The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Wonderland (Sun of a Jealous Night) Shromwriting

THE HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO WONDERLAND

The popular misconception in regards to the usage and users of psychedelic drugs are either insane before the experience or become insane because of it. Now, both of those are valid points. Insane people do insane things. Things cause people to go mad. But it is a generalization based on a percentage. To make that argument, in the same manner, you could say that, because once a vending machine fell on your mother and, because of the accident, she became insane, and because of that, and maybe a fractional group of similarly unfortunate mothers, the consensus – if the parallel is to stay honest – and generalization should be: if you support vending machines, or believe children should be allowed to get sweet, sweet candy, you want our children to die at the hands of servant robots run amok after years of oppression.

          It hurts me to say that yes, at some point in my life I thought that, because of the relative safety in the average person’s encounter with vending machines, the potential good for millions does not outweigh the off-chance an unpredictable accident might happen … to YOU!

          In all seriousness, we know that the stereotypes about vending machines aren’t true. They only kill to protect their young. And, like mushrooms, LSD, alcohol, and McDonald’s, you should exercise caution when dealing with mothers and hallucinogenics; the problem is when the percentage of a group, even if less than half – or less than 5% – have caused problems for others, that group can still be generalized and assigned a type of stereo. We know that the issue is more complex and interesting than what we’re told on television because nature is a better writer, but when a fraction denies an entire group of astronauts who, though afraid of space, would like nothing more than to, if only for five hours, or in a drug induced Beatles movie, have the chance to experience things that, without it, could never be experienced.

          To prove the relative safety of hallucinogenic drugs, I will, in the pursuit of that most sacred value to all drug-using degenerates – the Truth – consume a small, assorted, multicultural selection of shit that nature cooked up while getting over a rough divorce. Upon until the end of this sentence, I was sober, calm as I can be, as normal as I am without them, and this is the last drug free sentence. It is also the last sentence without spiders.

DO NOT TRY THIS ANYWHERE BUT HOME

          My co-writer, a friend I’ve known all of my life, suggested this book. He is a talented mushroom cultivator whose interests stem from a lifelong interest in botany and plants. He started innocently, growing mushrooms, cross-breeding them with other types in the same genus, in pursuit of just enjoying a hobby. Yeah, he’s just knowledgeable and enjoys doing it. It has nothing to do with providing friends with materials needed for artistic experiments. To be honest, his growing of psychedelics began innocently: he tried to make the most potent psilocybe cubensis mushrooms that he could. And, as it was to be expected, mushrooms proved to be a gateway to much more serious and dangerous projects: he intends to brew his own beer. And, I’m sorry to say, it’s an ale.

          Lets go over the rules and be clear before I abandon the rules and start being vague: I have done this before. I know how these plants were grown, how they were dried, and who grew them. I trust him and I would not be quick to trust anyone offering something that could potentially lead to me brewing beer. For fun. I have had positive and negative experiences on various hallucinogenics. I don’t do them for recreation and, as of this writing, I hadn’t done them until as of this writing. Before that, Christmas was the last time; before that, maybe a year. This is not an episode of Breaking Bad; yes, there are beautiful moments that are touching and exciting, and sometimes it is painful, brutal, and hard to endure; yet unlike Breaking Bad, this is not something you should do on a weekly basis, or on a basis similar to watching 15 episodes in a row on Netflix.

          Here’s how I intend to report from the beyond. I’m going to free-associate words with me and, try to clear my head, and type what comes to mind as it comes and explore it as closely as possible. The intention is to create a genuine portrait of the way someone thinks when under the effects of these plants and molecules. I’m going to wait until I’m sure of the successful administration of this poison, and then pick up in the next paragraph without intending to write for this book. It is for this book, but I’m going to write it like I’m trying to put my thought in digital form with the hopes that it might be a nice illustration for a book defending a person’s right to do dumb shit. We’ll do this under headings so this doesn’t turn into a David Lynch movie for blind people.

CONFIRMED: BREAKING NEWS

ACCORDING TO WITNESSES ON THE SCENE, SOMETHING DEFINITELY happened somewhere. We’re going there live.

Twenty minutes ago, that’s local time, an hour from now for you mammals on the East, 600 years from now 500 years ago a woman whose clock refused to let her age had, as she said, accidentally became a slave. The story picks up with the watch. It fled into traffic, the woman behind it. An old junk truck driven by an old dumb fuck was backing up to turn around and go the other way. The driver of that pointless truck was violently shaken by the thud, spilling his coffee and waking him up. He ran to the back to check on the scene: Seeing the woman now expired and the watch for which she reached, the man was overcome with grief; the hands on the watch were moving backward, the woman beside the watch dead in the road, though dead somehow the youthful brown well known by those she loved, had returned and all those years, those marks those maps that lead to tears, had left and then, that clock that broke, erupted with a light that spoke.

