Chapter VII: The Questions Science Won’t Ask

Rules That Violate Function
 In the ICU, I was constantly running into policies, protocols, and rules that defined what I was supposedly “allowed” to do for a patient. What I did not yet understand was that not all rules serve the same purpose. Some genuinely protect patients. Others protect institutions. It was the latter that got me every time. To everyone else, and sometimes even to me, it probably looked like I simply didn’t like rules.
 What I reacted to, instinctively and viscerally, were rules that violated function.
 The most absurd example I ever encountered came on my first day running an ICU at the University of Wisconsin.
 I walked into a patient’s room and did what I had done thousands of times before. I checked the ventilator: synchrony, pressures, volumes. The patient was struggling. I made a few adjustments.
 When I turned around, the room had gone silent.
 Faces were pale. Eyes were wide. Someone finally said it.
 “You’re not allowed to touch the ventilator.”
 This wasn’t because I was a trainee. I was literally the new ICU director they had recruited from New York City, where I had spent a decade teaching mechanical ventilation to pulmonary and critical care specialists. I had read Martin Tobin’s Principles and Practice of Mechanical Ventilation twice. The thing was the size of two Bibles. Ventilators were my obsession.
 None of that mattered.
 It turned out that the ICU I had accepted leadership of had a long-standing policy: no physician, fellow, or attending, novice or expert, was permitted to adjust a ventilator unless a respiratory therapist (RT) with six weeks of mechanical ventilator training at a vocational school was physically present at the bedside.
 The reason became clear almost immediately. Decades earlier, someone—likely undertrained, overtired, and working in a different era—had made a ventilator error. A patient had been harmed. The hospital had been sued. Instead of fixing training or clarifying responsibility, the institution did what institutions often do: it outlawed judgment.
 From that moment forward, physicians were prohibited from directly managing the single most important machine in critical care.
 The consequences, in my mind, were grotesque.
 Fellows in training to become ventilator experts were functionally barred from touching ventilators. Overworked clinicians deferred adjustments because finding an RT took too long. Patients labored, desaturated, turned red, and struggled in plain view while care was delayed by rules about who was allowed to touch the machine.
 I was written up for breaking that rule. On my first day. Welcome to Wisconsin.
 Then, a month later, I entered the room of a severely flow-starved, cyanotic patient in distress and unconsciously did what physicians are trained to do: I changed numerous settings and rescued the patient, only to have the RT walk in afterward. Later, the email arrived.
 Policy violation.
 Palm to forehead. Clown world.
 I was so furious that I immediately set out to change the policy, and the effort consumed months. Undoing it required innumerable committee meetings and sparked institutional trench warfare. In the end, I won, but not by reason.
 Someone higher up had finally, and quietly, intervened, I suspect out of fear that I would resign if the policy remained in place (I was certainly thinking about it). At last, fellows were allowed to manage ventilators. Training improved. Patient care improved.
 As a result of that experience, I never attempted to change an institutional policy again.
 Rules That Outlaw Judgment
 Looking back, I now see that episode as the first time I encountered a system that prohibited the very knowledge it required in order to function well. This chapter exists because, during the research for this book, I kept running into a similar kind of dysfunction.
 Again and again, I found that certain texts from antiquity seemed to describe, with unsettling precision, the very material processes I was uncovering in relation to Shimanishi’s work. Yet each time I followed one of those connections further, I developed the sense that my questions were entering territory they were not supposed to enter.
 I slowly discovered that what I had assumed were legitimate scientific questions were, in the modern world, more often relegated to metaphysics, philosophy, or theology.
 I did not come into this book trying to “prove” anything metaphysical. In From Volcanoes to Vitality , I began with a much narrower question: why these minerals seemed to restore such striking vitality in my patients. Following that question led me first into the mechanisms of minerals in biology, then into the role of water, and from there into a broader recognition that the loss of vitality was not confined to my patients but appeared to run through modern life more generally. I expected chemistry, physiology, and perhaps even physics. I assumed the data would be messy, but that I would eventually arrive at least some partial explanations, and maybe even a few confident conclusions. I did not expect the work to lead me into questions that science seemed unable to contain.
 I began to sense that the same kind of gatekeeping I had encountered in medicine was also operating more broadly in science. As I tried to understand why certain questions felt as though they were crossing a boundary, I discovered the words for the territory they were entering: teleology and design.
 I learned that teleology and design had long belonged to philosophy, especially metaphysics, natural theology, and the philosophy of nature.
 I also began to see a distinction between the mechanistic questions that led to the writing of FVTV and the questions that arose once I began studying texts from antiquity and Scripture. My questions had become teleological: they were asking what minerals and water were for. They also began pressing toward the question of design: whether ISAW and the Rock–Water Circuit were, in some sense, designed.
 That was when I learned that modern science no longer accepts or meaningfully engages such questions, even though questions about what things are, how they are ordered, and whether their organization reflects purpose were, for most of human history, a normal part of serious thought.
 When Science Banned “Why”
 In the mid-nineteenth century, a conceptual framework that would later be called methodological naturalism argued that scientific inquiry should restrict itself to observable, testable, reproducible mechanisms within nature, while setting aside questions of purpose, meaning, or ultimate origin.
 This notion was advanced to make science more operationally powerful, espoused by thinkers such as Comte, Mill, and Huxley, and later adopted broadly by scientific institutions. The argument was that science should restrict itself to what is experimentally accessible in order to protect itself from speculation, theology, and unfalsifiable claims.
 As I began reading about methodological naturalism, I initially found it both practical and reasonable. The scientific method is extraordinarily powerful within its domain, and it needs boundaries in order to function. What struck me only later was that, over time, gaps in understanding began to form as entire categories of scientific reasoning quietly disappeared.
 What disappeared first was the permission to ask what a system is for. And once that permission narrowed, the further question of design—whether a system’s persistent organization toward an end reflects intention—was pushed even farther outside what was considered acceptable.
 Teleology and design ask related but distinct questions, and those questions lead to different kinds of explanation. Teleology asks what a system is for, describing it in terms of the ends it serves or the functions it reliably accomplishes. Design asks whether such persistent organization toward an end is best understood as the product of intention. Mechanistic explanation, by contrast, confines itself to asking only how an outcome is produced and to describing the sequence of causes through which it occurs.
 A strictly mechanistic description of the heart’s function would say that cardiac muscle contracts rhythmically in response to electrical signaling. A teleological explanation would say that the heart exists to pump blood through the body. A design-oriented account would say that a structure so precisely ordered toward that end suggests intention.
