The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 7.2 – Kurâmã

Image result for bakairi statue

I never got those Cubans. I felt better as predicted. There was also a fresh distraction to take my mind off physical woes.

It was the oddest thing. Watching the natives avoid Hoyt.

Apparently there wasn’t a medicine strong enough to purge whatever demon he had.

He never stopped smiling that same unpleasant Sphinx lip smile. His demand and tolerance for tobacco was disturbing. I swore he went through a pack and a half a day. None of our protests meant anything and not even Lobo was able to stop him from using some unknown connection supplying him with a crate of Pall Malls.

‘Wherever particular cacodemons congregate.’ I mused.

His accent was now 100% British but unlike any variation I’d heard before. I don’t know why he’d decided to pull a Madonna. But it was certainly creepy. And made creepier by the fact that he seemed to be trying to mask it.

Otherworldly influence certainly seemed the correct position. Given our line of work it wasn’t unlikely. But, given our line of work skepticism was in order. Martial grade psychedelic research for the express purpose of fashioning a new religion to nudge the herd from the cliff edge required scientific precision.

He did suffer a psychotic break at the lodge. Who knows what sorts of novel neural connections our various disciplines and chemical regimens produced. Who knows what sort of subliminals Thornton was implementing.

I chuckled briefly as I was transported back in time to my introductory philosophy course. I’d just reconsidered the brain in the vat hypothesis. What if our experience is merely a fantasy and we are all just brains in vats fed memories and experiences by some alien? I think this was a variation on something Descartes had theorized in a similar vein involving a demon.

What if we weren’t in the jungle at all but strapped to gurneys at some black site? Or catatonically entranced by some new electromagnetic gizmo at the lodge.

Well…I guess I didn’t feel entirely better. I’d downed a bottle of honey jack to allay the monotony of preparing for the first leg of the journey. The hangover certainly felt real.

The old man that the kid had gotten the planty tasting thing from shook his head as I passed to fetch a coffee from the mess tent.

It was going to be a long trek east towards some half guessed location. It had to be made on foot. Cook wasn’t about to toss away his opportunity to document jungle depths on Uncle Sam’s prodigious war dime. Furthermore there were preestablished, roads, circles, and ruins that had to be ugh…I think the word they used was activated…Thornton was definitely taking vision inducement seriously. The honeyjack was warranted.

What if I didn’t want to converse with my holy guardian angel? Angels are boring. The most boring concept of all an angel, a demon, really it is…it’s just a clerk with fancy keys. They can’t do anything outside of a certain determination…unlesss…anyway…

I felt water hit my face.

“AH!” … “Hey! Watch it fella…”

The elder was grinning. His fingers half-submerged in some other earthen bowl full of god knows what. Part of that whatness was now drops rolling down my cheek. Had he flicked it at me?

“What the hell are ya doin you goof…” I said trying to hide my annoyance. But I didn’t have to try for long. My hangover was gone.

I cocked back my head. The old man laughed, teetered, and mumbled.

“Uh…thank you.” I said.

He just stared at me. I remembered that Portuguese was probably a better choice. Though I wasn’t sure he spoke it either.


The wizened head nodded in acknowledgement. His hand waved me on.

The healthy sized Professor was spreading a nice thick schmear on his breakfast bagel.

“Uh, who’s the geezer with all the potions?” I inquired.

“Not sure.” Cook said stirring his coffee.

“Well, he’s the Shaman right?”

Cook shook his head.

“Old man, weird, healing potions, talks about spirits…not a shaman?”

“Well, I suppose he probably is a shaman but he is not their shaman.”

“Come again?”

“They say that he’d emerged from the jungle in the middle of broad daylight. Nobody had seen him coming. He was alone and seemed harmless so they let him stay. They were glad they did.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About a month.”

Doesn’t speak a word of Bakairi…or any related dialect…but seems to understand some Portuguese…weirdest damned thing….”


“Yes, that’s the language here…these are the Bakairi.”

Not Kuikuros?”

“You really ought to stop drinking Mr. Baird.”

“Not to be a bigot but…all these tribes look pretty similar to me.”

Cook laughed. “Really?”


