Pall shapes pan
And grimacing, in the dark
Your shadow interrupts them
There's a mischief I would love if it was possible
Thames is careering,
And drained, I feel like lemonade
My head at your shoulders
I'm a little weak and excitable
Saturday 19 December 2009
Saturday 6 June 2009
Maria, The Destroyer
Josef knocked the heady marble floor with a mahogany gold cane, whistled a clear soprano scale of D flat major that knocked itself off the starry ceiling and down the black staircase, slumpily released another moment’s angry carbon and double tapped his feet at every step, walking through the cubic open gallery the size of a monster, uniform students scribbling and choking on their words amongst rivers of paper and trash piles of old novels, drumming hands flippantly off the jittering tables, confused and busier than the world, whilst Josef’s skull faced the heady marble floor, beating into his mind like an anvil, as Professor Garnet tripped out of his office and into the hall like a haggard Jesus, brushing fallen motes from his cufflinks, thinking about snow globes, sinking in a dirge-filled mental universe of Claudio Monteverdi and superstring insanity, searching the burning windows for the rays of a heralding dusk, whilst children played outside, whilst Mohammad Qasim P.H.D lay in a musty stinging dump and punctured his wild eyes with sticks, as the druggish foreign music slunk out of a crack in his bedroom door and into the ancient corridors and the black staircase, absorbed by an endless choking rattle hour after hour, dead and gone, as two strangers met across the chalky rift, and Mohammad wondered again what was the point in anything.
“Yesterday I dreamt again that the stars were falling ... and that I could trace a pathway between galaxies with my hands.”
“And did you tell your students this?”
“No, no, no. What would my students want with dreams?”
“But did you tell anyone about it?” The conversation moved in low tones, running through the aisles of books, and now collided with the walls of the wide Garnet office. Inside, they were lined with book cases, not a shape or piece out of place. Josef sat down.
“What would they want with it?
When I woke up there were bars on my windows and inside my brain, and there were angels of different colours, and each angel spoke in short sharp screams and said twelve and a half things at once. I remembered studying experimental chemistry when I was 9 years old, when we made flames and watched liquid evaporate. It came down the glass walls in streams of blue and green – It was beautiful. I remember looking for minnows in streams in Kentucky,-field biology; I was 5 – and the Europa landing ... not the landing itself but my parents’ conversation during the broadcast. I was barely six months old – I don’t know how I could have remembered that.”
Professor Garnet spoke a little slowly.
“My whole past is being recounted to me in the clear morning by angels. They say “Io, io, sono’, sono’, it means so much to know, know...” and then they start to siphon my earlier life to me through holes in the air. They say other things too, like “you lived, you lived.” It doesn’t mean anything now, but when they’re here I know exactly what they mean,” the Professor said.
“You should tell someone.”
“...I could not tell people.”
“Do not be ashamed.”
“I am finding myself in vivid, delusional states for what must be several hours each day now. No one can know. My students would demand I get out. My colleagues would have me excused across the border like the rest of the mentals.”
“Find someone you can trust. Whether you stay or not, these hallucinations are painful for you. There are doctors and psychologists here.”
“No. Once one person knows, then the whole floor of that student hall knows. I’ve seen it happen. No, I cannot tell people that I am disturbed.”
“And still, you are.”
The fan behind him whirred and prayed lightly on his tufts of hair. The Professor took off his glasses and tapped them on his desk. Behind their rims, the monster was waiting in the sparkling of light.
“And still ... I am.”
Josef looked up at the rectangular window above Garnet’s head, where deep orange light was slowly ebbing with their conversation.
In the summerish glow on the outside the kids laughed with every jump they made, across the sand in the playground, at the edge of the long desert. The sun was regular, half-set, booming at the periphery of their whole world, and their joyful screams were lost with cicadas in the somnedy of mid-evening, boys work too hard, girls work too fast, all of them alone on the inside now; I’m sorry, children, I am so sorry.
~
“What do you think, Saty?”
Get out of there, John, it’s going to blow!
“What do I think? What do you think?”
I elect you deputy, send them in there, agent. This is earth reporting, mission report.
“I think we’re all running out of time, Saty, slowly, bit after bit.”
“What can you mean, Davy?”
The war with the xraags is complete; get those diamonds back on the ship, lifting off in eleven, ten, nine...
“Oh, well look all of it...”
Quick! Man down! “...Everyones just think they knows what the problem is but they don’t and none's doing one thing to sort it. So that’s it then...”