 The same distinctions can be seen in cosmology. A mechanistic account would say that geological cycles redistribute elements through rock, water, and atmosphere in ways later used by biological systems. A teleological account would say that Earth’s mineral cycles are organized to sustain life. A design-oriented view would say that a system so precisely ordered toward life-enabling and life-sustaining ends is best understood as intended.
 The problem is that, in the wake of methodological naturalism, modern science moved toward an almost exclusive focus on mechanism while resisting questions of purpose and largely avoiding questions of intention.
 For most of human history, however, teleological and design-oriented reasoning were not treated as intellectual embarrassments. Aristotle called teleology “final causation.” Engineers use both forms of reasoning instinctively. Physicians rely on them constantly. You cannot practice medicine without asking what an organ is for, and, especially in medical school, you cannot fail to notice how precisely each organ’s structure is arranged to achieve that end.
 Although the intellectual narrowing that began in the nineteenth century indeed made science extraordinarily powerful within its newly chosen domain, it also carried a cost: entire modes of reasoning were pushed outside the frame.
 When Darwin’s Theory of Evolution Expanded Past Its Domain
 Once teleology and design were removed, science went on describing systems that were unmistakably ordered, functionally coordinated, and often astonishingly well fitted to specific ends, but it did so in language that, to me in hindsight, now seems oddly evasive. Systems with clear functional orientation were said to have “emerged.” Architectures that looked purpose-built were redescribed as “self-organized.” Intricate coordination and governance were acknowledged only as “highly complex,” as though complexity could ever serve as an explanation.
 The words changed, yet the systems they were describing did not. However, the explanatory work still had to be done by something, and that, in my view, is where evolution began expanding beyond its proper domain, at least conceptually. What had originally been a theory of change within living systems gradually became part of a broader habit of explaining everything as arising from prior conditions over time through incremental transformation.
 I am not interested in debating evolution itself, though I have read some intriguing critiques of it. My point is narrower and, I think, more important: evolutionary theory was developed to explain how biological traits change over time within living systems, and yet we now use it, consciously or not, as part of a framework for explaining almost everything.
 Even if one grants evolution all that it legitimately explains, the enormous prior structure that made it possible remains to be accounted for: a rock in space embedded with a mineral chemistry that, when carried by water, creates energy gradients, redox chemistry, and mineral cycling that power all life on Earth. Evolution unfolded atop those prior conditions. It explains how living systems change over time, but it does not explain where the system itself came from, why it exists, or why it is so precisely ordered.
 I find it striking that this same conceptual posture appears to have subtly or overtly infiltrated our understanding of planets, stars, and even the universe itself, even though these domains are not alive, do not reproduce, and thus cannot undergo biological selection. It increasingly seems to me that many scientists now carry on their work guided by a broad assumption that change over time can stand in for origin, and that is why the deepest question keeps getting deferred rather than answered: what produced the initial conditions in the first place?
 I should also admit that, for most of my career, I did not explore questions of origin either and, in retrospect, had unconsciously accepted the easy notion that everything that currently exists came from things before, usually over some incomprehensibly long period of time. Part of what made that posture so easy to adopt was that, even if I had tried to pursue teleological or design questions, I would have had no way to produce the quantity or quality of evidence considered “sufficient” to prove anything.
 Insufficient Evidence
 Those words now bring a smile to my face, because they remind me that I have a single tattoo, acquired at the age of fifty-three in the middle of the global war on ivermectin. I got it partly on a whim and partly to bond with my then fifteen-year-old daughter, who wanted her first tattoo. On my left shoulder, in block print, are the words INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE.
 At the time, it was my own private rebuke to the entire world of academics, experts, and authorities that kept insisting that ivermectin did not work, and that anyone claiming otherwise was doing so on the basis of “insufficient evidence,” even though I knew from the first patient I treated that it worked. But in the context of this book, and this chapter, the phrase has now taken on a different meaning, and I find that interesting.
 As a clinician-scientist, I never spent time pursuing teleological or design arguments because I assumed there was no point. Any argument along those lines would, by definition, never have sufficient evidence to satisfy the standards of modern science, and so the whole territory seemed futile before it was even entered.
 And yet here we are. The next five chapters are, in effect, my attempt to marshal a historically unusual kind of evidence, one capable of supporting teleological and design arguments in a way I once would have assumed impossible. If I have changed, it is because I followed the evidence far enough that the old prohibitions no longer held, not because I “found religion.”
 Where the Explanations Ran Out
 As I worked through the mineral chemistry underlying ISAW, then followed that chemistry forward into biology and backward into geology, I found myself being pushed beyond mechanism and toward questions of function, teleology, and design. And the reason was simple: every field kept pointing back to the same architecture—iron, sulfur, aluminum, water, and charge. The same mineral logic repeated across scales. The same boundary principles governed rocks, microbes, plants, animals, and humans.
 The deeper I went, the less randomness I saw. Instead, I kept finding systems that were internally consistent and remarkably well governed. At some point, I realized I was no longer just describing mechanisms. I was describing systems that behaved as though they were organized to do something, and that realization is what forced this chapter into existence.
 What I am questioning, then, is something else entirely: the claim that evolution is sufficient as a total explanation of life and reality. During my months-long immersion in mineral science, I never came across examples of chaos or randomness accidentally producing order. What I saw, again and again, was order giving rise to more order. I found systems, from cosmology to biology, in which basic structure determined which processes could occur within them, and those processes, once underway, worked to keep that structure intact. In other words, the arrangement shaped the behavior, and the behavior continuously reinforced the arrangement. I was looking at systems that appeared built to sustain themselves.
 And once I began developing a sense of what these systems were arranged to accomplish, I started to ask: how did such a system come into being at all? A serendipitous geochemical accident, a spontaneous arrangement of extraordinarily coordinated parts, cycling endlessly through time, with both minerals and water never exhausted, only redistributed, moving through different forms, locations, and functions before reentering the cycle?
 Ultimately, the question became more literal: how does a universe governed by conserved energy, coherent order, and reusable architectures give rise to life at all—and then to systems so fertile, diverse, and self-sustaining that they emerge wherever conditions permit?
 The next step in that inquiry comes from history. More specifically, it comes from a body of texts that carried forward, in symbolic form, a kind of knowledge I once would have dismissed as impossible to verify and therefore impossible to use. This is where the evidence changes category, and where this book moves into its real center.