“I thought CIA was supposed to be observant.”

It was my turn to laugh… “I’m not CIA…and…hah…he..CIA is not observant.”

“That is hard to believe.”

“Donut dippers love to mythologize.”

“Well, the cultures around here also love to mythologize and though there is a common thread, the clothing, ritual, and customs vary greatly from tribe to tribe.”

“All I see are feathers, bowl cuts, and body paint.”

“Sure, but you wouldn’t call yourself Moldovan.”


Think about it, Europe, the United States, Canada, Australia, even some parts of Central Asia all share the business suit. Generally eye and hair color stay within the same range. Social organization also has a very similar culture. Drop one of the Bakairi man in any of the aforementioned places and he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

“Yeah, I get that, but I mean this is more like the difference between a Welshman and a Scott…if that…hell this is more like…”

Cook sighed.

“I don’t blame you for neglecting one of my favorite disciplines. But really you did not note the thatched dress and the masks?”

“On occasion but again…doc…that ain’t my field.”

“Well, you’d better start taking an interest. We’re going to need many pairs of sharp eyes out there.”

“I’m not against it. You’re just going to have to help me put on the old anthropologist goggles.”

Well, let’s start with something interesting then.”


“Have you noticed how no one talks to Senhor Hoyt, how they disperse at his presence?”

“You bet.”

“Have you seen how all the Shamans the stranger included draw shapes in the ground in front of Senhor Hoyt?”


“So you have not seen Senhor Hoyt invariably step around them?”

“Well, it would be rude to trample some recent graffiti.”

“Hmm.. I don’t know…but I do know what the Bakairi here call him…”



“And that means…”

“It is hard to translate exactly…but…it means roughly…conceptually…demigod…”

I laughed so hard I shot coffee from my nose.

Well, I didn’t quite make my marathon as epic as I’d intended. But to be fair to my poor bones I did intend for five hours and completed four. In the update post I said I’d be awake till 3 AM. That would be seven hours. Woulda been badass but too much content reaching to make for a good read. Gonna catch some ZZZ’s, as concerns this story, see ya’ll Tuesday.

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Rush Job

94 Pound Beefcake - Video Clips - South Park Studios UK ...

I’m going to try to write a section or two of the Sketch of Sam Monroe in the next five hours. It is 9:32 PM here in the dirty south that means I’m going to be up till three cause I did promise. Reason I haven’t started earlier is Creatine Monohydrate. I’m currently trying to gain a little mass before peak season at my day job starts and also cause fun. Those of you aware of whey, creatine, and what happens when you use them along with exercise as intended know that I have had a shitty day (7 egg/beef tacos didn’t help). LOL. Sorry for that but its the truth.  If I fail I’ll post tomorrow and I also plan to write again on Tuesday.

I think what makes the most sense as minimal production deadlines for an ongoing series that requires research is to split it up into three/four day intervals. The Tuesday/Thursday model I was using is good for physical stuff like cardio days but produces sparse ass results.

Allright time to make some mint tea and get writing.

Image result for matcha mint tea
This stuff is amazing.

Deep End – Poem

Related image


I take my time deciding

So learn to love eternal wading

Till we are

Floating in the deep end

Sending our starlight far

Patience isn’t indecision

Hey there Frances
Don’t check my vision

Follow my feet there’s dances

You can only learn to listen

You can not learn to do

For everything you hear

It surely will do you

So don’t you over hasten

Don’t burden yourself with more

Because I’m right beside me

Moving cross the checkered floor

Lift the veil of starlight free

Yes free the sun

Let it know that it’s the shaded squares

That have all of the fun

And if she squints sincerely dares

She’ll soon know shades are luminous
Luminosity is shade

They never grow too numerous

Or are subject to relativist blade

For here same is not equivocation
So dearest

Let’s share in the elation
Of an autumns’ pint of rest

In any age, country or station
How I love your rosy breast

But remember I am patient

And so you must as well

For if you make me play the parent

My lips will have but naught to tell

Yes wade on out with into the deep end

But don’t depend

Upon the end

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 7.1 – Precious American Fluids

Guaraná, Jungle Remedies, Amazon, Peru, Peru For Less

I awoke with a start. I was no longer floating. As I sat up I noticed that we had landed in front of a settlement.

