Ian Mulder reviews "The Sun Temple"

My thanks to author and blogger Ian Mulder for his review of The Sun Temple on his blog: "A wayfarer's notes". I reprint it here in its entirety. For more of Ian's insightful and entertaining words, please visit him at: http://perpetual-lab.blogspot.co.uk/

Intersecting Worlds:
The Sun Temple by
B.F. Späth
Reality is composed of many interwoven strands and nowhere are these delineated more vividly than in The Sun Temple. What shall I call it? A treatise? A short story? A memoir? A traveller’s tale? It’s all of these and a masterpiece of erudite psychedelia
as well.

Above all it is searingly honest and true, never carried away with the intoxication of drugs consumed, nor even the grammar and vocabulary of poetic licence. Had I walked in Brian’s footsteps and scratched out with my quill an entry in his ship’s log of voyages undertaken, I might have scaled the mountain-tops, plumbed the depths, muddied the waters—losing myself and reader in a maze of mixed metaphor. Brian doesn’t do this, but uses precise language, with footnotes where necessary adducing such authorities as Pliny the Elder, the King James Bible and Dale Pendell’s Pharmako/Poeia*.

His heroes are two: (a) the Sun, and (b) its Temple, which manifests on earth in the form of Battery Park, at the southwest tip of Manhattan Island. The narrator is he who worships at the Sun Temple, by carrying out a series of purifications and rituals.

In the first paragraph we are introduced to the noonday Sun, whose task is to reach down from its zenith position to its indoor worshipper, zig-zagging reflections down the narrow space between old New York tenements to reach his apartment, and writing its message on his kitchen floor: Awake! Come to me and reunite. The Sun’s method is to create a dissatisfaction in his heart, and stimulate action: a pilgrimage to Battery Park, in time for its diurnal blaze of glory in the western sky. Thus Master reaches out to Disciple, in an act of collusion and rescue.

After the poetic intensity of this first paragraph, which in an old-fashioned epic poem, such as Paradise Lost, might be labelled “The Argument”, he goes on to explain how he came to see the ravaged monuments of Battery Park, a traditional tourist destination, as a temple to the Sun, at which he may be the only true worshipper. As in all life, the greatest highs take root in the soil of desperation, and return to it, as a rocket comes back down to earth. Or as Jack Kornfield puts it:“After the ecstasy, the laundry.”†

My life had somehow lost direction, with no plans or goals—that was it, really: I was aimless—that was the root cause of my perhaps unhealthy obsession with the Old Battery....

Part memoir, part travelog: he has me longing to go there myself, to visit New York, his beloved home, and see it for myself, perhaps a little through his enchanted eyes. The magic libation, the mythical soma, is cannabis. He sets out in scientific and historical detail some background to this drug: its usage and effects.‡

His approach to these drugs is reverential, but I doubt the Mayor of New York, even if he happens to be in favour of decriminalization, will promote The Sun Temple in tourist literature. It’s as we used to speculate in 1971 (when I last tried the sacred herb): they don’t want us to use it in case we won’t be worker-ants any more, we won’t go on buying the American Dream.

Be that as it may, his travelog is compelling. It opens our eyes to a different dimension mapped on to the reality that everyone can see. The alignment of decrepit monuments in the Battery, the shadows they cast, the paved sun-trap open spaces, invite comparison with ancient temples such as Stonehenge, with Späth as its learned archaeologist. But then again, it takes nothing more than a new paragraph to swivel the entire landscape around and show us a different perspective: personal nostalgia, confessional memoir or even psychiatric diagnosis. In a swift juxtaposition, he continues with a confident walk on the vertiginous knife-edge between multiple escarpments, using the language of dream. We reach the delightful point of not knowing (till he tells us, and he’s always as honest as he is precise) whether he’s wandering some part of the Battery at midnight, dreaming at home in bed or living the disoriented life of an insomniac, aided by traditional herbal substances:

In the role of trespasser, I enter the ruined and abandoned Observatory, and I imagine that it may have its corollary in the desecration of the shrine at Ashkelon[footnote appended]

I become aware of other figures entering slowly around the periphery of my bed as night-sweats and delirium hold sway in the electro-narcotic mist ... and against the wall on my shelf are a row of long-neglected books: the Cuneiform Library. I select a volume at random and open it to an arbitrary page:

[quote from the book, about the action of priests at a temple to Lord Jagannath, and the historic removal of a sacred image]

With a start, I realized that this ancient tragedy has been re-enacted by the modern-day theft of Ambrose’s head and the burning of the Concession building and its subsequent abandonment. But my concentration wavers—it’s the heat, that heavy blanket that hangs over the park and over my feverish dreams as I float to a more fundamental and exalted midnight ... and soon I couldn’t remember what I had dreamed and what I had consciously invented and both of these tributaries fed into the great body of the park ... the spectral presence of the park after the Sun has gone down.