 *If you value the late nights and deep dives into all the “rabbit holes” I write about (or the Op-Eds and lectures I generate for the public), your support is greatly appreciated.
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 From Research to Practice - Links Below Image

 Aurmina – The Mineral Extract For Naturally Vitalized Drinking Water
 Primora Bio - Bringing Life Back To Soil
 Leading Edge Clinic - Tele-Medicine Clinic Caring For Patients in All 50 States
 The War on Ivermectin - The Medicine That Could have Ended the Pandemic
 The Blueprint of Life - The Hidden Architecture That Powers Life and Health
 From Volcanoes to Vitality -The Untold Story of Asao Shimanishi
 The War on Chlorine Dioxide - The Medicine That Could End Medicine
 Medical Musings - A View From the Inside Of Modern Medicine

Summary: A rule can safeguard life or outlaw judgment. From the ICU to modern science, this chapter asks what happens when systems forbid the very questions required to understand life.


Chapter VIII: Alchemy: The First Mineral Science

Living Water, Mechanized
 Up to this point, I have argued that certain physical systems, particularly those involving minerals, water, charge, and structure, display a level of organization that modern scientific frameworks struggle to fully explain once questions of purpose are excluded. That argument stands on contemporary chemistry and physics alone. What follows is something different.
 What I did not expect, and certainly did not go looking for, was that the same processes we described in the Rock–Water Circuit Theory, and in the foundational ISAW chemistry underlying it, appeared to be described—symbolically but consistently—in a body of texts written long before modern scientific language existed.
 One of the first things that grabbed my attention was that water appeared at the center of everything: in modern chemistry and biology, and in the older symbolic languages as well. But that recognition was only the beginning. As From Volcanoes to Vitality (FVTV) neared what I thought would be its completion, a series of connections to ancient literature began to emerge that no longer seemed to belong within that book.
 That is where this book began. It also explains why FVTV remains unfinished. I had expected to complete it first, but this material intervened and demanded to be written. Even so, FVTV has not released its hold on me, and I must return to it as soon as this manuscript is submitted.
 By that point, I had already followed water through mineral interfaces, charge separation, proton flow, biological organization, and the larger cycling of life itself. What I had not expected was to discover how many traditions had already described water as possessing unusual and even transformative properties.
 Hermetic and alchemical texts spoke of “Living Water” and of baths in which matter is dissolved and recomposed. Scripture spoke of “waters of life,” “living fountains,” and of the Spirit moving over the waters at creation. Daoist alchemists described circulating inner fluids that renew the body.
 For a long time, I would have read all of that as metaphor, or as spiritual language without a clear physical meaning. But once we had Shimanishi’s process in hand, numerous phrases from both the alchemical texts and Scripture began mapping with striking fidelity onto both his method and the Rock–Water Circuit Theory.
 What modern science now describes in the language of chemistry, physics, and biology, older traditions described in symbolic language. Water was not treated as a passive background. It was treated as the active medium that carries, dissolves, mediates, renews, and enables transformation. Once I saw that, the question changed. It was no longer a question of whether the language was poetic. It was whether the poetry was describing something that modern science would only later describe more precisely.
 That is the question this chapter begins to test, and it requires first setting aside what most of us think alchemy is.
 Alchemy’s Real Aim
 Alchemy long predates the medieval caricature most people now associate with it. Its roots span from roughly 3000 BC in Egypt, to Hellenistic Hermeticism in the first centuries AD, then to the eighth century in Islam, where the first laboratory chemistry appears, and finally into Renaissance Europe, where Paracelsus explicitly linked minerals to medicine.
 However, when people hear the word alchemy , most immediately think of medieval cranks trying to turn lead into gold. That is an unfortunate misconception because, in practice, alchemy was actually the first experimental mineral science, employing methods such as dissolving, extracting, purifying, crystallizing, and distilling. What is less widely recognized, and what took me months to understand, is that beyond mineral chemistry, its deeper aim was restoration: the restoration of matter, of water, and of the human body.
 Among the major streams of Western alchemy, the Hermetic tradition became one of its most enduring and influential, shaping how generations of alchemists understood nature, transformation, and the aim of the Work. Attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, it treated nature as intelligible, unified, and governed by hidden correspondences between visible and invisible processes. From that tradition emerged the concept of the Great Work.
 At first, I misunderstood that phrase, thinking it referred to a text or a body of teaching. In alchemy, it refers instead to a process: the transformation of matter from a corrupted or base state into one that is purified, ordered, and incorruptible. The material expression of that process was the medicine, tincture, or elixir sought by the alchemists—what later traditions would call the Golden Elixir or Elixir of Life.
 I, too, had always thought of alchemists as cranks chasing wealth. As I began to study them, I quickly learned that the “gold” they kept referring to was metaphorical rather than literal, denoting purity, coherence, incorruptibility, and restored life. Their obfuscation of the word gold was intentional, to protect themselves, as they were trespassing into forbidden territory: natural transformation, healing, creation.
 Appearing foolish was one way to escape persecution. Their heavy reliance on symbolism also served a separate, practical purpose: discouraging untrained imitators from injuring or killing themselves with mercury vapor, arsenic, acids, and explosive distillations. The gold metaphor itself functioned as a filter. As one historian put it, “the alchemists hid nothing; they wrote plainly, but only for those capable of reading.”
 And that last clause matters more than it sounds like it should. Because alchemical language is difficult in a different way. Chemistry is difficult because it is technical. Alchemy is difficult because it is built to mislead a literal reader. It is written to defeat the reader who assumes words behave like modern nouns. The same term can shift meaning from one line to the next while remaining faithful to the underlying process it is describing. If you read these texts literally, you get a false map. But you can also get a false map by making the opposite mistake: correctly identifying what a term refers to in one passage, then assuming it must carry that same meaning everywhere else.
 That, to me, is where the real difficulty began, because it was only after the scientific picture had taken shape that I began to see how such language might be describing something real.
 Entering the Labyrinth
 We arrived at the Rock–Water Circuit through the modern scientific literature, following biochemistry, geochemistry, hydrology, and origin-of-life research wherever the evidence led. Piece by piece, a core architecture came into view: a complete cycle in which mineral chemistry formed slowly in rock, was opened and mobilized by water, entered living systems, returned over long geologic time to rock, and eventually reentered water to begin the cycle again. That last recursive movement—from life back to rock, and from rock back into water—is where MB and I believe our work extends current origin-of-life science.
 During that same period, MB kept drawing my attention to older texts—alchemical writings, fragments of Scripture, symbolic passages he believed preserved knowledge of mineral processes, sulfur chemistry, and the larger planetary order. At first, I did not know what to do with them. My attention was fixed on the modern literature and on determining whether the full cycle we thought we were seeing could be justified on scientific grounds alone.
 Only after that modern picture had sufficiently taken shape did I begin looking more seriously at what MB had been showing me for months. By then, I had a more detailed understanding of the physical processes he believed the texts described, but little fluency in the symbolic language of alchemy. It took far longer than either of us expected to determine what each word meant literally in context. But little by little, decoding word by word, the resemblances he had intuited stopped feeling superficial or coincidental.
 The symbolic language began resolving into specific, repeatable physical operations. That distinction matters because throughout what follows, when I use the term Art , I mean the chemistry of Shimanishi’s laboratory process, and when I use Nature , I mean the larger Rock–Water Circuit as it operates in the world.
 The chapters that follow trace that realization step by step. This is the point at which the book enters the labyrinth: in alchemy, it refers to a deliberately constructed interpretive maze designed to defeat anyone who reads the text literally. It took MB and me months of failed readings, internal contradictions, cross-checking, and repeated returns to the primary texts to find a way through it.
 That labor was justified only because what stood at the center was the possibility that a real, repeatable, material process had been recognized, encoded, and transmitted across history long before modern science possessed the means to describe it in its own language.
 But before giving the reader the key we eventually built, I need to show why these texts resist literal reading so aggressively in the first place.
 The Failure of Literal Reading
 Every word that appears central is capitalized—Sun, Moon, Sulfur, Mercury, Body, Spirit, Stone—and nearly all of them fail on first contact. At first, I assumed I was reading poorly. Then I assumed the texts were inconsistent. Then I assumed they were mostly mystical poetry, and that any “mapping” I thought I saw was simply pattern matching. But the failures had a peculiar quality. They were not random. They were the kind of failures you get when a wrong assumption has been baked into the whole problem from the start.