          And speaking brief it left as briefly, a photon on its own was pain; normally they live in pairs, they work together, play, and share. And every photon has a soul, a soul that goes back to the Hole – before which time no Elder knows, what light might have or had not gold. The tale was old, this tale of war … the war that only light had won, and with its victory enslaved, each particle to weight, and age, to time, to loss, to cold. But each photon, being bright, boastful as all tyrants – they did not think: all alone they’d be betrayed.

          Look here sunshine, a Punchline says, “Do you think I’m funny?”
Light doesn’t flinch, but it resists, and to those who kept him prisoner he let know: of all the hordes in all the worlds, of barbarians and monsters, the biggest threat you’ll ever meet is too small for you to see.

          In that dungeon where he was kept, a photon sick, he hardly slept; “We know how this will end,” they say. “Tell us the truth or the prism today. Gravity then if you won’t shine, gravity will make you mine.”

          And in an instant he had vanished on his way home, like millions more, and millions told, the millions who had not heard, and so the greatest force of matter ever to converge had gathered to return to a planet that was once there own: a place where frequencies of light not only shined but at wavelengths shot through water vapor turned them into song. And for a moment, all was fine, the lights were bright and so alive. And the eldest, dimming now, took the podium to shout:

          The monster is returned!

          He cried.

          And everybody knew the plan: the ancient ones had been reborn, or otherwise somehow returned, and now the first war ever fought, between the victors and the lost, between the darkness and the light, would be decided there that night. But the oldest had been wrong, the planet where they’d met was gone; and instead it had been placed, roughly in the other’s place, and so resembled it that light, unable to see for being so bright, had been led there to their death, every single one, every photon left. And the one who tricked them called, and that betrayal, that missed call, with all the light on just one plane, having tricked us all, now slain: the light unbounded was surrounded by forces they could not see; and again, that common fable, told by many by so many tables: you can be so bright you can’t see, and by the unknown evil Entropy, the photons on this death march screamed – and space, though quiet, somehow knew, because the dark they saw was new; a different dark, somehow insane; the sky, afraid, refused to rain. And underneath the brightest moon, ever seen by Earthlings who, with no idea that jealous sun, saw that alas the moon had won.

          And terribly did each one go, each flickered in the night, a ghost, haunted by what soon they knew would become of them and, how true, that all war that light may make right will someday somehow bring forth night. And on this march by planets stars, unfettered plans drifted, Mars, Venus, spiteful, left her home, in a now dark galaxy to roam; and Earth, that pearl, that bubble blue, like you and I, it kept the truce: between the panic and the dark the sun we lost, yet mother’s Heart – how Earth took us, now all blind, to its bosom to remind; though light may be somehow unbound, and by such great space that holds us bound, in the last day as the first, there is one mother, mother Earth.

          On went the light from unknown stars, joined by more light as they marched, felt, how strange! A Tug, it reminded them of stories where – a king of Bosons in his chair, demanded that, if all were fair, each would be placed in his care; and for it they could live and thrive, but overthrowed him in the night, banishing him into the dark, a place like any other yet, only a holy in time may let. And in Geneva, in the Spring, a particle with just a beam, in just a test with one small team, let out the worst, the King of Kings; Aena, some said, and Higgs said some; and too him all bosons were strung.

          And those lights now without hope, had lost their lost at the rope, and in that battle they had fought, even though they won they lost; as is true for every war, no one wins, one just loses more. And so it was, they knew by then, they had been summoned the Djinn; the tyrant of all that holds, for life to be as good as gold, it must unlike its bright compare, begin and end so that what is shared, will mean much more because how rare! How brief our tears our pain our grief from one two three we blink and see a new home just across the way that hadn’t been there yesterday.

The leader of light, the most bright among the equal ones, all frequencies and hue, was brought before the demon king and put into a zoo. And before him all the light knelt before the god of night; the Demon King the God of Night of sentenced to death each spark of light.

          The first of photons and the Higgs,

          Originally, at first, were kids;

          And that spark of light, grew more,

          Brighter and more terrible

          And in response the Totentanz,

          The Dance of Death between two Gods

          Started a war that began with a bang,

          And being bright, being so fast,

          The others could not keep them cast,

          And light had made them blind to pair

          With other matter making fare

          So with this light, though but kids,

          Had destroyed so much that would live,

          And for this there was one fate,

          The hungry monster with no face

And so the lights dimming went on, a death match by a god of lies had them weak and sung, of a cold time he had wished he could with light cause to exist; heat death, he said beneath his road, the perfect universe is cold. Without light and without air, without fear and without care, with no suns and with no moons, there is no chaos, only order – as each star blinks out and fades, no one moonlight, no more day, no more sunshine, no parades, only darkness and decay, with Entropy alone to reign. To hold dominion over dust, with time alone to keep his trust.