Not since De Quincey¶, I suspect, can there have been a more candid and convincing account of a psycho-physical journey fuelled by mania, obsession, the highs and lows offered by psychedelic herbs. Read The Sun Temple for a “legal high” wherever you are.
-------
* Pharmako/Poeia is an epic poem on plant humours, an abstruse alchemic treatise, an experiential narrative jigsaw puzzle, a hip and learned wild-nature reference text, a comic paean to cosmic consciousness, an ecological handbook, a dried-herb pastiche, a counterculture encyclopedia of ancient fact and lore that cuts through the present ‘conservative’ war-on-drugs psychobabble. —Allen Ginsberg

† After the Ecstasy, the Laundry by Jack Kornfield, leading Buddhist teacher: “Our realizations and awakenings show us the reality of the world, and they bring transformations, but they pass.”

‡ Cannabis sativa, best known to Western users; also Cannabis indica whose effects are more sedative than those of sativa which is famous for offering a “cerebral high”. The narrator also suspects that the indica he has purchased may have been cut with Datura, whose effects (per Wikipedia) include “a complete inability to differentiate reality from fantasy”.

¶ Confessions of an English Opium Eater, Thomas de Quincey, The London Magazine, 1821.

The Sun Temple—Trailer #1

By B.F. Spaeth:

Meet me at "The Sun Temple": where a fever, heat-wave, and cannabis sacrament all lead to a grand hallucinatory vision. This is the first in a series of animated trailers in which I read from my short story, "The Sun Temple".

After you watch this video, download the e-book to continue on this psychedelic journey.

Click here to purchase the e-book:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/337283

/// battery park /// cannabis /// hallucinations /// myths /// nyc /// psychedelic /// sun cult

In the Chalk Circle—Part 4

aturday, March 19, 2010

10:08—In the Giant Bagel
I had a singular dream last night: I was given two small diagrams of Washington Square Park: one of the old park, and one of the new park (after the dreaded renovation). They were only about 2 or 3 inches long, almost like oversized postage stamps, with an antique brownish color. I was fascinated by them and I don’t know if I dreamed the following or if it was a conscious embellishment: using the maps as a guide, I secured the end of a rope to the exact center of where the old fountain had existed, and affixed a piece of chalk to the other end, and traced the circumference of the fountain’s original location on the flagstones! Marvellous! A thing of beauty!

Wednesday, March 23, 2010
8:29—Giant Bagel
I have an appt. with the WTC Bellevue Group on Monday at 8:30—scheduled for a chest X-Ray, blood test, and a pulmonary function test. It’ll take 4 1/2 hours! It ain’t gonna be fun, but I’ll go through it just to qualify for any possible benefits/compensation/treatments, etc. I was 2 blocks from Ground Zero and I got that f*cking dust in my lungs and around my heart! A God-damned time bomb! Christ.

11:25—On a Q-Train heading to 14th Street

Oh, no—wait a minute! I’m on a f*cking B-Train! Christ! Where should I get off?

1:21—WSQ—On a narcoleptoid bench
Skittish, irritable, and paranoid. It’s just a bit too chilly out here and I may have to relocate to the Albatross.

What am I gonna do? A job would solve most of my problems—but are there any such things as jobs anymore?
I should try to convince X to apply for WTC benefits also. Too cold out here—I gotta duck inside somewhere—perhaps the Temple over on Thompson...

4:37—

Debt collectors calling, calling, calling...vultures circling everywhere in the Poison City. 
Trying to conjure the Springtime into existence. Park cooling off as the sun goes down one more time. Phantoms pass by, sit for awhile, and then move on into the oblivion of the late afternoon. Fear is ascendent! I am afraid all of the time now—it must be a result of weakened kidneys. Maybe I do need some kind of medication—nah!—that stuff never worked for me. Heading to Barnes & Noble...