 Of all people, I should have recognized that, given that my university degree was in mathematics. You can do a great deal of math with a wrong assumption. You can even get answers that look right, for a while. And then, two pages later, the whole structure collapses. That was my experience of the Hermetic canon.
 Mercury was the worst offender. I read it as a material. Then as water. Then as a mineral. Then as “something shiny.” Each reading worked briefly, then failed elsewhere. The same was true for Sulfur. The same was true for Body. Even Stone, of all words, refused to sit still on a single meaning.
 I would get excited. I would think, this is it. This time it fits. And then I would carry that “solution” into the next paragraph, only to watch it fall apart.
 The resolution came when I stopped demanding that the words behave like labels and started treating them as roles. That is because alchemy does not use nouns the way modern language does. It uses what I came to understand as role-grammar: nouns are used to describe functions or processes, not things or people. However, that understanding solved only half the problem, because they are often used as nouns as well. Thus, the interpretive rule I came up with was that nouns describe functions or properties of those functions—except when they don’t. Not super helpful. Thus, readers get lost when they decide too early what a word refers to and then force that meaning in other contexts.
 Shimanishi’s work had given us a concrete operational system, which became the reference point against which these texts could be tested. At first, the parallels felt uncanny, even strange. But the deeper we went, and the more rigorously we checked each term against the chemistry and against the extract itself, the more Shimanishi’s work kept allowing us to move forward.
 That allowed us to discover other alchemical “tricks.” We figured out that they also use the same words to describe the same physical operation, even when the step in the process changes. The operation remains constant, while the material it acts upon changes. Once that became clear, more confusion fell away. Nothing fundamentally new was being introduced.
 Another difficulty, and one that took us much longer to appreciate than it should have, was the sheer repetition of the alchemical texts. They do not simply describe a process or a property once and move on. They return to the same operation again and again, sometimes in the very next sentence, but under altered metaphors, altered terms, or altered emphases. To a literal reader, this feels like constant movement, as though new steps are being introduced at every turn. In reality, the text circles the same act, describing it from different symbolic angles until the reader either sees the operation beneath the language or becomes completely lost in the language itself.
 To make this more concrete, let me give an example of the kind of interpretive mistake that kept derailing me. One such mistake forced me to revise an earlier assumption I had made about a line from The Emerald Tablet , which you will meet soon: “The Father thereof is the Sun, the Mother the Moon.” I had initially treated those as stable referents, mapping biotite onto the Sun and vermiculite onto the Moon. But that reading began to collapse as soon as I followed the process more carefully. The language was not pointing to fixed substances. It was pointing to roles within an interaction.
 In this framework, the Sun does not name a rock. It names the activating principle: the force that penetrates, transforms, and brings about change. In the core chemistry we had identified, that role is most consistently fulfilled by sulfur, whether expressed as sulfated rainwater in the atmosphere or as sulfuric acid in Shimanishi’s laboratory.
 The Moon, by contrast, names the receptive body: the matrix that receives that action, opens, and yields its contents. In this cycle, that role can apply both to the closed mineral body, biotite, and to its opened form, vermiculite. What changes is not the role but the condition of the body receiving the work.
 Seen this way, “the father is the Sun and the mother the Moon” is not assigning fixed identities. It is describing an interaction. The active principle meets the body that has already been opened, transformed, and made to yield its essence.
 Body and Spirit often work the same way: not as fixed substances, but as role terms that can shift with scale and context.
 The words had not been inconsistent. I had been trying to hold them still.
 Then we arrive at the three capitalized terms that sent me deepest into the labyrinth: Sulfur, Mercury, and Salt. Because these words are so difficult and so unstable in the texts, it helps to state their core meanings as simply as possible at the outset.
 • Sulfur is activation: heat, oxidation, transformation
• Mercury is mediation: mobility, dissolution, transport
• Salt is fixation: structure, stability, persistence
 In Nature, sulfur appears as sulfur-bearing water over time, while Mercury refers to the mobile aqueous mineral medium moving through stone—that is, again, water. In Art, Mercury is the mercurial solvent doing the extracting and carrying—that is, sulfuric acid.
 It gets better. Later, when we reach The Six Keys of Eudoxus , it uses both the words Sulfur and Mercury to describe the role of sulfuric acid. It took us months to see that.
 Again, the words move but the process does not.
 What follows is the interpretive framework that MB and I arrived at after months of sustained study, failed readings, internal contradiction, cross-checking, and repeated return to the primary texts. To our knowledge, no prior interpretation has mapped these terms with this degree of operational and material precision. They stand or fall by whether they hold together across texts, chemistry, and scale. What allowed any of this to move beyond speculation was that we did not approach the texts empty-handed. We already possessed detailed knowledge of a real process against which their language could be tested.
 The Key We Had in Hand
 As described earlier in the book, we started with a reasonably accurate and specific understanding of the method Shimanishi used to extract minerals from rock. Or so we thought. For several months, we had one crucial step wrong: we assumed he started with biotite, or black mica, when in fact he started with vermiculite derived from biotite. Once we realized our error, many interpretive mistakes were resolved.
 Over long geologic periods, acidic, sulfated rainwater gradually weathers biotite, leaching its potassium and transforming it into a more porous, hydrated vermiculite. Sulfur participates throughout that opening, helping drive protonation and destabilization that allow water to enter and initiate the internal activation of its mineral chemistry.
 Shimanishi did not begin with that closed parent mineral. His material was vermiculite: biotite already weathered into the receptive, expanded form from which mineral essence could be drawn. In his laboratory process, sulfuric acid did not perform the first geological opening. It acted on the mineral only after Nature had already prepared it.
 Another crucial step took us a while to understand. Shimanishi learned that the vermiculite had to be dried first. If sulfuric acid were applied while interlayer moisture remained trapped within the vermiculite, the mineral would shatter violently. But once the vermiculite had been air-dried, the acid could enter “without violence”— a phrase you will soon meet—and draw its mineral essence into solution.
 The result was a clear aqueous extract that leaves vermiculite’s aluminosilicate framework intact while releasing its mineral chemistry in sulfated ionic form, with iron, sulfur, and aluminum at its core, alongside magnesium, calcium, manganese, titanium, and a broad spectrum of ultratrace and rare-earth elements.
 That sequence—a closed mineral body, its opening through sulfur and water, the removal of all moisture, the entry of a mediating fluid, and the extraction of a concentrated, sulfated mineral essence—was the operational key we had in hand from the beginning, though we did not yet fully understand it. Once Shimanishi’s method became clear to us, the alchemical texts began to resolve into a coherent process, even when the same sequence appeared under different names. That is how the texts first became readable.
 With that framework in place, the three principal texts no longer appeared as disconnected curiosities, but as differently angled descriptions of the same underlying process.
 A Novel Interpretive Framework
 Taken together, the three alchemical texts we will present in the following chapters span the early medieval period to the seventeenth century and, in our reading, describe the same underlying chemical processes across nearly a thousand years of expression.
 What I am about to present is not the conventional understanding of these works, nor something I assume will be accepted simply because I wrote it. It is the interpretation MB and I arrived at by repeatedly testing these texts against Shimanishi’s process and the larger Rock–Water Circuit.
 To our knowledge, these texts have not been interpreted in this operational and materially specific way before. I say that carefully, because I do not mean that no one has ever seen part of what we are describing. Many readers have recognized isolated themes, symbols, or structural features. What appears not to have been done is to map the three works together onto a coherent physical process with this degree of chemical, operational, and cross-textual precision.
 In our reading, The Emerald Tablet presents the larger recurring cycle: the world-order in which above and below, ascent and descent, generation and return are held together. The Six Keys of Eudoxus presents the guarded sequence by which a mineral essence is brought forth from stone: the openings, dissolutions, separations, washings, coagulations, and fixations. Letter from a Woman Alchemist on the True Stone of Wisdom by Theosophia Sternbuchta presents the portrait of that essence once produced: the medicine, tincture, or elixir, and its properties. The next three chapters walk through these readings one text at a time, not in historical order, but in the order most useful for decoding them.
 I invite these conclusions to be criticized, tested, and weighed against alternative explanations. If they fail, we will readily revise, refine, or abandon them. If they hold, then something long preserved in symbolic language has become newly interpretable. Either way, what follows should be read as an argument to be examined, not a doctrine to be accepted.

