Mckenna revisited.....philosophical travelogue...dedicated to Iain M. Banks
_Schwann_
Mckenna's 'Lost Tapes').
The digitization of the Lost Tapes is over by 2.00PM and I retire to a
long bath. Leaving Joeys place after a night out on the town isn’t easy,
but we manage it by noon, taking in some gas and passing on good cheer
as we leave the bright lights of Joburg behind us, ever wary of the
speed cops who’d busted us for R200 on the way in. It wasn’t long after
we’d burned the second joint that it came to me. Rustlers Valley, the
place we’d first met Terence 9 years ago, was just around the corner.
Geographically, Rustlers is only a few hours from Joburg, so we rightly
assume that we could ‘swing past’ on the run home. After all, there’s
still three days till we’re expected back. Turning the music down to a
scream, we close the sunroof and make a few calls. Frik at Rustlers
phones in to tell us we’re welcome anytime. So far so good. Stopping at
Jakkalsvontein for toasted cheeses with hand cut chips followed by
cinnamon and honey pancakes, Mike checks the map while I use the phone.
Turning off the main highway, it isn’t long before the road is
surrounded by a cornfield that meanders for mile after mesmerizing mile.
The towns click on and off one by one until we’re at somewhere that
looks familiar. Past Ficksburg, we head towards Fouriesburg, hoping
we’re headed in the right direction. I hadn’t remembered how bad the
road was for the last few clicks, nor can I conceive how my old rusty
Pontiac made it up here in ’96, but we must’ve made a crazy sight. No
wonder they remember us. Frick, the owner of the place rushes out to
meet us just in time to hear me say “This place feels really weird”,
which I think he likes but I can’t be sure. More novelty flushes over me
as he asks us where we want to sleep. I don’t really say anything here,
just nod blankly as he leads us to Terence’s old room, undamaged by the
fire of ’98 that razed most of the surrounding area to walls and floors.
Mike offers to sleep next door but I think maybe he’s creeped out by the
thought of sleeping in Terence’s old room, but this doesn’t phase me.
Moving some of my stuff over from the adjacently parked Jeep, I find
myself sitting in Terence’s room at Rustlers nine years downstream,
reminiscing. On the wall it says “Man is a series of states of
consciousness” by Oliver Wendell Holmes, which is not really pinning
anything down, except the weirdness of it all. Of being here the night
before all hell lets loose for the long four day weekend which
traditionally includes a sort of shooting down of consciousness from one
state of being to another, a wispy trail they call history, sometimes
just a repetitive act of a self determining nature? Gibbering at best, I
try typing some of it down so it can also be misunderstood by those
downstream but while I’m doing this it’s like I’m having an out of body
experience complete with ringing in my ears and a dissasocative feeling
towards my bo-dy but maybe these are all just physical reflexes from
days on the road. “It ‘feels’ real’. Is he here right now? I’m well
qualified to witness that Terence enjoyed his stay at Rustlers in ’96,
but back in 2005 this is the room in which he slept nine years ago. One
can never dismiss what lies beyond the veil, as Mike and myself learned
from Dr. Cumes, the past is always with us in some form or another, our
ancestors perched on our shoulders trying to advise or sometimes warn us
not to repeat mistakes we’ve already made. Going down to the restaurant
for supper I continue reflection, dragging the laptop with me in case
the muse feels like popping in again.
We get a table where the fire is only three feet away. This is good
because it’s cold outside after dark near the winter solstice here in
Rustlers valley and we’re in a future that no one predicted. Does this
mean determinism demands that even prediction is determined? The fire
cannot answer, but it’s enough, for now, the questions, I mean. Michael
is watching me type, irritated by the lack of coordination I display by
being unable to touch type, but he can’t skin up on the freeway at 120
clicks an hour. It’s all a jam. Sitting next to us is a cool family.
Three kids with good looking parents. What more could any in-law want?
They’ve got it sorted, exploring the mountains in their jeep while their
Joburg contemporaries are lounging by the pool at Umshlanga Rocks
complaining about the service and exchanging hijack stories. They’re the
only other people here, except the owners and their kids. Tomorrow is a
holiday. But not for Frik and Jeanesse. They’re being invaded by a full
complement of guests while all their staff have the weekend off because
it’s the ‘celebration’ of the June riots, way back when apartheid meant
more than a good shit. The curry is so hot that even Mike backs off on
it. Tomorrow may require some serious meditation but I’m optimistic that
my stomach will eventually recover. This feeling is backed up by a great
jam pancake desert served by a nice hippy American lady called Ina, an
unusual name, one I used in the sequel to a sci-fi book I once wrote,
but that’s another story.
Alone once again in the room, I turn on the electric blanket and reboot
but thoughts don’t come like before, or maybe I’m just plain tired. The
Ipod plays Genesis, ‘Selling England by the Pound’, which is heavy
Shiite to be listening to while expecting to be plugged into GODMIND, or
whatever else I think is out there. No problem. I’ve learned a lot on
this trip. Everyone gets a different answer. Just make sure you ask a
question. Novelty is still with me. Some call this state akin to ‘fate’s
fool’. Creative madness? You should try this. Back in ’99 at the
AllChemicals conference on Hawaii, some months before he died, Terence
said; “I’ll try to be around, but if I’m not, I’ll be behind your
eyelids”. I close my eyes and wait but I only get mushroom clouds.
Trying to type this down could see me down the rabbit hole because
tomorrow needs me to function as a professional film maker and not a
neuronaut, so bring on some interesting dreamtime.
Schwann 12.16 AM June 16th 2005.
adapted from 'Lost Tapes Caper'.
copyright 2005 All media
Kevin S. Wilson
<___schwann___@@%webtrance.co.za> wrote:
>tomorrow needs me to function as a professional film maker
snork!
Let us know how that works out for you, Schwang.
Veszpertin - 'The 800 year old Hippie'
may be
can be changed by as little as 50 bits of electronic alteration and/or
addition
and be copyrighted by another? One can also add another story, art and
such
to it and make a compiled copyright of it all. The combinations are
endless.
Thanks for the post data. I'll be passing it on to all the copyright
pirates
I know and I know dozens.
WOMP WOMP
PS: :) Have you been to my web site down there?
PPS: Word has it that the ftp site is
a magnificent collection of trance/rave
and so on mp3s. I've actually only
seen it myself once several years ago.
NEVER FORGET THE MAGIC - South
Africa has to offer. Jump back!
_Schwann_
the breaking of the world, it will linger on, in the legendary kill-file
hidden beneath the tcp/ip stack under UTEXAS. Of course we all cut and
paste ourselves, and this is the idea that webtrance tries to procreate,
along with the morphogenesis of the 100th monkey theory, and so forth...
schwann
In article <1125093731....@f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com>,
Veszp...@aol.com says...
Veszpertin - 'The 800 year old Hippie'
_Schwann_
Veszp...@aol.com says...
> I have his lost audio tapes saved as mp3 files.
>
>
prolly b4 the end of the year....
Veszpertin - 'The 800 year old Hippie'
__Schwann__/
Veszp...@aol.com says...
> I'm hanging! :)
>
>
long hang, but it's done