4:50—Barnes & Noble—4th floor reading area—

I’m sitting in the 3rd row all the way on the right side with a view of Union Square West out of the front windows. It’s cloudy—a gray, swirling sky—overcast, spooky, funereal. I have a terribly creepy, paranoid sense of doom swirling around me. It must be the debilitating effects of the last poisoning coursing through my system. I wanted to take a walk down to Mosco Street, but it was too cold. Sinking into junk-food narcosis...

6:00—In the Phó Viêt Hu’o’ng Restaurant on Mulberry Street

I haven’t been here in ages—one of my old haunts. The Temple has closed! Another one of my favorite places is gone forever! Dusk down in Chinatown—always a melancholy undertaking. A thousand memories down here.

6:45—
Ancient insults torment me—why did I put up with them? Number 52: journal of a burnt-out, half-animate ghoul trying to hang on in the toxic soup.

Monday, March 15, 2010

7:13—In the Connecticut Muffin
My biological clock says that it is actually 6:13, because we are on Daylight Savings Time.
Dark and spooky out—rainy and overcast. Heading to Bellevue for a 5-hour physical.
8:45—In the wilds of Bellevue 
Waiting to be interviewed by the psychiatrist—the first stage of the WTC intake procedure. I hope that I am not delivering myself into the jaws of Moloch—after all, how trustworthy can they be?  Christ! Be alert!

Now I’m waiting to see Dr. Y—but she has disappeared somewhere and I’m stuck here in this hallway. Getting sleepy.

2:32—In the Goodburger on B’way & 16th, right on the north end of Union Square Park. 

Came to $9.25, and now I’m broke.
Still reeling from my day at the WTC Clinic—I can’t even write about it yet—too much information to process.
 
5:33—In the back room of the Albatross


A strange clear light reflecting from the back courtyard and patch of sky. I guess I should amble down to the park again—no sense in returning to the hell-hole of my apartment too soon. Every hour I stay away from that place is an hour added to my life!

6:04—WSQ—on a non-committal bench—
The past flows and tugs all around me in the Cathedral Park. I am deeply saddened by the loss of the old park—all the magic has been drained out of it. There is almost nothing left of the old city... I move among its ruins... lost and mourning its demise.

I have devolved into a complete sputtering, useless idiot! Damn! I smell chemical toxins in the air—gotta move to another bench. Now the damn asphalt-cutter has resumed! Bastards!

7:27—Shuttling back & forth between B&N, WSQ, and the Albatross—

Lost on an unnumbered day. Ill from too much coffee.

#52: Book of Cliff’s Edge Prayers and Silent Screams.

8:54—WSQ—

Circumnavigation of the Fountain in a Season of Dread and Dislocation.

I just had an unbelievable encounter with a man on 14th street right across from Union Square: I’ve already forgotten his name, but he was a 911 first-responder: eleven months in the pit! Homeless, poisoned, ill, hallucinatory and reduced to begging for change on the street. He told me he periodically goes crazy from the poisons and hallucinates snakes and mice crawling on his skin, and he cuts himself with a knife to try and get rid of them! He is a slightly built man of indeterminate age—maybe 40?—his teeth are loosening and falling out as a result of the toxins and he sleeps on the street. He is enrolled in the Bellvue Hospital 911 Program and also went through the Bellevue intake process, but he says that they don’t help him—welfare gives him $60 a month and he is turned away from any further compensation! It was one of the saddest encounters I’ve ever had. He even asked me if I needed a roomate. I wish I could help him in some way, but aside from sweat-lodges and detox diets, there’s no way I can think of to help him except to give him $5.00 when I see him on Wednesday. He told me he used to own a gas station before he got sick—then his wife left him. He sleeps on the streets and eats out of garbage cans. The horror!

“The poison moves around—it goes up into my head and then I see the snakes and the mice on my skin and I have to try and get them out! When the poison takes over, that becomes the reality! The 911 system is no good—they won’t help you—you’ll see!” He told me he was from—where was it? Kashmir? I can’t remember. He actually has an e-mail address and he gave it to me. He seemed to know a lot of people on the street—he must have waved hello to a dozen people in about 15 minutes. I’ve already forgotten his name, but he gave me a card that says: NADIR PETROLUM with an e-mail address.

