York: Oxford University Press, 1908; electronic reproduction by Bartleby.com, 2011), line 10, http://www.bartleby.com/235/253.html.
85. Irene Tayler, “Blake’s Laocoön,” Blake/An Illustrated Quarterly 10, no. 3 (Winter 1976–77): 72–81, http://bq.blakearchive.org/10.3.tayler.
86. Roger Whitson, email correspondence with the author, February 10–February 23, 2017.
87. Roger Whitson, email correspondence with the author, February 10–February 23, 2017.
88. Allen, The Hold Life Has, 73.