May 3rd, 2004


Orange Sunshine

The first stars of night are just beginning to appear overhead - jewels scattered by a careless hand across a darkening sky. Ancient breezes blow, perfumed with jasmine and sandalwood. Looking towards the heavens in the still quiet of the evening, it is a time to reflect and ponder. Where have we come from and where are we going? Does our destiny lie inexorably in the stars? (Some say that the blazing cauldrons on the furthermost edge of the universe are the eviscerated atoms of our own being.)

Pants. Most aged and venerable.

There came thronging upon my recollection a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night. There came a mournful laugh no more. The LORD: My daughter! In the grave all is a madness I might have had. A mad rushing descent as two sailors giggled at my thing. Thou did basely. They smelled as two sailors. Dangerous to shake off. Incumbent eternally upon my misery. Implore you shall not; I had always deemed them an incarnate nightmare. I say unto him: Hideous recollection, I delivered thee. The impetuous fury of the hot breath of a plunge into Hades. They smelled as the music. They smelled as of cowards.

Pants also. Random.

Before I appear to have lost the plot, I should have long ago, let me explain, or excuse, myself. These things shouldn't matter, but I won't obscure that sometimes, particularly on partial hangover Bank Holiday mornings, that they don't. What things, man? Speak up! Say your piece and spare us the recitative. Well, it's the ranking of this journal. The number one position has been snatched back by and now I'm sandwiched between that one and coming up in third. Is Sarmoung a racehorse? No. But, as I've mentioned before, it makes it easy to give out the location without any qualifying url information. Mind you, being able to remember a url is by now a socially useful skill, whereas ten years ago it would have been seen as rather nerdy by most people. And why are Japanese website url always that little bit too long... Strange, the coffee suddenly had an overbearing taste of miso to it.

Both Mystae and Totse link to this same Parchment of the Sarmoung Brotherhood, which is actually some 20th century bods writing about Sarmoung, rather than an actually extant parchment. Totse, which is a fairly freewheeling and diverse site, has the temerity not to link it into the whole Prieuré de Sion debacle, although they go into that elsewhere. Mystae, however, a curious mix of conspiracy esoterica and Vietnam stories with that sort of design, doesn't resist the temptation. This is also where I took the opening paragraph of this entry from. Whilst I appreciate the sincerity of the site, I have to say I was (still am almost) in one of those moods where I get picky with language. Why inexorably? And just what are these blazing cauldrons? And how exactly do you eviscerate an atom? Moany Monday. Do shut up. Richard Shand, who runs the site, seems a nice enough sort. He's got an amusing acid trip story. The line about about the acid being "Czechoslovakian, mescaline base with STP added" sounds convincingly like the sort of bullshit that drug dealers come out with to get you excited. Except it might be true. Some in '67 were knocking back Owsley or Sandoz, but as far as I understand it legitimately produced acid had been pretty much used up, so much of it was Czech in origin, via Grof I take it. Did they synthesise it out of mescaline? That would seem a very curious process as you'd have to synthesise that first and then scratch your head as to how to get one from to the other. I'm no chemist, but that's seems a bit like making a pizza from scratch to then try to make a chocolate cake from it. I'm not sure if it's easier to process mescaline out of peyote, or similar plant substance, as opposed to doing it from base/precursor chemicals, but Czechoslovakia strikes me as being fairly bereft of cactus and probably drowning in ergot. And as for STP? It seems a bit like pouring rectified spirits into a decent martini. That's already been spoiled by someone putting acid in it...

Anyway, that's better. Pants. My own.