Various porters were conveying our gear to what I assumed was the village square. There had already appeared a neat little stash of our alien looking wares beneath a grey canvas.

They must have decided to let me sleep. I suppose I was grateful for this. Every so often a deep fatigue would settle over me. The warm sticky air, the feeling of being swallowed in some great green blanket, it was a feeling of depth, of heaviness, and it drug me down.

I wasn’t the only one. Which is I suppose why they’d decided to extend a courteousy they no doubt wished to have reciprocated.

The ground that greeted my boots was muddy, it sank, but not overmuch. I mused on the now familiar sight of Indians – Kuikoros milling about in various states of undress and ornament as they had done for time immemorial.

It was odd to imagine that Fawcett had seen a nearly identical sight nearly a century prior. It was one of those things that made you feel part of a vast eternal sea. The sea of time, ever undulating, yet remaining one.

I was suddenly struck with panic. What if this deep fatigue was the result of some infection? I hastily inspected any readily bare portions of flesh for ticks, or bites of any sort. True, we had been thoroughly inoculated but didn’t put my mind any more at ease.

We were in an ocean of trees, and neither boats, nor helicopters seemed sufficient insurance.

“You look like hell.” Lucas said.

“Yea…I’m not sure about this.”

“Me either…but…since we’re here you should probably follow Lobo’s advice and refrain from drinking. I’m sure it’s not helping matters.”

“Alcohol cleans the blood Schmidt. This place is crawling with parasites.”

“Trying to keep your precious American fluids clean?”


A kid ran up to us and just stood there staring out of rich dark eyes. He muttered something and ran off before we could respond. We ignored it.

The village wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with outsiders but its remoteness meant that the appearance of brancos was rare enough to make us a novelty.

So, really…. what’s up? I mean I’ve never known you to be pensive.”

“I just feel really tired. Like something is sucking the life right out of me.”

“Dude, it’s called a hangover.”

I was getting annoyed. I really hadn’t been drinking that much.

“It could be any number of things. When I got excited for this I didn’t consider the fact that I might die shitting myself or muttering in the grips of yellow fever. I don’t want a weak statistical death.”

Lucas laughed. “I see that you still have your Viking complex.”

“Absolutely, I watched that man die slow, wither up like a shit stained raisin…no way man…”

No sooner had I entered into this reverie then the kid returned holding some sort of earthen bowl.

He extend it up to me and muttered something.

Yo,” I said lapsing into American pseudo-urbanism, “I ain’t about to start this party with poisoning.”

“Don’t be rude.” Lucas said motioning for Cook to join us.

The squat bespectacled pit bull sauntered over.


“Tell us what he wants.” Lucas said.

Cook engaged in some native banter and then pointed off to a nearby hut at the front of which sat an old man before a small fire. The man regarded us calmly.

“They say you have a demon.”

Lucas laughed again. “I think they’re a bit mixed up. We’re NATO boys…we are demons.”

Cook didn’t seem amused. “Look, things here work a little differently, there’s stuff in the air, I know it sounds insane, but I’d listen to them, especially if you don’t feel right…you certainly don’t look right…”

I threw up my hands.

“You should drink it.” Lucas said.

“Dude…hell no…I have no idea what that is…”

“Please, Mr. Baird drink it…I assure you that it will not harm you…we do not want to alienate these folks…please take the gift…”

“What the hell is in it…”

“I wasn’t really able to gather but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing more exotic than some Guarana blend. It’s not so much the actual chemistry…it’s the spirit they infuse into it…”

I was getting tired of this woo. And I felt like shit…so fuck it….

I drank it up. It was bitter but the bitterness soon resolved into a sort of pleasant plantiness that tickled my tongue.

Did you like it?” Lucas asked.

I shrugged.

The kid smiled and scampered off.

“If you don’t feel better in a couple of hours I’ll give you three of my Cubans.”

“It’s a deal.”