Powdery bloomed over the soft black ground. The air was cool but the earth itself still warmed all over, burning, scorning. “...And we’re all too late.”
“Never is too late if you hav hope.”
Dust swarmed the kidsphere over. Davy’s hands felt the earth’s rumble.
"What is hope for?"
Saty stood and looked to east. “So we can sort it.”
Come back quick, Mark, your signal is waning!
“Everyone wants to sort it but none ever sorts it because no one can really believe the problem and the horrors, and get to stick in their heads, so we always leave it... Its was okay before. But we have to sort it Saty, it’s starting to feel real now.”
Are you authorised in this domain? This is my legion, general, I depose you!
Brown strands flew about as the breeze fluttered in Saty’s hair, slowly undoing the tresses.
“Yes. I can feel it with my hands.”
~
In Prof. Edward Garnet’s office, he stood holding his weight with two fists, equidistant, on the desk. His elbows quivered, his legs bent, and he slowly retreated back into his little chair.
“We are having some trouble with Professor Qasim up there. I am very concerned about his situation,” Garnet said, wavering.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Oh, oh – It’s very complicated, but anyone on the staff here will tell you about it.”
Josef didn’t say anything, but looked in Edward’s eyes. “Of course, I will go and try to resolve matters with him. All members of staff will be convening tomorrow at quarter past eleven.”
“I spoke to him on Curphone. He seemed alright.”
“He is a deceiver. He is not alright,” Edward said, looking away.
~
Josef strode forward and struck Prof. Mohammad Qasim’s black bedroom door with his golden cane. After the eleventh quiet knock the dark entrance crept off its hinge; Qasim looked out with one eye from the chamber’s hanging, sooty colouration.
“...WHaat.”
“There’s a meeting.”
O Lord – Earth, swallow me up.
“Wasn’t this door red?” Josef said.
Mohammad spewed little particles of dust and saliva into the heavy air, turning his head away towards the broken bed.
“No. Ill ... I’m ill,” he said.
“We’re all feeling a bit peaky. There is a new parasite here.”
“I feel dead ... my soul is departed. Alas, nay ... I cannot go to the party – I shall stay at home, my mother, and work...”
Josef ignored him and tuned into the clatter of downstairs.
“Come on. You have to come out,” he said.
“—Don’t pressure me, you – shouldn’t do that...”
Josef pushed his knuckles between his teeth and breathed some apology.
“But it’s important.”
Mohammad kicked his khaki shoes a little in the doorway; grit his teeth, staring at the glittering floor of the mezzanine outside, and the helices of the staircase up to the uni’s top. His eyeballs hurt with the sight of it all, its magnitudinal unfriendliness.
“For you, so many things are important. But for me...”
He caught sight of the screaming crowds hurrying about in the library, a few people ascending the stairs that he could not recognise. In the bedroom, Josef located a sound behind a door to the side of Qasim’s desk, a scratching, a whining.
“Are you going to let that dog out?”
“Yes – exactly. I have to take my dog for a walk, so I cannot go to the meeting.”
Josef stared. “You must come.”
“No. No is my answer,” he said.
“Please,” he begged, pressing his palm into the door frame. “I have not seen you in five years. We all want to speak to you again.”
“Josef – you have asked me a question. I give you my answer only. And I say No, no.”
“Tomorrow, at 11:15.”
“No ... Wa `Alaykum As-Salaam. Bye.”
The black door slowly closed and met Josef’s eyes.
~
When dawn arrived Edward finally had clumsily achieved the power of confidence and paced the night stairs, shifty, from the clattering atrium, meeting students on the steps with folders to their breast and strained face, abrupt little glances up from interrupted people navigating weeks of stolen and borrowed papers built up on the desks in the cult of trading, and low-eyed lecturers with epic, stern books. None could distract his resolve, already verified and settled, to brazen out his colleague Mr. Qasim; and thus, he loomed towards the murky hollow, weaving his words.
He knocked with uneven hand the entry.
“Hi,” Mohammed said, rising behind the door. “Hullo?”
“Good-Day,” Garnet said, shocked by the directness of Mohammed’s eyes. “I’d like to talk about your absence from the meeting this week. Can I come in?”
Qasim awkwardly pulled the door back, knocking his feet with it, and tip-toeing away. “Oh I’m sorry. I think I forgot.”
“You ... think ... you forgot?” Edward said, loading his cannons.
“No, I’m – alright, I’m miserable. I’m in a bad place, you know that.”
“Well,” he said with cheery cynicism, “that is an awful shame – this place is so very uplifting!”
