From: Daniels, Troya M. <[email protected]>
To: “Material Analysis Project” <[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], dw…>, “Historical Analysis Project” <[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], we…>, “Style Group” <[email protected], [email protected]>
CC: Gabriel Macollum <[email protected]>, Seth Hunt <[email protected]>
BCC: <none>
Date: Apr 2, 2008, 9:10 AM
Subject: Toronto Project
Hey everyone,
It’s finally time! We should be receiving the journal I mentioned in our Tuesday meeting by next week, but we already have a few samples to go over (earlier than expected)! This project is obviously going to be our main priority for the next several months, as it’s coming straight from the Barbelo Foundation. From what I understand, it’s under consideration for inclusion in an exhibit on diaries of the colonial period being organized next year, so we’ll be back in the National Museum if all goes well! No pressure! ;^p
HAP team, let’s start building a map of documentary associations and see if we can get some sort of coherent narrative out of what’s being discussed in the journal. Our “Arthur Wickham” was nice enough to provide dates for us, but you all know what to do best. See what pieces we have available to put together, and make sure it’s within our scope – if there is one drop of suspicion that provenance includes culturally-affiliated American Indian tribes, Alaskan Native, etc, we need to turn it over. The National Archives in the UK gave it a once-over, but it’s worth performing our own investigation.
MAP team, I’m sorry that I don’t have any dirt for you guys to play with today, but see what you can determine about our journal from the scans we have available. Scans should provide at least some detail regarding the binding, color profile on the ink, etc. so let’s see what we can find. As a reminder, we have a speculative window of 1760-1780 pending further analysis, but there’s a new rash of colonial-era forgeries out there, so this could just be someone’s practice run for a Washington diary.
Style team, as always, do your thing! You should have full access to the uploaded scans on the shared network. Keep us all appraised of anything interesting, and if Wes needs to shift more time to the MAP team, that should be fine (especially once those soil samples arrive).
I don’t have all the details from the higher-ups at Barbelo, but it looks like we’re trying to get this wrapped up roughly before September 29th, 2008 so that this fits into the financial quarter. This is a speculative deadline, so please bear with me if that shifts around a bit.
Thank you for your help in this everyone! I’ll keep you posted with any updates.
Troya Daniels
General Manager, Project Lead
Society for the Authentication and Verification of American Religious Artifacts
(212)-513-0400
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A Journal. May 18, 1769.
THERE is perhaps no landing which could have more demonstrated a grave error on my part than the landing which I have experienced upon finally arriving at the port of Baltimore. I was met there by an Italian Gentleman who claims to be a Count in service of the Papal States, but I have my own doubts. He bears a refinement approaching no-where close to that of the Comte de Saint Germain, my esteemed patron and motivator, nor that of the Ecclesiarchy. However, by endorsement of the latter, I did follow this “Count” Alessandro di Balmetti, and his man, one Nicola Matteo Portollo.
These men are Gentlemen in appearance only; although bearing many of the fancies and decorations one might expect from an individual of esteem and position, they seem to host none of the extravagances of personality nor the refinement of behaviour. They have a slave – whose duties are shared between them, perhaps out of the Count’s frugality for it could certainly not be mercy – who they refer to as Jongo or Dinko, but who – upon close inquiry and assurances that my motivation was purely curiosity and not malice – intimated his name to be Sidia, as I could understand. As embarrassing of an admission as it is, the experiences of the slave of the colonies is not a matter I had given close consideration, as it was something I had considered a matter of politics and ethical theorisation – that is, wordly and material inquiry – rather than the esoteric and hidden matters which interest me most.
However, does it cause some deep pain to simply refer to a man using the manner of reference he provides? It is not as if presenting one’s own name is equal to presenting a title of professional aptitude and capability, it is merely a label. Although I cannot say that, prior to a few weeks ago, the ‘respect warranted by a slave’ was a preoccupation of mine, this experience leaves little taste in my mouth other than that of wanton disrespect. Balmetti and Portollo, of course, speak to me with an unequalled dignity; perhaps I have little title for complaint. The Brotherhood between an Enlightened Gentleman and another, however, does seem contradicted by such harms as I have witnessed. It causes me great pain to dwell upon, so I will abbreviate my explanation as such: speaking of Sidia as “Jongo” is not the greatest violence they visited upon him over the course of our first visits.
