Know Your Eurasia Vol.I

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Know that Neh it has risen.
It is Season of Neh once again.
Lucky who embrace his chilly blessing.
In the Chapel of the First Rat we seek.
The Shard of the First Rat.
For let others take of Koka or Vikoka.
All we ever need is Neh.
~07.09.1965
Urgenhof 7/19
Assarikin,
Malsta Province,
Eurasia.

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Where am I, when I'm not here.
Says Xenia.
I'm in Mexico, of course.
And what do I do there?
Just the usual stuff.
There I am known as Mania.
Commander-coloner Mania.
On the ultimate raid against the Atlantists.
My head's full of commands and trajectories.
Heavy mortars and heavy boots.
Tracks, salvos, bombing runs.
I dig it all.
Sometimes I get bored and wander in the shade of those pyramid things.
Sometimes I steal codeine jelly from the medical stash.
I eat an entire bowl of the thing.
Sometimes I eavesdrop on the Atlantist frequencies.
I do remember some of their tongue.
Sometimes I pretend not to see the Latino volunteers, as they plunder the dead for boots, watches and amphetamines.
Or sometimes I pass near a pueblo, that we know was hiding the Atlantists.
Then we bury every third man alive.
Rape every second female.
Burn their feeble crops with flamethrowers.
Sprawy anthrax onto their huts.
Release untested bacterial agents on their children and grand-children.
Why not.
After all, there is no tribunal left to put us on trial.
We are not so alike, me and Mila.
I like my hair loose.
She always holds them with a metal ring.
Mila gets up half past eight.
I never leave my bunk before ten.
Mila often goes to the Negro POW's.
Before they're sent to twenty five years hard labour.
I'd rather sit on a Dziva missile.
It's nothing but a huge polished phallus.
Mila and I used to fight.
We used to struggle for control.
Now we have learnt to share.
The biggest difference is.
Mila is always in Mexico.
For me it's only a part-time thing.
Over which I have no control.
Yesterday it happened.
We drove into an Atlantist ambush.
The M60 fire pierced the periscope, so I had to peek out of the command tank.
I... Mila... we were directing corrosive rounds.
When I noticed this gunner staring at me.
He had terror on his face.
And I didn't know why.
The gunner touched his cheek.
I touched mine.
It was half burnt.
A phoshorus round.
It ricocheted off the armour.
I didn't feel a thing.

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Was it the adrenaline rush.
The thrill of ongoing sortie.
Or maybe all this codeine and cure-wina has numbed my cranial nerve.
Half my cheek gone like that, with bleeding, with skin peeling off.
Didn't care at the moment.
I was about to return to fighting.
When my body shut down.
I have never felt this before.
Leaving Mexico was always different.
A short blackout as I was flung back to myself.
But now I was still there.
Only unable to move one muscle.
I collapsed like a ragdoll.
My head smashing into the mapboard.
The hatch slammed shut.
I was trapped inside a trap.
This body curled on the floor.
As if it had umbrella wires for bones.
Bullets bouncing off the armour.
I felt every single one of them.
Never thought my nerves could get this sensitive.
I cried to Mila, but Mila didn't answer.
All this took no more than two minutes.
But it's not how it felt.
Then it cut abruptly.
I heard a screech and felt my consciousness sliced off.
But some part of it remained in Mila.
I don't know where I was.
Felt like something.
Something in-between.
Narrow edges of my self finally connected.
But there was no relief.
Only bitter aftertaste of powerlessnes.
I am not Mila.
This I know.
But now it turns out.
I may, at some places and times.
Not be Xenia as well.

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To book an interlake to Assarikin, Malsta. To find that one cathinarium hidden from the crowds. To enter the joint and inhale the pungent odour. As the smooth Kalmuk waiter eagerly shows you to your seat. This, fellow Eurasians, this only is to live for real. The tension arising before you order and are served. It's even better than the experience itself.
I will never forget that cathinarium back in Assarikin's conurbia, the one I found amongst all these hopeless apartment blocks. It was shielded with rebar and obstructed by prickroot.
Even the customary lantern barely shined.
Into the dim coatroom I walked. More of curiosity than anything. I didn't have high hopes.
There were barely any customers inside. The neat waiter let me choose a seat (the plush cubicle near the edge of the hall).
I was presented with the usual set: polished plate, scoop, pincers, neat little weigh, edged card, surgical steel tube (not my jazz), quite decent paper rolls (they had to do since I forgot to pack my lucky note), nose drips, linen tissue and a curious little tin with well known content. Catha already? I haven't even opened the menu. Fortunately it was soon explained. This was a sample free of charge, an appetiser of sorts. I was pleasantly surprised. No cathinarium in the upper town offers such gifts. Yet I didn't take from the tin. I wanted to taste the main course fresh.

The first few minutes after the first line of the day. That's all I could live for. This magnificent buildup. It's no habit, it's more than a ritual. It's pure art down to its core. It starts with the nose. A sharp cut if it's a needly variety. A chilly wave if it's powdery. No matter the kind, there's always a little sting. A lovely gentle kind of pain. So you remember what you're dealing with. Soon after you begin to feel the taste. Be it bitter, salty, sour, it won't be pleasant. It's not supposed to be. Here you may take the first sip of electrolytic water. Or just swallow the taste down, this you learn with time. Now comes the big moment, a favourite of many, when it moves to the teeth. Dull numbness, all the way from the front of your molars to the back of the jaw. Sometimes in the throat too. It is now when the urge to grind your teeth becomes irresistible. Nose starts running a bit. More saliva in the entire mouth. Little jolts prick your muscles. You'd rather be inhaling through the mouth. The blood pressure has risen visibly. It is this precise moment, when you reach the fringe. At the same time you already cherish the effect and still wait for it. You really don't know, what you feel. You're as if suspended in your very own cathinone terra incognita.
At this and only this point you truly are your master.
And then the cathinone takes control.
The rest, my fellow Eurasians, is the ever repeating history.