“I just couldn’t face the other people I’m sorry I’m sorry...”
“Well you have to face the other people. Your job and life is here, with the other people. If you need to get out, you can get out- we will order a truck for you.”
“I l-like people here. The students know me, they … like me. I just need my own time, I can get better. I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you. But you can’t go on like this, leech-sucking off their pubescent holy adulation, the capricious romance of children. You’re on leave for this – this depression or something – but you seek no help. Listen to me. You must either stay or go. Come on. Get your damn act together,” he demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean...”
Professor Garnet’s teeth quaked and he adjusted his glasses, frustratedly blinking. For the next few moments, Mohammed gave him nothing and stood silent through the thunder of the tirade.
“I mean that people love you because you’re a bloody cryptic bastard and you think you’re a genius! You have no genius, you have no sense; you have your cretinous style, your disgusting self-serving, vapid, damn ... incompetent ... you’re pathetic, you’re a stupid waste, and they want to throw me out of this fucking place! The absolute indignity! Can you believe it? Can you believe that?! Well good riddance to you if you’ll say nothing. Bugger you. Bugger you!”
Edward lifted the chair he was leaning on and charged it into the ground like a bull with his hooves.
“Go on living with no concern for your fellow man! Continue to wave your brooding bohemian dick around the place, you suave, stupid twat. You stupid, useless shit!”
As a means of conclusion, Garnet cried, “And by the way; absence of evidence IS evidence of absence, you fuck!” and bitterly slammed the black door behind him. Mohammed shuddered and stood alone again, immersed in a crawling sludge-aether that seemed to want to smother and eat him.
Hearing the Professor march along the balcony, his military footsteps trickling away along the swirling marble floor, Mohammad soundlessly through the blankness turned toward the only source of light and freed it.
Through the window there was bright azure; such beauty – It was clear morning, and he had not slept.
Mother, may I have your ears in this hour? I need to – I need you to – adjust, make ... sometimes I need some ... some – adjustment, some clarification, of everything. I’m lost. Can you hear me?
Sometimes I feel like all the sensitivity has been drained out of the world since I was eight years old.
Maria, I wished to become a prouder being. But I confess to you, I have felt no different since my eighteenth year and I worry that I will never feel different. Small shifts come to affect the scenery of living, but when I sit alone or wake from sleep, I am the same man, I am the same boy.
I wonder if education and study amounts to anything at all. It seems to me our academia is about the improvement and growth of minds, but I am wondering whether anyone finds themselves improving and growing here.
When I was a child, learning was powerful. Now lectures are all a kind of ghastly training exercise without passion or meaning. I know I complain. I’d like to be a progressive force – but I’ve got no will and no strength. As you will have seen, my addiction is ruining me. The depraved visions and torments I have – there are some things there I think even you might not understand.
Is my suggestion heresy ... or adoration?
Gradually came the sound of a deep grumbling, far in the distance.
No – I don’t suspect you, Madonna, have tried opium or hallucinogens. They sort of set each other off, in a funny way, you know – but both of them are going to kill me.
They can give you all sorts of presentiments, too.
CHROOOOOOOOM!
And oddly, I knew this was going to happen.
Professor Qasim turned from the light, and skidding, burst out of his bedroom door for the first time in days.
“Look outside – the abomination is become! The abomination is you! You will see only yourself in its confused eyes! You made it with your pomposity and gallivanting cynicism! You did this! You did this to us!”
Mohammed spilled over the balcony, tears welling, his desperate voice slowly dying with the growing roar of the hellion mortal. A black foot crashed through the rooftop. Its great dark mass swallowed and churned up everything; a million books tore into their trillion pages and swarmed like locusts.
Davy! Davy!
“Oh. Fucking Christ Jesus. Oh fucking Christ.”
And at the apex of the three towers, amber explosions rippled downward and the building followed in inflating clouds of dust. In the library, the fierce wind threw bookcases and tables at the walls and the monster’s fist crumbled the marble balconies like sugar cubes. The destroyer stood astride the university and laughed a manic ecstasy; commanding the wind and water. He wailed into the sky, white eyes bulging, staring upwards to a far-off place he may never find again.
“Shit. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Oh God.”
The windows at the front of the mezzanine shattered like broken raindrops. Black figures popped out of the metal shell.
“Oh God! God!”
The flooring in the courtyard rumbled and swayed; many of those running fell to their feet and the ashes devoured them.