Our boarding house brought little more comfort. Although the stability of earth has aided my constitution in settling itself, lamplight upon hewn oak simply gives me flashes of the tilting walls of The Indiaman. Although agitators are not common where we are boarding, there is discussion of them, as many merchants aboard The Indiaman seem to, in fact, be employed under Royal Charter to enforce the Treason Acts. Of course, the circulation of a certain letter by populist assemblymen further north has directly incited this, and those same assemblymen, now dissolved by the Governor, Sir Francis Bernard, 1st Baronet. I do not figure this hectic air able to maintain itself, as the ostensible disputes seem petty and miniscule; the tax measures discussed seem to have little bearing on the laity of these lands, although I am quite sure that abolitionist attitudes in His Majesty’s Realm and the associated political murmurings generate more hostility amongst the average Virginian, for example, than the presence of a Warrant Officer in York. With the French now drawn back to the continent, surely the rogue colonist should rather feel a certain gratitude.
Over the coming months, we will begin our odyssea, arduously voyaging into the Unknown North, as Arthur brought the cross into England, shining an illuminating beam upon the land. Great treasures await us; not treasures of worldly goods, but great troves of Knowledge which can only be known by an Enlightened Few who have sought the redemption of not only their own minds and souls, but of those across the entire world. The characters of Balmetti and Portollo cause me no uncertain distress; it is perhaps wise to conceal the precise nature of the goods I have brought for them and their Fraternity until the time it would open the widest path. It is certain to cause a great upheaval in the right circles – even the Comte does not know the information within – and I would have given it to him on one thousand occasions before even dreaming of allowing the Italian Brothers to bear witness. However, I hold onto some degree of hope that they might, at the least, convey me to the individuals who possess the surety of will and virtue that I could trust my artefacts to.
I will tell you only this, journal, as much as I have told Sidia, to in fair exchange to learn his given name: I acquired them from a Gentlemanly antiquarian, who confided (and substantiated with Proofs) that they are verifiably and indisputably, in pedigree and provenance, sourced from one London (Mortlake) residence vandalised and looted centuries ago; the proprietorship of which was of course most interesting, as it was the Warden of Christ’s College, or as it may be most pertinent to myself and the company I currently hold, Alchemist of the Highest Order and Truly Enlightened and Sublime Gentleman of the Hermetic-Pythagorean-Platonic Truths which permeate all of our Glorious, Divine existence, one John Dee, who owned the building’s deed and served as primary resident. I will utter no more until I feel it serves a larger design to do so.
In search of meaning.
Arthur Wickham
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Connecting to blog: e-x-t-r-e-m-o’s trip log
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[2/14/2008 07:23]: Sup everyone,
I’m afraid my new job has made finding time for psychonautical adventure and research a bit more difficult (new projects getting launched). I apologize for the long wait. But, after taking the last dose, all of that just feels unimportant now. I mean, it’s complicated. I just need to explain.
I found this book from 1989 by one Dr. Mieter, the man I suspect to be the chemist who first synthesized malachi in a lab. He explains the process to making it yourself, which is a bit outside of my wheelhouse, but he provides a ton of other INCREDIBLY useful information like a dosage guide (which confirmed my previous research), a bit of background on it, etc. That gave me the confidence to absolutely send it with about 125μg. It was above the recommended dosage, but not outside of a standard deviation, and I prepped with a large breakfast again.
To put things simply, I was able to make a “dive” into the “focus” I was looking for.
I admit, I tried momentarily to keep a log similarly to how I usually do, but almost immediately my senses failed me pretty badly. I had a partner trip-sitting me, and I provided him with two emergency injector pens, as I knew I wanted to go deeper this time. I knew I might go “out”, but figured that could just be part of the whole experience, like with ayahuasca… but I gave him adrenaline if I stopped breathing and norepinephrine for if my heart stopped. As long as those two essential functions were operating, I wasn’t too worried. I’m not the type to go comatose, and we’re well within standard operating procedures here.