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Oh, the days.
The days I spent in Opiiland with aetheric Stysia Kottovitz.
Each morning we'd make love by the open window.
Then Stysia would leave to work and I would go shopping.
There's this giant suuk in Tebair.
Entirely dedicated to poppies.
Over sixty types of poppy seed.
Weak, medium, strong.
Analgasic, euphoric or sedative.
Sour and sweet.
With a psychedelic pinch or a little cathinone.
Every day I would try something different.
With twenty exats worth of poppy seeds, I took a tram home.
I'd take out the trusty scouring pot.
One of the old ones, authentic local craftsmanship with hand-painted decals.
Stysia bought it from a merchant in an undergound pass. It cost her two laudans and a half-empty packet of rose gum. Stysia had many gifts. Finding things in most obscure places was one of them.
After all these months, my scouring was quick and precise as if I was raised by the Opii villagepeople. The ones who still live by the old creed.
I poured the opii tea to a special goblet.
I would give it a sniff or two, trying to guess its strenght from the smell.
That was important to me.
Strenght of the opii tea can make all the difference.
I would have ones you could belt ten goblets of and still have apetite for more.
And I would have oneswhich made me throw up after three sips.
They were almost black colour and stinked like industrial oil.
So, to know the strenght is important to me.
I need to know if I should dilute it with water, add cherry syrup or prepare a bowl.
During my first weeks in Opiiland I would stimulate my receptors with all sorts of stuff.
Codeine jelly, morphine bars, laudanum cocktails, you name it.
By the second month I was dedicated to poppy tea only.
It just doesn't compare.
A take-away tebaine coffee or a roll of oxycandies.
They feel like any other consumables.
With their flashy wrapping and expiration date.
Crammed on shelves in piles.
Advertised in the streets.
No different to bread or paper towels.
And that's how they worked.

youre a pretty funny pretentious junkie, at least

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Tell me all you want about it being in the substance.
That the brain can't possibly tell the difference.
I heard it all.
But I know what I felt.
Like I was taking mock-ups of styrofoam and sillicon.
So shallow.
So rapid.
So unattractive.
The codeine heat would feel like somone stuck a cheap thermophore inside my guts.
Euforia?
Yeah, right.
Mindless pumping under my skull.
And not even a single nod at the end of the session.
I realized, who they made it for.
The Eurasians of the office and sport.
A cheap snack that hits quick.
Is always predictable.
Gives you the dullest comfort.
And wears off just in time for you to hit the gym.
That day I emptied my box of supply.
And threw it all into the garbage compactor.
Poppy tea is not a drink.
It's a complete philosophy, a whole different mode of being.
Rooted deep into the old order of things.
Yet flexible enough to instill new awe.
Take a day off.
Take the bus out of the city.
Look at a greybeard bent over his scouring.
This is no mere chore.
He is deep in a trance-like state.
As the sieve goes round and round, and the seeds murmur in the water.
It's sometimes more beneficial to scour than to drink.
Poppy tea is a demanding mistress.
Sure, swarms of tourists managed to bend it a bit.
Their are single-use scouring kits you find in every kiosk.
A real poppy tea experience, now yours for a fiver.
They have their electric engine pots and their ziplock bags of "prime selected" tasteless seeds (they have it triple sifted, you won't find one sliver of straw in there) which give odorless, clear and safe tea.
Let them have it all.
I should see the poppy tea prevail.
And the mountains of Opiiland.
Shall echo with the gritty sound of scouring pots as they are turning, turning, turning.
Now I'm far from Opiiland and Stysia Kottovitz.
There is no poppy tea here.
Only semi-decent seeds are sold in another orderate.
A cup every couple of months at most.

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I don't even have a scouring pot.
Like a Tesseran beggar, I use a saucepan and an old rag.
Or sometimes even a plastic bottle.
Poppy seeds spill everywhere and the room reeks of them for weeks.
There never was a poppy tea tradition here.
They barely import anything from Opiiland at all.
These Eurasians drink vodapur in the wind.
Grieve at the taverns over mugs of stinking herbal beer.
Catha is popular amongst the loggers and craners.
It's cheap and half-raw.
They only rub it into their gums.
And some obscure pagans from the Caucus.
They inhale aether all the time.
Barely any younglings here.
I'm satisfied with what I got.
I only drink cure-wine from Pollin.
And only while trying to learn something from that ancient meta-linguistics textbook.
I get the feeling these parts are intoxicating enough.
I dig that aura when the dusk is at hand.
The light is off and I'm browsing obscure articles on my monochrome transceiver.
I'm really not that kind of a Eurasian.
But if the Crypt opened here one day.
I really wouldn't be surprised.

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I must say, the fellas from Malsta really are improving. Every next cut is better than the previous one. This time I had the"Shard od the First Rat" and the "Flux of Neh", one gramme each. Of the two, the Shard is overall better. But this aside, both these cathinones are of well-above-average quality. From what I gathered, the Shard was the more social blend, with milder dopamine release and, as a consequence, faster wear-off. Nothing nearly this subtle about The Flux. This dopamine-fueled rush we have known and loved in the previous generation of blends.
A steady rise in quality with fixed prices, is what we observe currently at the Malstan makers. Good job, boys. Eurasia is proud of you.

>>19556915
with all due respect, a p s y c h o n a u t