Author's Notes are in the Comments Section
*
Their multifoliate eyes spoke for them; their vision was clear as ever the piercing of truth molested a mind. They do not visit us, but rather wait for the shriven material of their semants to fall upon ourselves, our suffering fixed in consequence.
Ah, rememberances of time yet to be unfelt--ground has been broken, let us plant the ululating lotuses...
The killers will be transubstantiated into mites when the stars are right, but tonight I've found a drop of wine from the screams of another of a far off land, brought to me at the speed of light straight to my ear. Electrical stimulus sings through those cries, barks of words I've heard but also ones that were known but never in such malformed and honest measure.
And then I heard the words that drove many others to recoil from the limits of sentience: Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.
My grips on a language heard through whips of dust--hardly enough to really offer me any rights to ensight, but this phonetic suggestion made by my forgetting tongue never fails to recall it's image in my dreams.
It's the odd man outsider who looks to translate escaped torture records, but the even more esoterrorist transforms a voice's screams without seeing the body that contorted to make such a sound.
For hours my speakers recanted, complacent in what I had apparently asked for a moment ago, and I learned not to flinch. I tried to look for those who would knew my sentiment, but snickering cihldren and gibbering old men were the only ones to answer my call in the day, and I can not say what visited me at night.
---
A few days came and went, thought they were all spent in search of an iota of what ought one not to find. But there are things in this world that hunger, composite and different, and they have a way of ensnaring their prey. So I went to the market to search the tellers and see what was souled there.
You cannot ask me who explained this sacred mystery, for it is not of my way to speak of hauntology, only wantology. And the mystic called me wanting. And I was sated. Suggestions of divine images where affirmed by tales of a long-ago yet to be, so far so that our light will reach as quickly as the death of X-1, which is to say that nobody will notice, and nobody will care. But the screams will still eminate.
"Space is a harsh mistress, my son. I have walked the temporal plains, wrought of the fibers of lost souls and black holes. The entirety was quite unnecessary, their single adventure came when they screamed their perfect name, their perfect being, and made the rest of days so much etymology for all."
The elder raised a cup of tea to me, and I partook of this mystery. I felt unnerved, and I was told that there are reasons for having carpets for sale in any store, but especailly one so fond of old curios. For--in legion, they offer the comfort of a place to rest your weary head, and a comforter to boot, or cleat, as it took me.
I asked who this may be, and wept, myself, to sleep.
---
I know why the other screamed. I see it now, in their eyes, they are like the Other Ones, but lost to their impiousness and thus know only to serve but they can never concieve of how awful their master has become. Their titans crash and bang on tin instruments, with ears even worse for the wear but not willing to sacrifice some of their toys to see how they are played with.
But, still, it writhes in them, as they set me about to dance in this cell of conrete, far from the bazaar. That chaosmos luridly watches me and wriggles with the fascination that I know that it is there, that I can taste it tasting my pain, that my being is conscious in total. The seed of the ugliness that has generated their life has found its end, but it is not The End. An anthropomorphic assertion is a lonely one, and it fails to take into acount a more major literature of the tail of time.
The titans will cower in fear for these things have new names, and with that a new texture to time that will obfuscate the path of the old ways. There shall no longer be a circle of mania or shit, of tragedy and farce, but a single one road leading back to the heart of blood. Soon, we will know that which calls us imagination, and we will cower at the thought of being objects for the play of the transcendent ones, who lie beyond the wall of our sleep, and wonder if it was so bad to be subjects after all.
Author's Notes for Reading Aloud
ReplyDelete!) The call of cthulhu should be read by chorus. Individual interpretations of pronunciations should be fostered because most of the audience won't have a bloody clue of what was said, besides maybe the pronunciation Cthulhu, and R'lyeh as an even futher offshoot. Should someone in the audience think themselves hotshit, assault vigorously with wet noodle, call it an appendage of the slick one and tell them that screams of pain do not count as a safe word.
@) The sage advice should be read by a man and a woman, so as to subvert a reading of gender. A hermaphrodite might a better choice, though you would be best served by generating a new nueter gender in the race of man.
Author's Notes Towards Interpretation:
Firstly, the story is structured towards the vague cyclical horror structure that is best typified, in my mind--immediately, by Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast." The song depicts someone who witnesses a ritual and, in so doing, becomes a part of it and is consumed by this thing. The horror of knowledge invades and pervades the character, taking them over, incessing them, possessing them, and making them slave to this force of darkness, but they now lack a fear of it and, instead, laugh.