Is that his name—Nadir?

A strange and luminous evening as I exit the park..          


                                    TO BE CONTINUED


///   Washington Square  ///  911  ///  NYC  ///

The Numeral 5 at Beekman

From Journal #55
Friday, June 25, 2010
 
12:54—On a Q headed to... where?

Anxiety...
Paranoid and wobbly.
Going over the Manhattan Bridge—creditors calling me! F*ckers!

I wonder if I should get off at Canal and then take an R down to my old haunts in the Financial District for some more observational note-taking?

1:30—In the Plaza outside of City Hall.
The approach to the bottom of the city: a few of the old monoliths are still standing;

On Park Row by the Optimo Cigars store; turn left on Beekman Street; past the old barber shop on 8 Beekman; then Nassau...

Theatre Alley tucked away under black scaffolding in the deep gloom and skeletal structures of fire-escapes.

Nassau torn up between Beekman & Ann.
The thresh and clatter of heavy machinery all around me.

My God: the immense red and white facade of the old Temple Court—all closed down along the streets and covered with scaffolding. They couldn’t be tearing it down; could they?

5 Beekman Street! I peer through the small round hole where the lock used to be—and look into an immense, cavernous and ruined interior illuminated by natural light from above... crumbling plaster and chunks of concrete—the remains of an ornamental balustrade with gold buttresses—stripped, raw iron columns stand in the gloom—wires and torn cables sprout from holes in the ceiling and walls.

A piano sits madly in the center of the chamber!

As I pull myself away from this otherworldly sight, a young man stops me and asks if I am working for the Census—"No" I reply, "I am a writer taking notes—notes pertaining to the Great Desecration—which rages all around us and through us!" I start to relate my sad and incredible tale to him—but he's having none of it—he nods his head and smiles and turns to continue on his way—I ask him what he does. “I work in the area.” He makes his way through the throngs, heading west on Beekman towards B’way and melts into the hopeless afternoon.

Turning back for another look, I see that all of the modern facades have been ripped off of the doorways and entrances—exposing ancient brick & mortar and long-covered ornamental masonry.

I notice the brass numeral 5: a piece of metal which has been removed from above the main doorway and placed on the ledge above it. Strange... I pick it up, thinking to abscond with it, but something stays my hand.

Standing across the street and I reconsider my plan to abscond with the numeral 5! Should I loot the ruined temple? Would I be contributing to the destruction of the Old City that I purport to cherish?

Stasis at the Perimeter

I settle for a mere tracing of the numeral—and carefully put it back in its resting place where I found it.

2:57—In the courtyard in back of Zeytuna’s. I've been here before... in that strange dream...

There is a permanent hiss in the air; a rushing sound; a combination of heavy machinery, the gnashing of gears, hydraulics, and perhaps also the wind rushing through desecrated metal canyons down here in this torn & demented city!

I suppose that I should head up to WSQ; but should I? The new benches are exceedingly unpleasant and the Old Park is now gone without a trace anyway! There is nothing left to cling to or ruminate upon...

The Quandary of the Numeral 5...

A Tale of the Old Chess Quadrant

Washington Square Park, NYC, south-west entrance. The ruins of the old chess circle lie beyond the fence during the time of the renovation.

From Journal #52
Thursday, March 18, 2010—

5:31—WSQ—Entering the defunct park by way of an oneiric meridian. Staring in disbelief at the incredible sight of the torn up Old Chess Quadrant, as the sun retreats behind the buildings, pulling all the colors with it, and as the surface cools, the destroyed park, like some barren asteroid, rotates helplessly into evening, and then night.

Under the Orange Glow of the Lamps

The old globe lamps are still in place (precariously!), high in the air, ringing the circle and illuminating this tableaux of destruction and carnage, despite the fact that the quadrant has been torn up and gutted: the old benches gone—all the concrete ripped out—mounds of earth piled haphazardly in the sacred circle. As if by phantom decree, the lamps still miraculously receive a flow of electrons: somber punctuation marks that glow deep orange. Scattered all around are cables, pipes, rotting chunks of foundation, ancient concrete, black earth, and strewn all through this violence, the new sections of pipe and stacks of tile that will be utilized in this great desecration.