“Fu-Fuc— Jesus, Oh God help me,”
“Father; fa-father please, please lord...”
“Our fath— echgh – father who art in heav— aech – heaven...”
“S-save me, O lord my god, s-s-ave me l-love I love you, I l-lov— I l— I love you—”
Outside in the playground there were twelve now, thirteen, fourteen, dropped down and kneeling, coughing into the dust and heat, spewing. The tones of their voices became wispier as their legs finally buckled under softly with the intoxicating fog.
“Fooh ... clguoo ... schl ... lo ... ksch...”
And Saty and Davy went running, running, running, far, far, far from the screams and explosions.
“FKml....,fls....c.”
“ff.....f......”
Into the desert, with the unfettered sun.
Fffffffffffff
Fhr0-7d;k6
For ever anddd
evv
er
~
Miles beyond the slump and mound of bleak junk in the Forgotten Blast Land, their feet scuffed and tore up the endless gravel. It was drab out, the sky austere, damp and warm grey. Rain had stopped and hung carefully in the distance without a flicker, stoic against the alien winds that came from all directions.
“Davy...”
He stared into the mist, carrying his limbs along like lumps of nothing, with doomed, sinking eyes.
“Davy, talk...”
He blinked in response, crumpled his lips. Words would not form. Not with the memory that still lingers, of the extinguished coaly bodies, vomiting, eaten by fire and dust, and the great marauder; the destroying thing.
Saty heard a little trickling come out of the whoosh of the breeze, and tipped her head forward over a trough in the rubble. Slowly, it seemed, they had come to a stream populated by strange water dragonflies, terrible diving beetle larva and swift shining danionins with a thousand eggs. It would be easy to cross, but beyond that, the flatness and expanse of thick stony terrain seemed to go far beyond the horizon.
“Why won’t you talk?”
Davy decelerated for a minute until he was standing still. Gradually he turned to her, and opened his mouth.
“I’m just not feeling anymore. I can’t get out of my head. I can’t get out.”
She looked deeply into his troubled face, his cheeks damp and his eyelids slowly drooping, falling down. He felt the binary in him churning, whirring.
“Please get me out please. I’m all stuck.”
She moved, a few small steps, and took his cold hand into hers.
“Don’t worry, worrykins.”
He gripped her.
“Hop to,” she cried, and carried him across the water.
“Yesterday I dreamt again that the stars were falling ... and that I could trace a pathway between galaxies with my hands.”
“And did you tell your students this?”
“No, no, no. What would my students want with dreams?”
“But did you tell anyone about it?” The conversation moved in low tones, running through the aisles of books, and now collided with the walls of the wide Garnet office. Inside, they were lined with book cases, not a shape or piece out of place. Josef sat down.
“What would they want with it?
When I woke up there were bars on my windows and inside my brain, and there were angels of different colours, and each angel spoke in short sharp screams and said twelve and a half things at once. I remembered studying experimental chemistry when I was 9 years old, when we made flames and watched liquid evaporate. It came down the glass walls in streams of blue and green – It was beautiful. I remember looking for minnows in streams in Kentucky,-field biology; I was 5 – and the Europa landing ... not the landing itself but my parents’ conversation during the broadcast. I was barely six months old – I don’t know how I could have remembered that.”
Professor Garnet spoke a little slowly.
“My whole past is being recounted to me in the clear morning by angels. They say “Io, io, sono’, sono’, it means so much to know, know...” and then they start to siphon my earlier life to me through holes in the air. They say other things too, like “you lived, you lived.” It doesn’t mean anything now, but when they’re here I know exactly what they mean,” the Professor said.
“You should tell someone.”
“...I could not tell people.”
“Do not be ashamed.”
“I am finding myself in vivid, delusional states for what must be several hours each day now. No one can know. My students would demand I get out. My colleagues would have me excused across the border like the rest of the mentals.”
“Find someone you can trust. Whether you stay or not, these hallucinations are painful for you. There are doctors and psychologists here.”
“No. Once one person knows, then the whole floor of that student hall knows. I’ve seen it happen. No, I cannot tell people that I am disturbed.”
“And still, you are.”
The fan behind him whirred and prayed lightly on his tufts of hair. The Professor took off his glasses and tapped them on his desk. Behind their rims, the monster was waiting in the sparkling of light.
“And still ... I am.”
Josef looked up at the rectangular window above Garnet’s head, where deep orange light was slowly ebbing with their conversation.