I have to eat crow again and make excuses for falling short of my posting goals. The good news is I have four days in which to research and write the rest of this chapter. Thanks for your patience and stay tuned.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe (Part III) – Chapter 7.0 – Parallels

Image result for fawcett's real coordinates vs fake coordinates
Chapter 6.15

There is an ennui. It is the nagging suspicion that everything has been mapped. It’s that claustrophobic sensation that all serious mysteries have been surmounted.

What is one to do with wanderlust?

In the Amazon all such worries evaporate. The explorer whose footsteps we were tracing had called it “the last great blank space in the world.”

Henry Percival Fawcett, his son, and a family friend had disappeared somewhere round the Xingu National Park. The vanity of early twentieth century exploration had certainly spelled doom for that vastly inadequate force. Fawcett did not want to suffer the fate of Scott who had glory stolen from him by Amundsen. Towards this end he had provided false coordinates.

The real goal lay somewhere between the Tapajos and the Xingu tributaries. A fact that was uncovered by the unlikely David Grann a nebbish news hound in 2005.

All these years and that statement “the last great blank space in the world” remains as salient as ever. Despite satellite imaging, drones, and the whole blasted litany of high-tech abominations… that thick impenetrable canopy still hid as much as it had in Carvajals time and many aeons prior.

It was a rare treat. I blessed Thornton for the opportunity as these thoughts ran through my head. The mystic sensations swirled round me like the currents round the aluminum hull of the twenty-five foot outboard driven boat that served as my bed.

We were following in the footsteps of Expedition Fawcett and Expedition Lynch. The latter having occurred in 1995 was more closely aligned with our current method. Much as it had appeared those two and nearly half decades prior…that was the state of the jungle. Overgrown. So we had to proceed up the Xingu by boat and have our supplies air dropped in the field next to Kuikuros settlement.

Although it was an altogether different Kuikuros settlement, an altogether different dead horse camp, because we followed the true coordinates from Fawcett’s diary rather than those published in Expedition Fawcett.

We were not after Fawcett, we’d be thrilled to learn of his real fate, to find his bones, but what we sought was far more elusive. What we sought was not some dead mans fate but what Fawcett had sought: The Lost City of Z or rather its method. If this seem unduly cryptic I apologize and promise that it will become clear soon enough. My circuitous methods may be unsavory to some but there is a reason for them.

It is difficult to piece together these mad events so many years after their occurence. More difficult still after the chemical lobotomy I’d narrowly thwarted at the facility. I do remember the salient details. Yes, many of them are too deeply buried in esoteric contexts that too few could fathom. But the core of what I communicate should help bolster our flailing humanity despite such hurdles.

Hoyt’s map that was the key. It was what Fawcett had been missing. Even if Fawcett had found the actual location of Z he would never have been able to enter it. This was not a labyrinth that could be decrypted. And so it was that the old Portuguese map Graham’s ancestor had pilfered from RGS had found its way into the hands of P.L.A.T.O. the organisation most suited to implement it.

As the gangly scion of that weird little Cambridge club played strange airs on the guitar I fell into even stranger dreams.

NOTE – I know that I promised in my last post to start making these longer and I will! Bad habits die hard but die they will. As I promised I will post again on Monday. I’m hoping for at least a quarter of a chapter. I hoped you enjoyed what I was able to muster and see you soon!

Annual eye exam means dilation which means two hours of potential research time gone to the blur!

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Fractal Radio | Episode 22 – The Sketch of Sam Monroe Update and Ancient Civilizations Ramble


Just some updates about a new posting schedule for The Sketch of Sam Monroe (a novel in progress you can find on my website). Also, I go into a bit of a super informal ramble about one of the themes in that story: ancient civilizations.

Topic Links

9.7 million year old tooth –

Graham Hancock –

Randall Carlson –

Carlson and Hancock on JRE (featuring Skeptic Magazine’s Michael Shermer) –

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She Sells Seahells – Part V – The Contemplation of God

Pat IV

As we proceeded topside Harris chuckled.
“That was a mighty fine speech you gave. You should have taken on the cloth.”

“I do not fancy my fathers profession.”

“A nice parish in the country? That is not favorable to scurvy and the sword?”

“The parish is worms and dust. It is stifling to both mind and spirit. There are such vistas both mortal and metaphysic…that to burrow ones nose in the narrow confines of Saxon renderings of oriental myths is a crime against God.”