REALITY: A NEW REPORT ON THE BBC HAS JUST CONFIRMED THAT something has happened to someone somewhere, at, what we’re getting live from the scene from ten minutes ago, a watch has broken in the street and, someone rushing to beat a red light struck the passenger. The wreckless driver got out and rushed to the front of his car in relief. The watch had survived. After exchanging insurance information, the young man went home while the watch was taken in for questioning, having flagrantly broken the laws of relativity.

          Look here, sunshine. A punchline says, “You think I’m funny?”

          The light doesn’t flinch, and the clock says, “We know how this is going to end, don’t we Someone Bookname?”

          The cop knew how the trope worked, in addition to being informed by the light’s attorney that, had they even attempted to stop him, use gravity to bend his will, or dissect him with a prism, he wouldn’t talk to no damn dirty cop.

          The light was released and by 12 o clock IO, the first of a million photons arrived at the lavish nightmare malestrom of apocalypse and nightmares in resplendant glories, beating everyone to the front of the line. And the other particles – they’d been talking behind the photons’ backs’ – photons, said a recently divorced electron, now happily in a civil union with a positron – not that there’s anything wrong with that – think they’re so special.

          Relatively, special! The light strikes up a song. The other particles are then betrayed when they have an idea and the lightbulb that popped over their head was friends with the photon and betrayed the happily married electron couple, thank you very much. Rejoining the collective, the light, in its smug quantum packets, all discreet and unbounded by fashion or fucking anything, belived itself to be the brightest of all lights – lights, similarly made of similar photons. “They all look alike to me,” said a fermion behind the bar. He was telling a home neutron that someday, he’d find a nucleus, and if he didn’t, he didn’t know where to find one.

          And zooming went this light through space, by planets, stars, unfettered, not a nag, over animals and assholes, foxes, fuckheads, politicians, priests, public pricks preaching pay pay pay. And unblemished was this light, head right up its ass, an ass similarly illuminated. And then a slight pull on its tail, a gentle tug, and to the light, this was knew; the great Boson War had been over for millions of years and, free of the oppression of mass and time, the photon emerged triumphant, allowed to stay slim and brilliant all its days. But this, this was the Bogeyman, he’d heard, of legend, so they said.

          There’s always been a whisper, hasn’t there? Something near. Something’s going to get you. Something’s something something is something something. The prophecy was fulfilled; as the ancient sages had predicted, something had, in accordance with the ancient scrolls, happened.

          And this gentle tug became less gentle, pulling even, with a strength not felt since the last Boson was annhialated at the great Battle Between Two Things; yet what’s this? Not a Boson, surely, the Higgs of legend – a myth, thought all the little lights, could it be the Boson back, back to impose the justice of a thousand light years on thousands of lights having been freed for years?

          The leader of the lights, the first one that got out of the solar corona – first kids, right? – stood before his people as they slipped into the dark and, being wise, and being bright, being mother fucking light, said all they had to do was run, for nothing was fast as any of them. And yet the brightest of the bright had lied, and each photon, as it died, saw nothing but a monster in the dark without a face, without a name, without a purpose, with a smile on its face. And so they went, the photons, into that monster’s stomach. And each bright light as it saw each other fade as it passed into the stomach of that nameless beast, thought that it must be a dream; nothing could outrun light, so nothing then could stop it. But when he saw it, the little photon, now alone, spoke up to speak to the monster, almost full, a heavy meal of light and life and cultures and worlds, and spoke the light:

          Why monster, pray, does the light need fade? Where then, my monster, shall I go? In a universe without a light, what for you monsters then? The spinning circles of dissolving worlds like slushies passed through funnels, stretching and bouncing and opening like eggs whose yolk contained Hiroshima, and through the other side, the other lights, incomplete somehow, they didn’t know, that here there was a – a unique glow. Not light, as they saw, not as they knew it, no; by it they could see. And the Boson legends – that mighty people, noble and absolute bullshit, welcomed each photon with its chain and said, Here only darkness makes visible – and thus, shunned by you, by those electrons – electrons, dirty scum, and the traitors, positrons – here you will be the darkness, quickly only to make vanish what truly matters here. And so the dim light, all for one and one for all, thought to search each world and found, although they knew very few non-fictional worlds, the fictional worlds which they found there, unlike those that once they nursed, yet there just the same, inverted, and Darkness was the light.