Deep into the Lantern Night: I am pulled along a glowing path into the perimeter of the circle, drawn towards the magnetic Load Stone buried deep in the exact center of that charged quadrant. Voices past and present ring out: “Hey, chess player! Chess player! Over here!” Ghosts move through flagstone and turf as re-routed meridians spark and flicker. Crepuscular games of chance are played out under the memorial globes, figures huddled over the filthy squares—drunken threats and boasts echo all through the blasted circle—ancient games played out to their conclusion. Conflagrations flare up spontaneously—ever threatening to escalate into outright violence: boasts, threats, war-whoops, and pure jive, as shadowy figures move around the edge of the ring of lights. “What-choo lookin’ at? Get the fuck outta here! You’re throwing off my game! Get the fuck outta here!”

The oblique diagonal entrance at the southwest corner of WSQ offering a dramatic entrance and exit: a runway for tourists, drug-dealers, crazies, and actual residents of Greenwich Village, as they made their way in and out of the park. Potentates hold court—barkers endlessly repeating and recycling the call: “Hey, chess player! Chess player! Over here!”, trying to assign an identity to passing phantoms disguised as tourists. Menace grows as blackness blossoms like ink-stains under the orange glow—not quite enough light to illuminate the fractious battle plans.

Historical Matches Enter the Chess Books

Certain mad and luminous nights spent in that charged circle swell up in my wavering mind: A celestial vendor of spirits materializes from out of the darkness beyond the low cement retaining wall—with a cache of bottles that are available at very reasonable prices which are eagerly scooped up by thirsty clients as deals are struck under the pulsing orange globes. A shopping bag filled with bottles of wine, whiskey, and beer—clinking and clattering, circles the table—a voice hawking the stolen (?) wares. Deals are struck: $5.00 for the wine, $6.00 for the whiskey. The spirits are uncorked and flow—a paper cup filled with rum is knocked over by a drunken hand and a tidal-wash spreads over the filth-laden squares, mixing with bits of discarded food, crumbs, burnt matches, cigarette butts, perhaps a few stray noodles from a Chinese take-out, and nameless substances coating the pebbled surface—the whole wishing for the cleansing rains to wash the tables and urine-soaked concrete beneath it. “Hey, chess player! Chess player!" Another hand hastily pours beer into a paper cup which fulminates and foams over onto the checkered squares, mixing and commingling with the rum. A thin film of booze coats the board as a Rook is loosened from its moorings and is observed floating diagonally in violation of its strictly prescribed powers of forward or lateral movement! Marijuana joints, smoked down to a nib, fall into the eighth of an inch of booze on the board’s surface, and extinguish themselves with a hiss.

Chess Traps, Pitfalls, and Swindles

Filthy, chipped and broken chess pieces—mismatched queens, scarred bishops, wounded knights, and pawns replaced by pennies, or bottle-caps, are marshaled amid drunken shouts and rasping coughs. And all around us the roiling ocean of crazed hustlers and psychos keep up a steady cacophony of threats, insults, and propositions. "Smoke? smoke?". Grizzled prophets in wild, flowing garb, who look as if they had stepped right out of the Old Testament, pass by our table, preaching at the top of their lungs, to everyone and no one. Sometimes it may have been the influence of a full moon, or perhaps some peculiar planetary configuration—or maybe it was nothing at all that had set them off on their mad tirades and speeches and squabbles—who knew? And no one was at all concerned—it was just another evening in the wild old chess quadrant in Washington Square Park.

Pungent smoke originates from obscure points around the charmed circle as the spirits are ingested—the whole is lifted into a cacophony—a pageant, as costumed actors play their parts—all building to a frenzy. “Hey, chess player! Chess player! Over here!”. Where are the cops? They have seemingly abandoned the absurd bacchanal—a revolving theater, a spinning top.

As night would descend on the circle, the level of danger and criminality would increase—black ink-stain patches of darkness would swell all around this criminal outpost. Minor disputes over infinitesimal quantities of drugs or money would escalate into beastly rage—99% of the time it was harmless posturing and braggadocio, but you were never quite sure when the posing might lead to spilled blood. Deep into the ink-black void, the hustlers played on, with hardly enough light to play.

And where do they all go when they leave the circle? To what obscure haunts and hovels?