“You call the Bible a myth? I’m sure the senior Halstead would make one out of your hide for that.”

“He already has.” I said musing on the steady application of physical discipline by that tall, thin, ascetic thing I called father. I owed him much in the way of education but was very glad on the day that I put distance between myself and that holy terror.

“So that’s why you took so warmly to those diabolists in Boston.”

It was my turn to chuckle.


“They have quite the reputation.”

“Yes, I’m sure that all the superstitious babblers fancy us the new Salem. But to imagine George as a diabolist…well that is some devilry indeed.”

“Is that the portly fellow?”

“Yes, portlier and jollier than you, more patient then a saint….more generous than the Samaritan.”

“So what is it that you do there?”

“That’s the thing I’ve told you and we’ve told the whole town a million times over. We collect books, curiosities, and entertain ideas…that’s all besides a good bit of mutton and beer. Perhaps some take to whoring more often than is proper but how uncommon is that in a port city? Does not the governor himself that pious picture of Protestant virtue…. not entertain more beauties than the king of France?”

“Tis true.”

“So why do you keep asking?”

“It’s just there’s so much seen round that Inn, so many odd folks, and lights, and voices.”

“Well what do you expect from a party if not folks, and lights, and voices.”

“Well…some have said they’ve seen fairies….” Harris said sheepishly.

“You are a fairy you great port barrel fool.” I said gripping his neck and rubbing my knuckles into his bald head. I also had my father’s height to thank for this capacity to molest the crowns of my fellows. I suppose that’s one more thing I could thank him for.

“Alright, alright! hands off you spindly monstrosity, before I sit on you.”

“Ooooff…” I exploded. “That is certain death!” And released him.

“So what do you think old Death will make of this Canaries business?”

“I rather think he will agree.”


“Yes, you noted yourself, the change in him. He is no longer as keen on politics and service as he is on the Contemplation of God.”

“He has gone a bit queer hasn’t he.”

“Shhh….” I said putting my finger to my lips. “We just passed his new lodging.”

“Ah! I always forget he gave up his quarters to that magician. Besides aren’t we about to meet him topside.”

“You can never be certain and…Magician?”

“Yes, that’s how I’ve come to think of him…you know like from the Bible…the magi…”

This statement threw me into a heady flurry of thought that was as brisk as the salt air that kissed my face as we emerged topside onto the deck.

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Weird Weir’s Guide to Stoner Rock


I’m bored, and tired, and avoiding research…so I’m listening to Stoned Meadow of Doom…which…ok I’m gonna…I gotta…here we gooooo………….!

  1. Vaguely Ominous Geometric Patterns
  2. Words like silent, luminous, orb, pillars, equinox
  3. Slide guitar, pentatonic scales, microtones
  4. Wear a fez
  5. Solemnly mutter adjective heavy things
  6. Robes
  7. Skeletons or skulls or both!
  8. Egypt lots of Egypt
  9. Neopaganesque nude women cause fertility or something
  10. Witch…say witch or talk about witches especially if the witches smoke ganja
  11. Subtly hint a greater awareness than the average sober meatpuppet. You are afterall in the great traditions of shamans because you read a couple of McKenna essays and have a rad tikiman bowl from the headshop
  12. You are the Ipssimuss no question
  13. Chant like a monk that got lost on a tour of world religions
  14. Echo effects mean mystery
  15. Say consciousness a lot
  16. Plagiarize the Doors the more often the better
  17. You know what Vietnam was like you’re a stoner band it doesn’t matter if the oldest guy was born in 1992. You ARE WOODSTOCK plus Satan because Satan is edgy and knows magic that involves a lot of complicated geometric patterns that help compensate for you micropenis. Micropenis Macrocosm is a great stoner band name.
  18. OM!
With these easy steps you too can be a bog lord. Bog Lord is a great name for you stoner band.

Fractal Radio| Episode 21 – Linux CoC – The Dangers of Corporate Culture

Beware the Hufflepuffs.

For More Info

The Adam Morgan Show |

Theodore T’so |’o

Linus Opinion on CoC |

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