In the summerish glow on the outside the kids laughed with every jump they made, across the sand in the playground, at the edge of the long desert. The sun was regular, half-set, booming at the periphery of their whole world, and their joyful screams were lost with cicadas in the somnedy of mid-evening, boys work too hard, girls work too fast, all of them alone on the inside now; I’m sorry, children, I am so sorry.
~
“What do you think, Saty?”
Get out of there, John, it’s going to blow!
“What do I think? What do you think?”
I elect you deputy, send them in there, agent. This is earth reporting, mission report.
“I think we’re all running out of time, Saty, slowly, bit after bit.”
“What can you mean, Davy?”
The war with the xraags is complete; get those diamonds back on the ship, lifting off in eleven, ten, nine...
“Oh, well look all of it...”
Quick! Man down! “...Everyones just think they knows what the problem is but they don’t and none's doing one thing to sort it. So that’s it then...”
Powdery bloomed over the soft black ground. The air was cool but the earth itself still warmed all over, burning, scorning. “...And we’re all too late.”
“Never is too late if you hav hope.”
Dust swarmed the kidsphere over. Davy’s hands felt the earth’s rumble.
"What is hope for?"
Saty stood and looked to east. “So we can sort it.”
Come back quick, Mark, your signal is waning!
“Everyone wants to sort it but none ever sorts it because no one can really believe the problem and the horrors, and get to stick in their heads, so we always leave it... Its was okay before. But we have to sort it Saty, it’s starting to feel real now.”
Are you authorised in this domain? This is my legion, general, I depose you!
Brown strands flew about as the breeze fluttered in Saty’s hair, slowly undoing the tresses.
“Yes. I can feel it with my hands.”
~
In Prof. Edward Garnet’s office, he stood holding his weight with two fists, equidistant, on the desk. His elbows quivered, his legs bent, and he slowly retreated back into his little chair.
“We are having some trouble with Professor Qasim up there. I am very concerned about his situation,” Garnet said, wavering.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Oh, oh – It’s very complicated, but anyone on the staff here will tell you about it.”
Josef didn’t say anything, but looked in Edward’s eyes. “Of course, I will go and try to resolve matters with him. All members of staff will be convening tomorrow at quarter past eleven.”
“I spoke to him on Curphone. He seemed alright.”
“He is a deceiver. He is not alright,” Edward said, looking away.
~
Josef strode forward and struck Prof. Mohammad Qasim’s black bedroom door with his golden cane. After the eleventh quiet knock the dark entrance crept off its hinge; Qasim looked out with one eye from the chamber’s hanging, sooty colouration.
“...WHaat.”
“There’s a meeting.”
O Lord – Earth, swallow me up.
“Wasn’t this door red?” Josef said.
Mohammad spewed little particles of dust and saliva into the heavy air, turning his head away towards the broken bed.
“No. Ill ... I’m ill,” he said.
“We’re all feeling a bit peaky. There is a new parasite here.”
“I feel dead ... my soul is departed. Alas, nay ... I cannot go to the party – I shall stay at home, my mother, and work...”
Josef ignored him and tuned into the clatter of downstairs.
“Come on. You have to come out,” he said.
“—Don’t pressure me, you – shouldn’t do that...”
Josef pushed his knuckles between his teeth and breathed some apology.
“But it’s important.”
Mohammad kicked his khaki shoes a little in the doorway; grit his teeth, staring at the glittering floor of the mezzanine outside, and the helices of the staircase up to the uni’s top. His eyeballs hurt with the sight of it all, its magnitudinal unfriendliness.
“For you, so many things are important. But for me...”
He caught sight of the screaming crowds hurrying about in the library, a few people ascending the stairs that he could not recognise. In the bedroom, Josef located a sound behind a door to the side of Qasim’s desk, a scratching, a whining.
“Are you going to let that dog out?”
“Yes – exactly. I have to take my dog for a walk, so I cannot go to the meeting.”
Josef stared. “You must come.”
“No. No is my answer,” he said.
“Please,” he begged, pressing his palm into the door frame. “I have not seen you in five years. We all want to speak to you again.”
“Josef – you have asked me a question. I give you my answer only. And I say No, no.”
“Tomorrow, at 11:15.”
“No ... Wa `Alaykum As-Salaam. Bye.”
The black door slowly closed and met Josef’s eyes.
~
When dawn arrived Edward finally had clumsily achieved the power of confidence and paced the night stairs, shifty, from the clattering atrium, meeting students on the steps with folders to their breast and strained face, abrupt little glances up from interrupted people navigating weeks of stolen and borrowed papers built up on the desks in the cult of trading, and low-eyed lecturers with epic, stern books. None could distract his resolve, already verified and settled, to brazen out his colleague Mr. Qasim; and thus, he loomed towards the murky hollow, weaving his words.
