23.5 Degrees: The Labyrinth's Lament

Ugh...Maghead cults--just throw them in the file with the fake genealogies, fake documents, fake artifacts that flow freely in the fantasy land of Rennes le Chateau (and surrounding areas)

What is it about Rennes le Chateau, the PoS,etc. that inspires a treasure trove of misguided souls to take scamming to a new level?

... So we must hold out for another week to receive our gratification from Chartres and its secrets... Ah well, I have read that patience is a virtue - even in this virtual world...

I think there is no secret why the dark masses spend their time focusing on the hidden truths of Rennes et al. Like the spiritual primitives they are, the secret-rummagers would rather wallow in dank puddles and stare transfixed at the bright lights reflected on the surface of the dirty water than see, and bathe in, the pure light from the stars in the firmament. As for the secret-generators, like Mr Brown and Mr G, they receive dull pieces of silver for peddling their wares. The true illuminati can see with their eyes, hear with their ears and gnow with their souls (sometimes your English language can be so inadequate, especially for an alien like me!)

Like the mystery of the sacred egg, there is no need to forage for hidden codes; a child could see the truth:

"Un p’tit d’un p’tit s’étonne aux Halles.
Un p’tit d’un p’tit, ah!, degrés te fallent.
Indolent qui ne sort cesse,
Indolent qui ne se mène
Qu’importe un p’tit d’un p’tit
Tout Gai de Reguennes."

An uncracked code? LoL!

The Stella Maris comments about the commercialism of Chartres made me think of this quote:

"It was said that Dr Jung's favourite story went something like this: The water of life, wishing to make itself known on the face of the earth, bubbled up in an artesian well and flowed without effort or limit. People came to drink of the magic water and were nourished by it, since it was so clean and pure and invigorating. But humankind was not content to leave things in this Edenic state. Gradually, they began to fence the well, charge admission, claim ownership of the property around it, make elaborate plans as to who could come to the well, put locks on the gates. Soon the well was the property of the powerful and the elite. The water was angry and offended: it stopped flowing and began to bubble up in another place. The people who owned the property around the first well were so engrossed in their power systems and ownership that they didn't notice that the water had vanished. They continued selling the non-existent water, and few people noticed that the true power was gone. But some dissatisfied people searched with great courage and found the new artesian well. Soon that well was under the control of the property owners and the same fate overtook it. The spring took itself to yet another place - and this has been going on throughout recorded history."

... They paved paradise and they put up a parking lot...

Keep writing, Stella Maris; it matters...

Humpty Dumpty... There was one egg I wanted to save. Unfortunately, nothing wakes the egg not even the breeze at dawn. Poor egg.

Mr. G. Have you met him?

Of course, I knew that at least Mnemosyne would get the yolk! But I'm not the egg-man, even though when my head grows heavy and my sight goes dim, I feel my head will crack open... Nor am I the Walrus (that was Paul!). But the wine from 1969 helps...

I didn't need to meet G. As you can imagine, a friend of mine did ...

BTW I am enjoying your, sorry, I mean, Stella Maris' articles about FulbertLand or is it EuroFulbert, Paris? I'm curious as to whether there'll be any articles in future about CERN Cathedral. A diabolic, high-energy collision of the forces of nature... It could be a breeze!

This friend...can you introduce him? Or will his name remain a mystery? Can you describe him?

Please to meet you, but my name is not Stella Maris. Can you guess my name?

The wine helps? Sure it wasn't the smell of colitas?

My friend? How to describe him? I seem to forget what he looks like whenever he goes away. I think he's German, originally. A "consultant"? I can only remember that his name begins with a "W" or a "V". I'm sure you'll meet him, when the time is write...

I do not know what your name is. But my guess would be that it begins with an "A" and has classical roots.

I hate the sweet smell of colitas. The Lebanon had much more aromatic grasses. I do not rely on any mind-altering substances, except my mind itself, and the occasional goblet of Falernum...

D'Arras en halte, oh humaine, ou Lieven echoue
Chiale semaine y Gilles de Rennes
Chez Diderot ouate tout doux...

Ah, the Tsar's bazaars bizarre beaux-arts.

I prefer the smell of colitas to colitis...

I'm trying to clear a path with my sword for you. Are we talking about the Professor again? If so, I've met him plenty of times.

Still, I search for the thread of Ariadne. Perhaps, you can tell me then about Mr. G. You say he peddles his wares? What wares would those be?

No, my name does not begin with A, but it does belong to antiquity. How long have you been around? And where do you come from?

Are you certain Falernum does not alter your mind?

I see that Mr Buzzkill knows his onions!

To Mnemosyne: I really don't know if my friend is a professor, but he seems so scholarly. He seems to gnow so much... Perhaps you could describe your dealings with him. Perhaps it is the same gentleman. He seems to have difficulty walking. If so, and you see him before I do, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell him that I have learnt by bitter experience that he was right and the glitter of gold is indeed relatively very dull...

As for G, like many before him, he sells secrets, on which the gullible spend their hard-earned money. A snake-oil salesman...

I have lived in many countries, but have now settled in one of your rainless states, where the breeze carries no refreshment for my soul... As for my longevity, I am twelve moons short of reaching my Biblical sell-by date!

I know you meant not to insult my beloved Falernum. Inshallah, it may alter my mind the way a momentary exhalation on the froth of my post-prandial chocolatte might do, but not my soul. Maybe the Professor, as you too have chosen to call him, could help you appreciate its effects better than I could with my poor English in this virtual, immaterial world...