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   From: ___schwann___@@%webtrance.co.za   
      
   (Recently during a six thousand click road trip to track down Terence   
   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   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)