So there I am, on the couch, walls collapsing around me and a dark fog washes over everything. It’s so dense, it’s like I can feel it wrap around every part of my body, like it’s taking complete control. The fog gets thicker. I see channels of light breaking through, in every possible color and texture, warping into perfectly symmetrical pools far below me. I’m moving through the fog, and see these “rivers of light” from above. It’s like a dark mangrove, stretching impossibly far in every direction, dotted with irregular natural features, sharp and twisting spires that seem to twist inwards and outwards. There are glittering, black terraces all around me, forming seven strata, stretching above and below. The rivers of light project a cold glow onto them, and the terraces reflect back a dim, dark reflection. Their scale is too great to understand. I’m high up in the clouds, I notice, and start to dive downwards to get a better look at things.
On my way down, I try to look at myself, pull an arm up to my face, but there’s only light, bending and warping, turning to crystals, then polyhedrons, then collapsing into goo, before shining back outwards, like “hard light” or something. I curve down at an angle and bring myself alongside a pool of light, and, I guess just out of instinct, brush my “hand” against it to investigate further.
Then, I just… wake up.
It’s clear as yesterday. I can still feel the sensations. Not just visuals, but auditory, tactile, everything. It was a crisp, damp morning. I’m sitting in a carriage rocking its way through a European town. Looking out the carriage window, I can see the towers of Westminster, the same ones that I saw on study abroad in undergrad, but, also… I can feel myself remembering them in another way. I look down at my hands, and, holy shit, I’m white now. I’m a fucking old white man. In a carriage, in London. But, it’s not London… it’s, like, “old London”. Like, “they haven’t invented Big Ben yet”, old.
It sounds fucking stupid typed out, okay? I’ve tried putting it a thousand different ways. I went to college for historical analysis, maybe that’s just affecting my trip, you know I want to be skeptical guys, I really want to. But I could feel and remember everything. I can still feel it. I see the quill in my hands. My old, wrinkly hands were writing a letter, and I interrupted… myself.
I could understand the Latin it was written in.
This is fucked up, guys, but I’m pretty sure I can still understand Latin. I think this fucking malachi taught me Latin.
There is no easy way to put this or even believable, so take all this with a very important qualifier: I was incredibly high on an above-average dose of an experimental phenethylamine and hallucinating every possible sense. This is all just a reporting of experience, not fact. I am not claiming anything happened other than appearances. Please do not call the cops on me saying I’m a dangerous schizo or some shit.
But, what it felt like, and still feels like, is that by diving into the river of light, I had occupied this man’s body, and that I wasn’t in my own time. I was in London around the year 1760. I felt everything and saw everything, and still have memories I can clearly draw on. I was angry about something Kant had written about me. I was in a rush, because we’d just gotten off a boat from Stockholm. I met a few of my associates, Charles and Bergquist, and they were both fawning praise on me like I had something over them.
There was always a kind of autopilot mode to go into, like I could just sit back and observe, but I knew I could control things, too. I was the one who looked out the carriage window. I was the one who lowered my gaze to meet Bergquist’s. I mostly just held back, though, and watched. I know I was a man by the name of Swedenborg, and that I was a spiritual figure or something. I was inside him for two full days.
I looked him up, there’s still weird “New Church” folks talking about some of the stuff he wrote. Honestly, I almost typed “the stuff I wrote”... it’s still hard to think of my ego as separate from his.
After precisely 48 hours, the fog rolled back in. It almost swept me off my feet, like when you’re standing in the ocean and a wave hits you from behind. There’s my buddy, on the chair next to me, staring at me doe-eyed with a slice of pizza sliding out of his mouth. I was back to the here-and-now.
The crazy thing is, I saw all those different rivers. Can I dive into any of them? I need to experiment with this more. I need to find out if this was just a fucked up trip and I tapped into some memory of trying to learn Latin while drunk, or, “ego vere latine loqui”. I guess there’s no real way to prove I’m not just using translators, but, look… I almost didn’t want to post this, okay? I do not know how to handle these feelings or emotions right now, and I’m trying my best to keep my analytical lens intact and wrap my head around this all. I can still feel his memories.
I was just getting enough pings on here that I thought it was worth catching you guys up on the whole malachi saga. I’m okay, I don’t need any help, I just need to unpack some stuff mentally and think about how to understand this stuff better. Maybe I can do some digging myself once I’m back at work.
Signing off
e-x-t-r-e-m-o