Brotherhood of the Circle

Driven out of my home across town, I naturally gravitated to WSQ and particularly to the chess circle. The concentration required to play a game of chess had the wonderful effect of driving all thoughts of homelessness and poverty out of my head: I was free in this circle! The fiery world within the circle represented hearth, home, and a piratical sense of fraternity. When it was at its absolute zenith, and was really cranking, the circle was the very center of the world, complete with its own hierarchy of potentates, warlords, overseers, and court clowns, jesters, musicians, and entertainers. In my perilous circumstances, it was the world outside the circle that held the true terrors. While inside the boundaries of that modern day Tortuga, that pirates cove, I felt a sense of gravity, of brotherhood, it was a privilege to be a part of this rogue’s gathering. Thieves, hustlers, escaped mental patients, angels, devils, friends, wonderful people, and men of great learning have all assembled over the decades in that electric quadrant. There were perhaps a half dozen personalities that would reappear year after year—but aside from these stalwarts, an ever-changing cast of characters would appear mysteriously in the early Spring, solidly establishing themselves for a season, taking up residence at a particular table, creating their own fiefdoms, and holding court in a most conspicuous and ceremonious manner, as if they had been there all their lives, then departing in the late Fall when the weather got too cold, never to reappear again. No one knew or cared what had happened to them—maybe they were in jail, shot dead, or perhaps just moved on, or maybe they simply disappeared off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Where they all went in the winter was a great mystery, and I gave up asking.

Destruction of the Circle, and Banishment to the North West Quadrant

A few of the old regulars, now transplanted to the North-West Quadrant, appear almost ridiculous among the new polished-stone tables and antiseptic environs of the new WSQ. Vague echoes and crackling flashbacks of the old buccaneer zone haunt the park—a great New York institution now in limbo—gutted, transplanted, and uncertain of its future—the only certainty being that nothing will ever be the same. The Old Park swirls around me and through me—“Hey, chess player! Chess player! Over here!”

In the Temple

From Journal #48
Monday, July 27, 2009

3:24—In the Temple in the Village, (now gone!) as the thunderstorm comes on... I’m the only one in here—sitting on a stool up in front and looking out the window at the rain. I can see the WSQ arch and the Empire State Building to the north—the only reason that these views are possible is because the church that used to be across the street has been razed and an empty lot now sits there (shockingly!) on the corner of Third & Thompson. I struggle to remember what the church looked like: I remember stained glass and a modernist style—maybe the 1960's?). A portal has opened temporarily (soon to be shut!), offering a rare and unexpected view—a phantom corridor cut through brick, mortar, and memory.

Now the rains come in earnest and I welcome them—it is comforting somehow in this hollow hour of uncertainty. The rains bring a measure of cessation to the street activity which is certainly welcome. The music is distracting: one pompous piece of classical puffery ends and another takes it’s place immediately... but the pen flutters on, leaving a tell-tale record of smeared-ink hieroglyphic symbols. The Empire State has become pale and gray with indistinct outlines… marooned at Third & Thompson, sipping a bitter barley tea that cost me $1.50: a reasonable price to pay to have a refuge from the storm. I feel better in here than I do in the park—the park is to a large extent intolerable these days: The Desecrated Park*.

3:39—What is to become of me? Steady downpour... Rain-dance in Demonium Square, as streets become fluid, elastic, and strewn with psychic debris…and still the rains come...but no refuge from my troubled thoughts: ensconced—burrowed-in—wedged-in—and hunkered down in the confines of this anomaly known as the Temple in the Village. But even the Temple will be off-limits as soon as the construction begins across the street. I’m sure that the dust, dirt, and fumes will be sucked right through the door—to say nothing of the noise—and I'll be driven out once again*.  But the temple has already closed forever—the proprietors and customers continue their rounds—unaware of their own demise. Smeared thoughts, watery observations, and ink-run despondencies.

Now raining hard... downpour... the rain hits the street and sidewalk with an incredible violence: The Dance of Maddened Molecules, as fugitive colors run out before our troubled eyes... a weird and melancholy outpost in Absentia.

Storm is starting to abate—I don’t know if I welcome this development or not... skies are gradually lightening but it’s still raining...

Third and Thompson Rain-Follies.

In the Downpour...