The story opens with the narrator finding a wiki-leaked torture tape which happens to include THE CALL. In the middle, the narrator looks for an answer, finds...something, and is then hurried off to the next scene. In the final act, they are now the one being tortured, inacting a self-fulfilling self-immolation fantasy, a common detour in the dreamlands, for the imagining of something--even, or especially, something terrifying--leads to its materialization. This is the nickle I've earned for every time that someone told me a dream that involved them seeing something, imagining something, and then having it happen. Derp! You're a fucking monad, get with the picture... I digress to return to the conversation at hand--
The reader is therefore someone who desired unwitting adventure, taking the pose of being ready for anything to come out of him from the unknown. The vaguery of a romantic desire for intense experience is returned in the Lovecraftian with quick reprisal, and, so, our hero learns the cost of those sounds. When the narrator eventually is taken and tortured, the narrator can cackle at their self-inflicted wounds, a kind of mad prophet who knows too much not to enjoy having been known to himself. The prophecies at the end are certainly induced by madness, but it has its own truth.
I'd like to note at this point that most of this project is an aesthetic one, outside of torture, which really sucks, and you would have to be a pretty monstrous douchebag to do that anyway. If you take any of the mumbo-jumbo too seriously, then you'll likely notice that what I've said probably is inconsistent in someway and it will fall to tatters, like the robes of the king in yellow. There's lot of prancing going on here, but--what the fuck--it's in good fun.
Now, for a play by play in not-quite-so-retardedese--
ReplyDeleteSection 1-
Paragraph 1: The window of the soul stairs out from glass stained with blood and sorrow of a most private fashion. Whatever has flown out that window is so much broken off dust that we are bound to find as it gravitates towards us, fixed in the sky like a constellation, "fixed in consequence" being a reference to Blue Oyster Cult's "Astronomy."
Paragraph 2: An invocatiom to the muse of some sort, and a nice little prophecy of at least a good nightmare.
Paragraph 3: Good christian soldiers are turned back upon themsleves to be made into little more than annoying insects, while the screams have turned into a kind of wine to be savored, and wine is always better when foreign. The foreign material travels at the speed of light, or however a fiber optic cables contents move at, which is then consumed aurally. The electrical stimulus we can assume to be the touching sensation that one feels when someone lovingly--say--touches jumper cables to your nuts. The "malformed and honest measure" is trying to support the pleasure in the horrific and is, thus, an attempt at an internal affirmation by a self-conscious text.
Paragraph 4: And so it goes, and so it goes...
Paragraph 5: The narrator hears a desert person's language, whose specifics are only recalled in dreams.
Pragraph 6: The narrator recounts how strange it is to be in his position, and then minimally details the groestquery that would have to make the sounds he heard and now slaves over.
Paragraph 7: The narrator, confronted with the result of his demand to listen, forgets why he could have started this but, once on the path, resolves only to learn to take it better. Meanwhile, the sane world holds no patience for our narrator, and so he can find noone who will listen and help him explicate the matter.
Section 2-
ReplyDeleteParagraph 1: Frustrated, the narrator hurdles on to find his answer. For an answer, he goes to among the traders in search of what their efforts could yeild.
Paragraph 2: The story is characterized only be the narrator and his projections on various objects, and he refuses to inject another subject. Still, there are some suggestons of others, even those in far distant stars in the future who also affirm the narrator's struggle. The reference points of light refer to the fact that by the time this will world will even notice our light and be aware of the existence of our world, we will already be dead. Cygnus X-1 is a song by Rush, a band as eternal as divine suffering. Furthermore, this connection to another, far off world is not merely something in passing, but it suggests that this world, clearly suspected to be quiet young by our comparitive age, is caught up in the horror.
Paragraph 3: The seer recounts the extradimensional powers that it has acted upon and the nature of what conditions their materials. The seer suggests that individuals caught as they were on the recording are reduced to the singularity of their own suffering, which is a perfection, while the rest of the world is forced into the task of trying to decipher their screams for what might cause such an articulation.
Paragraph 4: The seer offers some relaxing tea, relating the importance of relaxation and having tools for such. Meanwhile, the phrasings of comforter, cleat--a nesting of paraclete, and wept are all references to the weaping holy spirit, but the legion of comforters have no answer and it is the narrator himself who weeps, against the legion who offered comforts only to their blades and the Roman emperors who are off hiding somewhere.
Section 3:
Paragraph 1: The narrator is faced with the tortured souls who commit the torture for hidden masters, who do their work with weak materials, materials that the masters are miserly with to such an extent that they do not even know how their plans are unfolding.
Paragraph 2: The narrator becomes aware of the monstrosity in their minds, and that they are together sharing a competition for consciouness of each other's viewing of the situation, a battle for subjectivity between tortured subject and the monster in the minds of man, an alien parasite on their nature. The creatures here are suggested as a perfection, but not /the/. The potency of these creatures is realitve only to the world of man and what he knows, as opposed to the body of the real which has a far more expansive text to relate possibilities for suffering.
Paragraph 3: Old myths will be subjugated before the new, and so our perception of reality, and reality itself, will change. Parts of hell and theory will be wiped from the tableau, replaced with a more vital, imminent heart. Soon, we will discover who dreamed us up and now we will live their fantasies, wishing that we were in control once more.