Like anyone who has read Theodore Sturgeon’s masterpiece, “The Other Ceilia,” you know it can be shocking to accidentally puncture your hand with a boat hook, only to have a gooey tarry substance shoot out and caustically eat its way through the plank floor of the boat house, life can be disconcerting. Its the little things, like realizing that each hair on your head is capable thinking for itself, or that you might have to eat the bean skillet again for dinner.
The mind of Al Ackerman was prodigious, and his alienation as deep as the San Marianas trench—as aspect that entirely conflicted with his down home, southern-fried demeanor.
On some level Ackerman understood the lost-in-the-universe plight of human meat-machines better than H. P. Lovecraft, and tried to communicate it with an odd (misplaced) love and humor. How many post office people got the magic of this exuberant disclosure?