He knocked with uneven hand the entry.
“Hi,” Mohammed said, rising behind the door. “Hullo?”
“Good-Day,” Garnet said, shocked by the directness of Mohammed’s eyes. “I’d like to talk about your absence from the meeting this week. Can I come in?”
Qasim awkwardly pulled the door back, knocking his feet with it, and tip-toeing away. “Oh I’m sorry. I think I forgot.”
“You ... think ... you forgot?” Edward said, loading his cannons.
“No, I’m – alright, I’m miserable. I’m in a bad place, you know that.”
“Well,” he said with cheery cynicism, “that is an awful shame – this place is so very uplifting!”
“I just couldn’t face the other people I’m sorry I’m sorry...”
“Well you have to face the other people. Your job and life is here, with the other people. If you need to get out, you can get out- we will order a truck for you.”
“I l-like people here. The students know me, they … like me. I just need my own time, I can get better. I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you. But you can’t go on like this, leech-sucking off their pubescent holy adulation, the capricious romance of children. You’re on leave for this – this depression or something – but you seek no help. Listen to me. You must either stay or go. Come on. Get your damn act together,” he demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean...”
Professor Garnet’s teeth quaked and he adjusted his glasses, frustratedly blinking. For the next few moments, Mohammed gave him nothing and stood silent through the thunder of the tirade.
“I mean that people love you because you’re a bloody cryptic bastard and you think you’re a genius! You have no genius, you have no sense; you have your cretinous style, your disgusting self-serving, vapid, damn ... incompetent ... you’re pathetic, you’re a stupid waste, and they want to throw me out of this fucking place! The absolute indignity! Can you believe it? Can you believe that?! Well good riddance to you if you’ll say nothing. Bugger you. Bugger you!”
Edward lifted the chair he was leaning on and charged it into the ground like a bull with his hooves.
“Go on living with no concern for your fellow man! Continue to wave your brooding bohemian dick around the place, you suave, stupid twat. You stupid, useless shit!”
As a means of conclusion, Garnet cried, “And by the way; absence of evidence IS evidence of absence, you fuck!” and bitterly slammed the black door behind him. Mohammed shuddered and stood alone again, immersed in a crawling sludge-aether that seemed to want to smother and eat him.
Hearing the Professor march along the balcony, his military footsteps trickling away along the swirling marble floor, Mohammad soundlessly through the blankness turned toward the only source of light and freed it.
Through the window there was bright azure; such beauty – It was clear morning, and he had not slept.
Mother, may I have your ears in this hour? I need to – I need you to – adjust, make ... sometimes I need some ... some – adjustment, some clarification, of everything. I’m lost. Can you hear me?
Sometimes I feel like all the sensitivity has been drained out of the world since I was eight years old.
Maria, I wished to become a prouder being. But I confess to you, I have felt no different since my eighteenth year and I worry that I will never feel different. Small shifts come to affect the scenery of living, but when I sit alone or wake from sleep, I am the same man, I am the same boy.
I wonder if education and study amounts to anything at all. It seems to me our academia is about the improvement and growth of minds, but I am wondering whether anyone finds themselves improving and growing here.
When I was a child, learning was powerful. Now lectures are all a kind of ghastly training exercise without passion or meaning. I know I complain. I’d like to be a progressive force – but I’ve got no will and no strength. As you will have seen, my addiction is ruining me. The depraved visions and torments I have – there are some things there I think even you might not understand.
Is my suggestion heresy ... or adoration?
Gradually came the sound of a deep grumbling, far in the distance.
No – I don’t suspect you, Madonna, have tried opium or hallucinogens. They sort of set each other off, in a funny way, you know – but both of them are going to kill me.
They can give you all sorts of presentiments, too.
CHROOOOOOOOM!
And oddly, I knew this was going to happen.
Professor Qasim turned from the light, and skidding, burst out of his bedroom door for the first time in days.
“Look outside – the abomination is become! The abomination is you! You will see only yourself in its confused eyes! You made it with your pomposity and gallivanting cynicism! You did this! You did this to us!”
Mohammed spilled over the balcony, tears welling, his desperate voice slowly dying with the growing roar of the hellion mortal. A black foot crashed through the rooftop. Its great dark mass swallowed and churned up everything; a million books tore into their trillion pages and swarmed like locusts.
