The grand tradition of the wake and bake. Something magical occurs breathing in the sweet lingering smoke with the light drizzling into the cracks while still comprehending the day ahead.
While I’m not sure if anyone can trace the origins of this grand tradition, this early poem by Club Des Hashischins member Arthur Rimbaud hints at discovering the magic written between 1869-1872…
I guess we all read what we want to read
Dawn
I embraced the summer dawn.
Nothing was stirring yet on the fronts of the palaces. The water was dead. The crowds of shadows had not yet left the woodland road. I walked, waking vivid warm breaths, and the precious stones looked up, and wings rose without sound.
The first adventure, on the path already full of cool pale gleams, was a flower that told me its name.
I smiled at the blond disheveled waterfall among the fir trees: on the silvered peak I recognized the Goddess.
Then I lifted the veils one by one. In the lane, waving my arms. On the plain where I denounced her to the cock. In the city, she fled among bell-towers and domes, and, running like a beggar across the marble quays, I chased after her.
At the top of the road, near a laurel wood, I surrounded her with her gathered veils, and I felt her vast body a little. Dawn and the child fell down at the foot of the wood.
Waking, it was noon.
By Arthur Rimbaud