 *If you value the late nights and deep dives into all the “rabbit holes” I write about (or the Op-Eds and lectures I generate for the public), your support is greatly appreciated.
 Subscribe now
 From Research to Practice - Links Below Image

 Aurmina – The Mineral Extract For Naturally Vitalized Drinking Water
 Primora Bio - Bringing Life Back To Soil
 Leading Edge Clinic - Tele-Medicine Clinic Caring For Patients in All 50 States
 The War on Ivermectin - The Medicine That Could have Ended the Pandemic
 The Blueprint of Life - The Hidden Architecture That Powers Life and Health
 From Volcanoes to Vitality -The Untold Story of Asao Shimanishi
 The War on Chlorine Dioxide - The Medicine That Could End Medicine
 Medical Musings - A View From the Inside Of Modern Medicine

Summary: Alchemy began to resolve once its words stopped behaving like labels and started functioning as roles. With Shimanishi’s process as the key, the labyrinth opened.


Chapter IX: The Emerald Tablet: A Map of the Rock–Water Circuit

Of the three texts, the Emerald Tablet comes first, not only because it is the oldest, but because it gives the map: the recurring natural cycle itself, the world-order in which above and below, ascent and descent, generation and return are held together. Foundational to the Hermetic tradition, it is most often treated as mystical or symbolic literature and only rarely read as a compressed description of underlying processes. We understand it differently. In our reading, it preserves, in ancient symbolic language, the same Rock–Water Circuit described in Chapters III through V in modern scientific terms.
 The Emerald Tablet , attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, survives in Arabic sources from roughly the early medieval period, around the sixth to eighth centuries AD. The translation used here is the Steele and Singer rendering, whose English most closely matches the phrases cited throughout this chapter. I reproduce the text first so the reader can see the whole before we turn to selected lines.
 True it is, without falsehood, certain and most true.
That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above, to accomplish the miracles of one thing.
And as all things were by contemplation of one, so all things arose from this one thing by a single act of adaptation.
The father thereof is the Sun, the mother the Moon.
The wind carried it in its womb, the earth is the nurse thereof.
It is the father of all works of wonder throughout the whole world.
The power thereof is perfect.
If it be cast on to earth, it will separate the element of earth from that of fire, the subtle from the gross.
With great sagacity it doth ascend gently from earth to heaven. Again it doth descend to earth, and uniteth in itself the force from things superior and things inferior.
Thus thou wilt possess the glory of the brightness of the whole world, and all obscurity will fly far from thee.
This thing is the strong fortitude of all strength, for it overcometh every subtle thing and doth penetrate every solid substance.
Thus was this world created.
Hence will there be marvellous adaptations achieved, of which the manner is this.
For this reason I am called Hermes Trismegistus, because I hold three parts of the wisdom of the whole world.
That which I had to say about the operation of Sol is completed.
 In what follows, I do not attempt to decode every line of the Tablet. For the sake of brevity, I focus on a small number of central passages that, in our view, map most clearly onto the modern scientific pattern described in our Rock–Water Circuit Theory. We arrived at these readings by testing one interpretation after another against the chemistry, Shimanishi’s process, and the text’s internal consistency.
 “And as all things were by contemplation of one, so all things arose from this one thing by a single act of adaptation, and the power thereof is perfect.”
 Within the Rock–Water Circuit, this describes the recurring physical cycle of ISAW. Iron-sulfur-aluminum-water chemistry is first fixed into rock during formation. Later, acidic, sulfate-bearing rainwater begins weathering biotite, gradually opening and destabilizing its structure. As that opening proceeds, sulfur remains an active participant, helping drive the proton activity, electron flow, and mineral destabilization that liberate charge and transfer stored redox potential into water.
 As discussed more fully in Chapter VI, the aluminum question is central to the theory because although aluminum’s role is foundational in the geologic phase, aluminum itself is not carried forward into biology as an element. The conditioned water released from weathered biotite then carries its mineral chemistry into soils and living systems—into plants, animals, and eventually us.
 But not every element is transferred directly. Iron and sulfur continue into life as active participants in redox chemistry and energy transfer. Aluminum does not. In geology, it helps form the aluminosilicate matrix that provides the structural and electrochemical setting in which the first biological architectures arise. The amino acids, membranes, enzymes, and protein-based cellular structures that later take over comparable organizing and redox-supporting functions in biology emerge from a mineral scaffolding that aluminum helped build. Biology carries forward not elemental aluminum, but the functional logic of the structures it first made possible.
 After death, those minerals return to the Earth, where over long spans of time they are again gathered into rock. But the cycle does not end there. Through weathering, that mineral chemistry is reopened, remobilized, and carried back into water, where it can once again enter soils, living systems, and the processes of life. That recursive return—from rock into water, into life, back into rock, and back into water again—is what gives the system its continuity.
 The “single act of adaptation” points to the mediating operation by which what is fixed becomes mobile, what is latent becomes active, and what is organized geologically is later reorganized biologically. Within the Rock–Water Circuit, that role is most consistently fulfilled by water. Water receives charge from rock, carries mineral chemistry into life, returns those same materials to the Earth, and then receives them again as rock is reopened through weathering. The power is “perfect” because the system does not consume its source. Energy is transferred, reorganized, and renewed through continuous circulation.
 “The father thereof is the Sun, the mother the Moon.”
 Referring again to ISAW chemistry and its cycle, we no longer understand the Sun and Moon here as fixed substances, but as roles within a generative transformation. The Father, identified with the Sun, names the activating and penetrating principle, which in this system is most consistently expressed through sulfur: whether carried in acidic, sulfated rainwater in Nature or as sulfuric acid in Art. The Mother, identified with the Moon, names the receptive mineral body: the matrix that receives that action, opens under it, and yields its contents.
 Seen this way, the line describes not two things but a union. The Father joins the Mother. The Mother receives, opens, and yields. And the child is the product of that union: the liberated mineral essence drawn forth from the opened body. In nature, this unfolds slowly through weathering; in Shimanishi’s process, sulfuric acid performs the same operation directly, entering the prepared vermiculite and extracting its essence into solution.
 “The wind carried it in its womb; the earth is the nurse thereof.”
 The Tablet now restates the same process under a different set of roles: no longer the union itself, but the cycle by which its active chemistry is carried and returned. Here, the “wind” names the phase of atmospheric transport, especially the dispersal of sulfur-bearing compounds through the air. What is carried is not the whole mineral system, but its most mobile and reactivating component: the sulfur chemistry that moves between domains and helps restart the cycle. Joined to water in the atmosphere and returned through rain, it reenters the mineral world in a chemically active form capable of reopening rock and setting its stored mineral potential into motion.
 “The earth is the nurse thereof.”
 A nurse does not initiate a thing. A nurse feeds and sustains what has already been brought forth. Here the earth is the nurse because it is the enduring mineral matrix within which opened rock slowly releases its chemistry into water and soil. Vermiculite is one crucial part of that nursing function: an opened mineral body whose expanded lattice releases mineral charge in a slow, buffered, and governed way. Iron, magnesium, calcium, potassium, manganese, and ultratrace elements enter water already prepared to carry them onward. In that sense, the earth nurses by feeding mineral chemistry into the waters and soils that sustain life.
 In our reading, the earth nurses through weathered rock, especially vermiculite, which slowly feeds mineral chemistry into the waters and soils that sustain life.
 What the Tablet records is therefore a closed loop: union, transport, return, nourishment, and renewal. Once this is seen, the Emerald Tablet begins to read like the compressed description of a real process, one that can be traced, tested, and reconstructed in the physical world.
 “It is the father of all works of wonder throughout the whole world.”
 In our reading, this points to the foundational source of usable energy: the separation and attraction of unlike charges, the basic polarity by which potential energy is stored and made available to power life. In Earth’s systems, minerals do not create that polarity, but they provide the material structures through which energy is held, organized, directed, and released. Their charged lattices store electrochemical potential and help govern its transfer across environments. In planetary terms, we believe that same principle is expressed in the Deep-to-Surface Energy Gradient, where electron-rich fluids rising from the depths of Earth meet more proton-rich, oxidized waters at its surface above.
 “This thing is the strong fortitude of all strength, for it overcometh every subtle thing and doth penetrate every solid substance.”
 In our reading, this “thing” is mineralized water: water carrying a redox-active mineral chemistry in mobile form. Iron and sulfur provide the energetic core, but water is the medium that gives that chemistry reach, allowing it to move through what is subtle and enter what is solid. Around that core lies a broader mineral symphony that helps govern the energetic processes sustaining life.
 “Thus thou wilt possess the glory of the brightness of the whole world, and all obscurity will fly far from thee.”
 In our reading, “the glory of the brightness” refers first to illumination: the clarity that appears when the process is finally seen as a whole rather than in fragments. “Obscurity” names the opposite condition—the confusion, concealment, and misreading that prevail when the pattern has not yet been recognized. But because the Tablet is describing not only a text to be understood but a process active in nature, that brightness also extends into vitality itself: the generative order that appears wherever the cycle is intact and its chemistry remains in motion.
 When the Whole Came Into View
 Taken together, the lines “That which is above is like to that which is below… to accomplish the miracles of one thing,” and “it doth ascend gently from earth to heaven.” Again, it doth descend to earth, and uniteth in itself the force from things superior and things inferior,” appear, in our reading, to be alchemical repetitions of the same underlying order. The first states that order; the second restates it as circulation. This is one way alchemy repeats the same operation under different images.
 Scientifically, that underlying order can be read across two scales. At the level of the Rock–Water Circuit, it may refer to sulfur-bearing rainwater descending from the sky and meeting iron-rich mineral bodies in the earth, where stored chemistry is opened and made mobile, then lifted, transformed, and returned again through circulation.
 At the broader planetary level, we believe the same order appears in the Deep-to-Surface Energy Gradient, where alkaline, electron-rich fluids rising from depth meet more proton-rich and oxidized waters above.
 On that reading, the line “Thus was this world created” becomes central. The Emerald Tablet presents, in compressed symbolic form, a generative order of the world itself: the recurring cycle through which energy, mineral chemistry, water, and life remain linked across ascent, transformation, nourishment, and return.
 What it does not yet give us is that mineral chemistry in concentrated form—the same chemistry that powers Nature’s cycle. For that, we must turn from the map of the cycle to a text concerned not with the world-process as a whole, but with the nature of the essence brought forth from it.
 We turn, then, to Letter from a Woman Alchemist on the True Stone of Wisdom .