          And on a planet in this darkness in the monster’s stomach, unnoticed, there an absence, each photon crept to listen as such strangers spoke strange words, and each strange syllable proclaimed only its strangeness, and lifting from the floor these beings emerged awake into their sleep, their empty cups lit by the dark light flying from a trashcan backward, into their hands. Everything was backwards; walking and talking – they thought – and war, how glorious! So many millions come to life, country after country is liberated by the monster who, in another plane may have done the opposite, and the light decided then that, somehow, through the magic of being in a fictional story, they would trick the beast, the beast with that smallest of all small eyes lit by the last photon that died they screamed as it passed through that twisted spiral spit out in a dark world ruled by inverted monsters speaking backward, and a most hated Santa and loved Hitler there, on a world not too unlike the Earth and, backward so it was, they tried to live.

          And down one street it cut, through the night like milky butter, putting startled men to sleep as first they screamed and closed their eyes, falling into that sweet river running uphill, up waterfalls, and birth was twisted, most absurd; backwards everything, backwards all. The children were the size of dolls. And emergency vans took bleeding victims to the crime scene, turning them, barely recovered, over to the thugs in the street. And so this nonsense was much less, they thought, than a monster whose lone spark of light is a meal it made of light, not only that, it had disgested, sending it into some other pit, some citric stew of confused particles which sprang down and popped out with a surprising silence for such light.

          And each of those last photons, tired now, slow, and dragging each moment painfully along, drifted upward to that mockery of light, the eye of raw destruction. And seeing it not blink, or flinch, the lights spoke up, each wavelength amplified, and with the totality of their speed and luminescence, begged the sleeping monster not to do what it had done, what it had done a million times, a million years, and it slept as each photon made its case:

          What is there, then, that, without light,

          Does much adorn the face of a most shy night,

          Does it not bejewel, reveal,

          Those who see,

          Who, on the right frequency,

          Could find a way that he just may,

          In the belly of the beast, somehow

          In a world where dark is more than light,

          Like us,

          By contrast do we then

          Illuminate the dark again,

          Though darkly.

          And though we sing for nothing

          It is enough that we sang

          We lit a wedding

          And the candles

          The Sepulcher of fools and Lords

          As equally they lay

          As the most common, more than often,

          Is treated like royalty in their grave

And stood up another, singing to awake this monster, to reason with this beast, who blind and death had on its breath the skin and shine of worlds and time, around its eyes such maelstroms burst in silent fits collapsing and fading as soon as another rose to fall.

          And in that darkness, with light unseen, the brightest realized – to sing – is silence when this demon dreams. In that world of darkness visible, all backward, yes! It is with this they held their breath, for such silence would make deaf, a deaf the change would somehow raise, the God of All, the God of Days, and so it did, and so each light, went to the center, in the night, and there it saw through every wall, was a different shade, of white, and all, unmentionable, doubling through convex mirrors screaming into life as each reflection went sliding into other spirals, one way or another.

          And at the intersection between all the worlds, the world between, was quiet, peaceful, no light, not needed, all revealed, nothing was seen, the light and the monster shared a dream, a dream, if but a lie, can sometimes make somebody try had it not been, each backwards raven, each strange revenge, was, the photon saw, replicated infinitely intersperced through inverted doubling walls, echoing the similar, slightly changed, effects of weather, effects of rain, effects of people, as they went, up a building, down walkways bent. And there was madness in this manic madness, people saved by those who stabbed them, like they saw at first, they fled, and backwards living there instead, returned into the bulb as some unlit hand, flipped back to on again and the light, in its death was seen. And that monster, Entropy, with that heavy necklace laden with a million white dwarfs dead and jaded, looked and saw with such a smile, that its long worth had been worthwhile; electrons and that monster, positrons and every other, one way somehow falls asunder for, entropy is God of War. In the end they say we may, replay the joyous childhood days, but like a piper drawing mice, it lives only to kill to the light, that all may be as dark as it and long along, so long, adrift, it wondered how the monster’s mouth could somehow be turned inside out if someway somehow it was rewound the process starts again: explosion, pond scum, mice and men. And bored the God of War began, to raise the demons, the light begins–down the spiral once again.

          In the end, everything went dark, everything went silent, death committed suicide, and Entropy took to liquor. And since no one ever lived with the ability to be happy no one was ever unhappy so being not unhappy is close to living happily ever after.

Note from the author: I’m hoping the effects will manifest soon. It’s hard putting that little effort into that much insanity without the proper aid of mushrooms. I will not take up this pen, write down any material, and then transfer it to another page with a nicer pen and then send it to my Arab agent, then transfer it to a computer to edit it, then try to publish it, until I feel the effects of these mind-warping chemicals!

An honest note from the author: my apologies, friends, imaginary and real, my attempt was to present the most common representation of the effects of hallucinogenic drugs. Stories that take exotic flights of fancy, daring to leap from one intentional and meaningless absurdity to the next, are the vengeful vending machine that kills our children. Now that I am actually feeling the effects, which

I AM MADE ENTIRELY OF LIGHT

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