The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.4 – Huaca

Image result for mato grosso jungle


The adventure continues!

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.3 – As Wicked as the Wicked

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

 


Image result for 80lb ruckMy knees ached.

Jesus, did my knees ever ache.

Good training is indeed good. It is how I recovered the key. The key to the castle keeping my memories.

No madness, no brainwash, no demon lights could obfuscate screaming joints. Sinews that cry a song of burden. Protesting eighty pounds of ruck sinking boot into irregular soggy soil.

These that were so far from the Andes. These Huacas were magnetic. Subtle to the point of indistinguishability. Mixing with greens, browns and vines as fixture rather than feature. They nonetheless transformed it all.

Their magic made one forget and remember.

The pain was gone. The faces and conversations I surveyed became a backdrop. Older than the predecessors of Viracocha. Yet as fresh as the soul.

These weren’t palisades, earthen ramparts, or village rings. Bluish grey and porcelain smooth, Easter egg hints of Easter island, a fragmented monument to Ur, yet they are beyond Babylon. As hoary as Pangea, their ruin, is the Urtext of our civilization.

Graham’s bloody deeds, the polyglot chatter, and all the strain of expedition were forgotten. In its stead stood a remembrance. Memory the stuff of dreams and visions awakened.

Yes, awake is right.

That is the state revered here. Of course the natives regard their dreams as real.

Harris was right. The shem was here.

Pine Cone Pineal Gland

 “Did a vehicle…” I began.

“…land somewhere…” Sam continued.

“…in the Andes…” Lucas finished.

Hoyt simply trudged on in spooky silence.

So, the others felt it too. We were close. Close to shattering the gnostic lie. Matter and spirit are not to be regarded as separate.

The shaman’s lights no longer perplexed me. I was untroubled by the madness we’d seen in Pacific depths.

The glory of God was not profaned by dust.

Duality needed no affixing since it’s just myopia. We were in no danger of transgression.

Here at arm’s length was the physical. In truth it transmitted… no it was the spiritual. The question now was how to travel from vein to heart.

Yes, we were awake. Wakefulness has grades. To complete our mission to gain ‘Total Information Awareness’ we merely had to hop from the bed. What was mere in the mundane was complex in the mystic.

Despite appearances Cook probably didn’t know the sort of thing we were after. Hell, neither did I. Yet, together through converging interests we were working it out.

Fawcett’s city, his fascination with the occult, his disappearance all these puzzle pieces led to something far beyond archeology.

In the tradition of the magi a mystic announces the Aeon. We are in the Aeon of Horus, the age of fire, and there is transformation afoot. Transformation of the sort that those servants of Saturn feared.

It is a calculus of dance.

We had just a few more differential pirouettes to skip into the ecstasy beyond dimensions. Not interdimensional mind you. But dispensing with dimensionality altogether. There are some among us who fear this to be gazing upon the face of God.

Yet, God’s face everywhere appears and all these thresholds are pagan fears.

I again noted the vines wreathing the roots of great trees like a crown for the true arboreal head.

I nodded to Chuck. He understood me.

The horticulturist stooped and harvested.

We trekked on through primordial vesper.

Yes, the trick you see, the excellent training. This we received in spades. Before any sort of psychedelic or ascetic work it is essential to set anchors. Failure to do so when delving into anything beyond intermediate depths will cause a slip into the all-consuming fire.

Despite them trying fervently to thrust me headfirst into Hell. I am whole. I am whole because I tethered myself. It is why I remember all of this. It is why I am recounting all this.

Even in my strange exile, here among discarded Wonton bowls, and modem stripped laptops. As I float in the South China Sea – I recall everything. I recall everything because pain in the legs is the heart of Zazen.

Schmidt was the first one to notice the sinkhole. Having picked his way to the top of a peculiarly shaped mound of  ruin and flora he cried out.

“Holy fuck!” Image result for sinkholes in the amazon jungle

Holy fuck was right.

“This is very similar to the cenote in Valladolid Mexico.” Cook remarked.

“What it is! Is fucking dank…!” Sam exclaimed clapping his hands together. “Ya fags got SCUBA shit right..I mean we’re bound to have scuba shit…”

Lobo nodded.

We still had several miles to go before reaching the next rest stop on the route Hoyt’s ancient map outlined. But, several miles was forgotten in light of this seductive anomaly.

It was unanimously agreed that we go swimming.

It’s important to do dangerous dives well rested. Initial explorations would have to be made. This was also an excellent opportunity to assess the amphibious fitness of our drones.

That’s a lot of activity.

Which is why we set up camp before noon rolled around.

~

Thanks for reading and check back soon for more.


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