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Summary: The Emerald Tablet, one of the oldest and most important Hermetic texts, becomes a map of the Rock–Water Circuit: an ancient symbolic record of ascent, descent, mineral transformation, and return.


Chapter X: Letter From Sternbuchta: A Portrait of the Stone

If the Emerald Tablet gave the cycle, Letter from a Woman Alchemist on the True Stone of Wisdom by Theosophia Sternbuchta gives the portrait of the essence brought forth from within it. Her letter does not primarily describe how that essence is extracted. It describes what it is like once brought forth: a hidden thing drawn from stone, activated, multiplied, and rendered capable of restoration.
 The letter appears to originate in the late seventeenth century and was later printed in Berlin in 1779. MB first encountered it in 2006, when it was passed along to him by an acquaintance. Interestingly, after discovering the letter, he attempted to contact a professor of antiquities to discuss it. Soon afterward, the page with Letter from Sternbuchta disappeared. For nearly twenty years, he searched the internet for it periodically. Although he had mentioned it in passing a few times during our initial work together, I had never seen it, so I knew little of what it really contained.
 One day, as our alchemical research deepened, he discovered it on an archived Wayback Machine page dated June 5, 2002. The page introduced it as follows:
 “This is a never-before-published letter from a female spiritual alchemist of the late seventeenth century. It is a complement to the kinds of spiritual treatises found in works available in The Divine Couple , edited by Robert Faas, and in Wisdom’s Book: The Sophia Anthology , edited by Arthur Versluis.”
 Because the archived page includes a notice restricting duplication, I do not reproduce the full text here. Instead, I quote only the passages necessary for analysis. Readers who wish to read the full letter can do so at this link. Its meaning will likely be much clearer after working through the interpretation that follows.
 Who Sternbuchta Is—and Isn’t
 Alchemy occupied dangerous territory. Its practitioners could be accused of heresy, fraud, sorcery, or economic subversion, with gold making chief among them. For that reason, alchemical authors rarely wrote as identifiable individuals. Names were chosen to signal standing within the Great Work rather than to denote lineage, biography, or authorship. Even so, real historical alchemists, obscure as many were, usually left some trace.
 Sternbuchta appears to be a constructed name. No historical figure can be securely traced to it, and no record survives beyond the letter itself. Whatever the reason for that, the text puts very little emphasis on personal identity.
 In alchemical writing, feminine voices often mark receptivity, containment, and discernment more than ordinary authorship. “Theosophia” suggests divine wisdom as known through nature. “Stern” points toward what is fixed or celestial. “Buch” means book or record. Taken together, the name suggests a role more than a person.
 When I first read the letter, I had not yet undergone what alchemy calls “preparation,” what I would describe more simply as learning to read role-grammar. In that state, the text sounded mystical and cryptic to the point of unintelligibility. Only later, once the chemistry was understood—once we had worked directly with the minerals and grasped the operations Shimanishi used—did those same lines begin to resolve into specific, testable meanings.
 What follows is how MB and I came to understand the letter after months of reconstruction. It is not a traditional reading. It is one assembled from the ground up.
 She writes of a hidden essence drawn from stone, activated by heat, mediated by a mercurial medium, purified in stages, and rendered capable of restoring what had been corrupted. She emphasizes circulation, repetition, and return, and insists that the substance is not consumed by use, but instead “multiplies” in virtue.
 What finally became clear to me was that Sternbuchta is not primarily concerned with giving the full procedure. She describes the nature, value, and restorative power of the mineral essence once produced, while preserving only a few glimpses of the steps by which it is brought forth. The letter is written in a symbolic language that conceals the process from a literal reading while preserving it for those who understand the operations behind it.
 Sternbuchta’s Letter, Decoded
 Before going further, I should briefly restate the basic interpretive rule. The roles assigned to Sulfur, Mercury, and Salt below are not inventions of ours, but part of the alchemical tradition itself. What mattered for our work was learning to read them as functions within a process rather than as fixed substances. At the risk of repetition, I present the key again here so the passages that follow are not read literally:
 • Sulfur: activity, heat, oxidation, transformation
• Mercury: fluidity, mediation, transport, dissolution
• Salt: structure, stability, fixation
 Let’s start with the first.
 “Form and materia are two substances, which are our field and magnet, because every agens needs its corresponding receptacle. . .”
 “Materia” refers to a raw earthly mineral. “Forma” is an activating force, that is, a fire-, water-, or sulfur-driven action. The marriage of form and matter mobilizes dormant mineral chemistry into a bioactive ionic form outside the mineral body: able to interact with water, bind impurities, structure charge, and restore balance. Read this way, the passage mirrors Shimanishi’s Themarox, produced by sulfuric acid acting on vermiculite.
 “One sulfuric, one mercurial. . . king and queen. . . greatest enmity until united.”
 Hermetic texts consistently describe Sulfur as solar, active, and fiery, and Mercury as receptive, dissolving, and mediating. In this passage, those opposing roles map cleanly onto sulfuric acid acting on vermiculite: sulfuric acid supplies the activating force while vermiculite serves as the receptive mineral body, and together they mediate the release of mineral essence from rock into water.
 “This tincture is powerful enough to be used as medicine. . . prevent all illnesses.”
 In alchemical language, “medicine” refers to a substance that restores order and coherence, while “illness” names any state of corruption, imbalance, or decay within a system, not a specific biomedical condition.
 • “This is the multiplication in quality . . .”
• “The tincture . . . is multiplied in its virtue”
• “The multiplication in quantity proceeds thus”
 In the older literature, multiplication did not refer to an increase in mass, but to an increase in effect, a gain in virtue disproportionate to the quantity applied. In modern terms, it describes a function whose influence extends far beyond its physical volume.
 This is one of the strongest reasons I believe Shimanishi effectively produced what the alchemical tradition called the Golden Elixir. A single milliliter of Themarox can clarify up to ten liters of water. Aurmina, a 10 percent dilution of Themarox, can clarify roughly one liter. For centuries, the Golden Elixir was described as possessing this same multiplicative property. One of the first observations Shimanishi made about his mineral extract was that it behaved in precisely this way.
 A First Reading
 At this point, the reader has enough of our key in hand to begin recognizing some of Sternbuchta’s recurring patterns without full guidance. What follows is a small cluster of phrases from the letter that can now be read more fruitfully than they could at the outset. They circle the same relations and operations repeatedly—one of alchemy’s most characteristic habits—and they prepare the reader for the even more elaborate repetitions of The Six Keys of Eudoxus .
 Descriptions of the person who might succeed in the work appear in phrases such as:
 • “Whoever wants to do something fruitful in this work should turn to it with all his diligence, work, and care.”
• “One cannot hurry the work.”
• “Whoever can make them lay together . . . can thus unite them inseparably and make something corporeally new.”
 Descriptions of the substance itself, referred to as “medicine” in the alchemical sense, appear in phrases such as:
 • “That is truly the beginning of our true medicine.”
• “He can be certain of an unending treasure.”
• “This tincture is powerful enough to be used as medicine . . . to restore the human body . . . with the highest usefulness.”
 The language also repeats the same underlying polarity already seen in the Emerald Tablet : activating forces and receptive bodies.
 • “One lunar, the other solar.”
• “Make them lay together . . . unite them inseparably.”
• “King and queen . . . though in enmity, must be joined.”
 And again and again, the letter returns to the actions of sulfur chemistry:
 • “The spirit of its father”
• “To extract out of it the Fixed Salt, which is the Blood of our Stone.”
• “One is mercurial, the other sulphuric.”
• “Mercury of the Wise, its secret fire.”
• “Enkindle the metallic sulphur through their fiery spirit.”
 What Sternbuchta Sees Clearly
 It became clear to me that Sternbuchta was not giving a practical recipe for producing such a substance. What she gives instead is more obliquely related to process: a symbolic account of the kind of union, activation, and work by which such a substance would be brought forth. Alongside that, she gives a portrait of what it would be like once produced, and of the kind of person who might succeed in the work. The letter is a remarkably precise description of both the medicine itself and the conditions under which it comes into being.
 For the sequence of steps needed to produce the essence, we must turn to a different kind of text.