Davy! Davy!
“Oh. Fucking Christ Jesus. Oh fucking Christ.”
And at the apex of the three towers, amber explosions rippled downward and the building followed in inflating clouds of dust. In the library, the fierce wind threw bookcases and tables at the walls and the monster’s fist crumbled the marble balconies like sugar cubes. The destroyer stood astride the university and laughed a manic ecstasy; commanding the wind and water. He wailed into the sky, white eyes bulging, staring upwards to a far-off place he may never find again.
“Shit. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. Oh God.”
The windows at the front of the mezzanine shattered like broken raindrops. Black figures popped out of the metal shell.
“Oh God! God!”
The flooring in the courtyard rumbled and swayed; many of those running fell to their feet and the ashes devoured them.
“Fu-Fuc— Jesus, Oh God help me,”
“Father; fa-father please, please lord...”
“Our fath— echgh – father who art in heav— aech – heaven...”
“S-save me, O lord my god, s-s-ave me l-love I love you, I l-lov— I l— I love you—”
Outside in the playground there were twelve now, thirteen, fourteen, dropped down and kneeling, coughing into the dust and heat, spewing. The tones of their voices became wispier as their legs finally buckled under softly with the intoxicating fog.
“Fooh ... clguoo ... schl ... lo ... ksch...”
And Saty and Davy went running, running, running, far, far, far from the screams and explosions.
“FKml....,fls....c.”
“ff.....f......”
Into the desert, with the unfettered sun.
Fffffffffffff
Fhr0-7d;k6
For ever anddd
evv
er
~
Miles beyond the slump and mound of bleak junk in the Forgotten Blast Land, their feet scuffed and tore up the endless gravel. It was drab out, the sky austere, damp and warm grey. Rain had stopped and hung carefully in the distance without a flicker, stoic against the alien winds that came from all directions.
“Davy...”
He stared into the mist, carrying his limbs along like lumps of nothing, with doomed, sinking eyes.
“Davy, talk...”
He blinked in response, crumpled his lips. Words would not form. Not with the memory that still lingers, of the extinguished coaly bodies, vomiting, eaten by fire and dust, and the great marauder; the destroying thing.
Saty heard a little trickling come out of the whoosh of the breeze, and tipped her head forward over a trough in the rubble. Slowly, it seemed, they had come to a stream populated by strange water dragonflies, terrible diving beetle larva and swift shining danionins with a thousand eggs. It would be easy to cross, but beyond that, the flatness and expanse of thick stony terrain seemed to go far beyond the horizon.
“Why won’t you talk?”
Davy decelerated for a minute until he was standing still. Gradually he turned to her, and opened his mouth.
“I’m just not feeling anymore. I can’t get out of my head. I can’t get out.”
She looked deeply into his troubled face, his cheeks damp and his eyelids slowly drooping, falling down. He felt the binary in him churning, whirring.
“Please get me out please. I’m all stuck.”
She moved, a few small steps, and took his cold hand into hers.
“Don’t worry, worrykins.”
He gripped her.
“Hop to,” she cried, and carried him across the water.
Thursday 12 March 2009
Fit Him In
“How is he today?” John laid each computer out on the secretary’s desk, opened the red one and tuned it to the local CCTV. “Never mind, I see for myself.”
“Understood…” the secretary replied. “Hank Fletch said he wanted to see you.”
“Hank Fletch?”“He’s a psychologist. When can you fit him in?”
“Fit him in! Haha.”
“What?”
In 2076, ‘fit him in’ meant to fuck a man. Of course, secretaries were not bred to understand these things. Secretaries were specialised in their field of work, and it was a beautiful thing, that. In fact, anyone who has ever seen a secretary working,
particularly a female secretary, understands better than most the true necessity for genetic specialisation in this world.
“Oh. It’s just that ‘fit him in’ rather means ‘to fuck a man’, nowadays.”
“Does it?”
“Well of course! Come on, woman.”
“I think I’d rather not.”
John tapped his foot busily; the room buzzed with a little anticipation. “So I think I’ll-”
“Does it really man that?”
“In certain circles,” he said elusively.
“Circles! Haha.”
“What?”
“Oh; it’s just that…yeah- circles, circles means ’to fuck a man’ nowadays. Yeah. Haha.”
“What?”
“Yeah, in the-”
“Listen, I think you misunderstand. Okay? I think you are misunderstanding the idea.” He said to her.
Bitterly she said, “Why is it good when you say it and it’s bad when I say it?”