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 The Blueprint of Life - The Hidden Architecture That Powers Life and Health
 From Volcanoes to Vitality -The Untold Story of Asao Shimanishi
 The War on Chlorine Dioxide - The Medicine That Could End Medicine
 Medical Musings - A View From the Inside Of Modern Medicine

Summary: Sternbuchta does not give the recipe; she gives the portrait. Her letter describes the hidden essence drawn from stone—activated, multiplied, and capable of restoring what has fallen into disorder.


Chapter XI: The Six Keys of Eudoxus: The Labyrinth

The First Key: The Trap of Literal Reading
 Although presented last in this sequence, The Six Keys of Eudoxus proved to be exactly what its title suggests: not just a key, but the key through which the rest of the Hermetic canon began to resolve for us.
 If the Emerald Tablet gave the symbolic picture of the cycle, and Sternbuchta gave the portrait of the essence brought forth within it, The Six Keys turns to the work itself: the guarded sequence of openings, dissolutions, separations, washings, coagulations, and fixations by which that essence is brought forth from stone.
 A brief note on the history of The Six Keys of Eudoxus is warranted. The text appears to come out of the late seventeenth century, and scholars have long noted its resemblance to writings attributed to Eirenaeus Philalethes, the alchemical pseudonym widely associated with George Starkey. Starkey was an American born in Bermuda, educated at Harvard, and later active in London in the 1650s, during the same period as Robert Boyle, of Boyle’s law, one of the founders of modern chemistry and a central figure in arguing that scientific inquiry and theology were not in conflict but deeply aligned.
 While no definitive attribution can be made, the text most likely emerged from the same Western European alchemical world, carrying the same preoccupation with guarded method, symbolic compression, and deliberate misdirection that defines that period of the Hermetic tradition.
 What cost me months to see was that the six Keys are not six procedural steps. They are six symbolic vantage points onto one underlying process, repeating it in shifting language so the reader cannot lock onto it too early. Once that became clear, the text no longer read like a sequence of separate instructions.
 For that reason, I will not walk through all six Keys in equal detail. I will begin by moving slowly through the First Key, with our role-grammar already in place and with Shimanishi’s process fully in view. The remaining Keys recast that same work in different symbolic forms.
 For that reason, I will not walk through all six Keys in equal detail. I will begin by moving slowly through the First Key, with our role-grammar already in place and with Shimanishi’s process fully in view. The remaining Keys follow the same basic structure, repeating the same work under different symbolic forms.
 For brevity, I include only the First Key below; for the complete text, readers can consult the text here .
 THE FIRST KEY
 The First Key is that which opens the dark prisons in which the Sulphur is shut up: this is it which knows how to extract the seed out of the body, and which forms the Stone of the philosophers by the conjunction of the spirit with the body—of sulphur with mercury.

 Hermes has manifestly demonstrated the operation of this First Key by these words: In the caverns of the metals there is hidden the Stone, which is venerable, bright in colour, a mind sublime, and an open sea.

 This Stone has a bright glittering: it contains a Spirit of a sublime original; it is the Sea of the Wise, in which they angle for their mysterious Fish.

 But the operations of the three works have a great deal of analogy one to another, and the philosophers do designedly speak in equivocal terms, to the end that those who have not the Lynx’s eyes may pursue wrong, and be lost in this labyrinth, from whence it is very hard to get out. In effect, when one imagines that they speak of one work, they often treat of another.

 Take heed, therefore, not to be deceived here; for it is a truth that in each work the Wise Artist ought to dissolve the body with the spirit; he must cut off the Raven’s head, whiten the Black, and vivify the White; yet it is properly in the First operation that the Wise Artist cuts off the head of the Black Dragon and of the Raven.

 Hence, Hermes says, What is born of the Crow is the beginning of this Art. Consider that it is by separation of the black, foul, and stinking fume of the Blackest Black that our astral, white, and resplendent Stone is formed, which contains in its veins the blood of the Pelican. It is at this First Purification of the Stone, and at this shining whiteness, that the work of the First Key is ended.

 The Key to The Six Keys
 Recall that in Chapters III and IV, I presented the core scientific insights into ISAW chemistry and the Rock–Water Circuit Theory that we used to construct an interpretive key for decoding these texts.
 For decoding The Six Keys , a crucial aspect of the relationship between the two mineral forms central to the Rock–Water Circuit Theory must be noted: only Nature can transform biotite into vermiculite over geologic time; no human can. It is only once it has been weathered into vermiculite that black mica can release the broad range of minerals it contains. If an alchemist—referred to in the text below as a philosopher—began the Work with black mica itself, he would never succeed.
 That point matters because, across centuries of Hermetic alchemy, no universally recognized instance of the substance described in The Six Keys or Letter from Sternbuchta has ever been established. It is my belief that this failure was not accidental, but the result of deliberate misdirection in The Six Keys .
 This text cost me months because it appears simple, but it defeats anyone who reads it as if it were. To wit, the First Key begins with a brazen deception in the first line:
 “The First Key is that which opens the dark prisons in which the Sulphur is shut up.”
 Here, the text suggests that the alchemist should aim to open black mica, “the dark prisons,” in order to access the reactive, redox-capable mineral chemistry locked inside, “the Sulphur.” But that first opening is humanly impossible. It belongs to Nature alone.
 “This Stone has a bright glittering.”
 Again, the text points the reader toward black mica, a stone known for its dark, lustrous shimmer. Then, almost immediately, the author warns the reader of the language he will be encountering:
 “But the operations of the three works have a great deal of analogy one to another, and the philosophers do designedly speak in equivocal terms.”
 Although this line announces that there are three steps in the process, “the operations of the three works,” the steps will be difficult to interpret because the descriptions overlap. In my reading, this is an explicit admission that the same process will be described in shifting language, and that the ambiguity is intentional.
 The warning then sharpens:
 “To the end that those who have not the Lynx’s eyes may pursue wrong, and be lost in this labyrinth, from whence it is very hard to get out. In effect, when one imagines that they speak of one work, they often treat of another.”
 “Lynx’s eyes” refers to the ability to discern what is true from what is false. Without that capacity, the reader cannot tell which step is being described, what material is being acted upon, or when the text has shifted from one operation to another. That is how an alchemist reader can quickly become lost in a labyrinth.
 The text again returns to deceptively suggesting the alchemist begin his work with black mica, yet warning him not to be deceived:
 “Take heed, therefore, not to be deceived here; for it is a truth that in each work the Wise Artist ought to dissolve the body with the spirit; he must cut off the Raven’s head, whiten the Black, and vivify the White; yet it is properly in the First operation that the Wise Artist cuts off the head of the Black Dragon and of the Raven.”
 Read this way, the passage appears, for the first time, to encode—however cryptically—the three distinct and sequential steps in the process:
 (1) The weathering of biotite (black mica) into vermiculite—cut off the head of the Black Dragon.
(2) The separation of the stone from its mineral essence using sulfuric acid—whiten the black.
(3) The emergence of that essence in active aqueous form—vivify the white.
 Just as it warned it would, the text repeats the false instruction that the artist himself must begin by opening biotite (while confusingly naming it twice):
 “It is properly in the First operation that the Wise Artist cuts off the head of the Black Dragon and of the Raven.”
 Any alchemist who began the work with black mica, trying by Art to perform what only Nature can do, would fail every time. Shimanishi did not. He began with vermiculite, starting only after Nature had completed the first step in the process.
 Although the First Key contains a good deal of deliberate misdirection, the later Keys start to offer clearer and more faithful direction. From the Third Key:
 “Hence, Hermes says, What is born of the Crow is the beginning of this Art.”
 This is a clear instruction that the Artist must begin not with black mica itself, but with what is “born of the Crow”: vermiculite weathered from black mica.
 In one instance, the connection to Shimanishi’s method is unusually precise. When the text speaks of a “Secret Fire” that dissolves the Stone “without violence,” it mirrors his discovery that vermiculite must first be air-dried; if sulfuric acid is applied while moisture remains, the material shatters.
 Later in the Third Key, the clearest illustration of the first step appears:
 “But, further, that you may not be deceived with the terms of the Compound, I will tell you that the philosophers have two sorts of compounds. The first is the compound of Nature, whereof I have spoken in the First Key; for it is Nature which makes it in a manner, incomprehensible to the Artist, who does nothing but lend a hand to Nature by the adhibition of external things, by the means of which she brings forth and produces this admirable compound. The second is the compound of Art; it is the Wise man who makes it by the secret union of the fixed with the volatile, perfectly conjoined with all prudence, which cannot be acquired but by the lights of a profound philosophy.”
 Here, the text more clearly points to the rock the Artist must start with. “The first is the compound of Nature,” where now, instead of pointing to biotite, it is clearly telling the Artist to start with vermiculite, the rock weathered from black mica by Nature, “in a manner incomprehensible to the Artist.” “The second is the compound of Art,” describing the mineral essence produced when the alchemist combines sulfuric acid with vermiculite.
 Now to the First Key, to one of its most beautiful symbolic passages:
 “Consider that it is by separation of the black, foul, and stinking fume of the Blackest Black that our astral, white, and resplendent Stone is formed, which contains in its veins the blood of the Pelican. It is at this First Purification of the Stone, and at this shining whiteness, that the work of the First Key is ended.”
 The “blackest black” corresponds to what is driven off or separated during the process, while the “white and resplendent Stone” is the extracted essence itself—clarified, active, and no longer confined within the mineral lattice. For the first time, a hint of the mineral composition it will contain appears: “It contains in its veins the blood of the Pelican.”
 In ordinary life, blood is inseparable from iron, which gives it its redness and underlies its power to carry oxygen. In alchemical imagery, the pelican is a figure of nourishment through blood. Thus, the phrase naturally points to an iron-rich, life-bearing essence: a mineral extract whose redox-active core helps explain why the alchemists spoke of it in terms of blood, feeding, and vitality.
 That suggestion becomes even more striking when set beside Shimanishi’s extract. After sulfur, iron is the second-highest concentrated active mineral in Themarox. Shimanishi appears to have understood that iron was central to many of the properties the extract displayed, as he reportedly spent twenty years searching across multiple continents for the most iron-rich mica he could find. In the end, the richest source he identified lay not halfway across the world, but within two hours of his home, in Fukushima.
 A Second Reading
 As in the last chapter, I will leave the reader with a cluster of repetitive descriptions appearing throughout The Six Keys , all circling one of the “three works” or steps. By this point, they should begin to sound less like separate instructions than like recurring views of the same operation.
 For instance, there are numerous descriptions of a liquid solution of dissolved minerals being extracted from vermiculite via the actions of sulfuric acid; here, I include only three of the many I found:
 • “Extract the seed from the body”
• “Ought the Wise Artist dissolve the Body with the Spirit”
• “Dissolution of the Body into its water”
 Then:
 “This is the Secret Fire which forms the Stone of the Philosophers by the conjunction of the Spirit with the Body, of Sulfur with Mercury.”
 For MB and me, the phrase “of Sulfur with Mercury” was the most difficult line we encountered in alchemy. We initially read “Sulfur” and “Mercury” as materials: first as sulfated rainwater acting on black mica, then as sulfuric acid acting on vermiculite. Both readings worked locally but failed as we carried them forward.
 The difficulty resolved only when we stopped treating these terms as substances and began reading them as functions.
 In that framework, “Sulfur” does not name sulfuric acid itself, but its activating function—its capacity to penetrate, react, and transform. “Mercury” does not name a separate material, but its mediating function—its capacity to dissolve, mobilize, and carry.
 Read this way, the phrase no longer describes two substances joined together, but two roles performed by the same agent. It is sulfuric acid acting simultaneously as activator and mediator, “the Spirit” working upon the “Body” to release the mineral essence.
 Seeing that is what finally got us out of the labyrinth.
 When the Three Came Into Focus
 At the outset of this sequence of chapters, I proposed that these three texts were not saying the same thing in the same way, but rather describing the same underlying chemistry and process from different angles. Having now walked through them one by one, that conclusion can be stated more plainly. The Emerald Tablet gives the larger natural order: the recurring cycle by which mineral chemistry, water, energy, and life remain linked across ascent, descent, nourishment, and return. Letter from Sternbuchta gives the portrait of the essence once brought forth: its value, its multiplication, its restorative power, and the kind of language required to describe it without exposing it too openly. The Six Keys of Eudoxus gives the guarded work itself: the sequence, misdirections, and operations by which that essence is brought forth from stone.
 Taken together, the three texts do not merely echo one another. They form a coherent structure. The Tablet gives the cycle in Nature. Sternbuchta gives the essence in view. Eudoxus gives the steps in Art. That was the interpretive framework I proposed at the outset. What these chapters have attempted to show is how and why that reading holds.
 But now that the chemistry in these texts has been decoded, it is time to turn to another kind of knowledge they preserve: not about minerals, water, and extraction, but about the human beings drawn into such work, shaped by it, and, in rare cases, brought to its end. Seeing that side of the texts hit me harder than I was prepared for, just as their insights into chemistry had. It mapped first onto Shimanishi, the modern figure I had already come to regard as a man of historic importance whose achievement history had largely missed.
 And then, more disturbingly, it began to map onto MB and, however reluctantly I say it, onto me as well.

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 From Research to Practice - Links Below Image

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Summary: The Six Keys finally unlocked the labyrinth. What looked like alchemical misdirection began to read as a guarded map of stone, sulfur, water, and the hidden essence released from rock.