“It’s not bad; I don’t th- I just think you’re-”
“Goddamnit.”
“Goddamn you. I’ll see you later.” Man, I would love to fuck her, he thought.
“Understood…” the secretary replied. “Hank Fletch said he wanted to see you.”
“Hank Fletch?”“He’s a psychologist. When can you fit him in?”
“Fit him in! Haha.”
“What?”
In 2076, ‘fit him in’ meant to fuck a man. Of course, secretaries were not bred to understand these things. Secretaries were specialised in their field of work, and it was a beautiful thing, that. In fact, anyone who has ever seen a secretary working,
particularly a female secretary, understands better than most the true necessity for genetic specialisation in this world.
“Oh. It’s just that ‘fit him in’ rather means ‘to fuck a man’, nowadays.”
“Does it?”
“Well of course! Come on, woman.”
“I think I’d rather not.”
John tapped his foot busily; the room buzzed with a little anticipation. “So I think I’ll-”
“Does it really man that?”
“In certain circles,” he said elusively.
“Circles! Haha.”
“What?”
“Oh; it’s just that…yeah- circles, circles means ’to fuck a man’ nowadays. Yeah. Haha.”
“What?”
“Yeah, in the-”
“Listen, I think you misunderstand. Okay? I think you are misunderstanding the idea.” He said to her.
Bitterly she said, “Why is it good when you say it and it’s bad when I say it?”
“It’s not bad; I don’t th- I just think you’re-”
“Goddamnit.”
“Goddamn you. I’ll see you later.” Man, I would love to fuck her, he thought.
My Penis
My Penis
By Timothy Wilkinson
Helo
I wold like to tell you all a storie about my penis. My penis is called chompy and he is very funny. I take my penis everyday for walks and he always chases the rabbits. Sometimes my penis is naughty tho because he jump up at people and i say 'down, down, chompy' to make him stop. Me and mi penis go together on lots of adventures and we ar best friends. Ther ar some bad parts to looking after a penis tho as I always have to clean up after my penis when out and about and sometimes evn inside! I hav just rembered that i ment to say dog
By Timothy Wilkinson
Helo
I wold like to tell you all a storie about my penis. My penis is called chompy and he is very funny. I take my penis everyday for walks and he always chases the rabbits. Sometimes my penis is naughty tho because he jump up at people and i say 'down, down, chompy' to make him stop. Me and mi penis go together on lots of adventures and we ar best friends. Ther ar some bad parts to looking after a penis tho as I always have to clean up after my penis when out and about and sometimes evn inside! I hav just rembered that i ment to say dog
Saturday 28 February 2009
Introduction to The Sandstone Epi-Tome
'The Sandstone Epi-Tome details the origin story of a delicate, far-future world, significantly more innocent than our own.'
UNUS1 (PREMIERE PASSAGEM):
Of course, one wonders in the primi at a title such as zot!- howavyer, it's siphoned that in a Passagem there be one Gem, and they belonging to each sweetly without despert.
Lo, let us beginneth...much stalling has already woed herm; (-ahoed werm!?) and a poem waiteth to be commenced:
Li, see, a broached malfestinence
That I am roved to eat
Claw, raw, in filched carvendinance
That rawks and hooks go plead
Preast, we are the dead man
We are churned and breeding savages
As longing time will changeth me
Thus are all its ravages.
Thus are all its ravages.
-the Keeper
Theretwus and Thankstyou; on Keeper printings. That extrunct was solicted for its breftyose and exprensive qualities that lend theirselves to the volume. An overall studage of all Keeper might thennywhere negaped and deparle any heap of vim from you- so the Unus explains. In looong, coursly.
Thome writings of Keeper are of such manythings and many suchthings; things of such muchness and of so many thingnesses; in so grand a manyness, so delicate a gorgeousness in every part, plain and inkled inking; what is found is found and found again without self-reverence or cause for buttleshockling or overplaintivity, but dark playfulness, and man-shy loving, for in a poet's death none knows in what refectory sweet joy lay...and lo it makest all of us everyone sad, for we are unredeemed by he, and forevvytime blessed.
And Yea together his wordings we all did choose: The Keeper's ninth, 'a broached malfestinence, in filched carvendinence', (REF) for it outbouches of omn we knew and omn we shan't for misgivens from the end; we are sancried on our knees to have his speaking.
As'tis an edited 'gem preceding the troubly thing of beautiful lasthist, we forgo largery. Now come, come, let's curro curro to its first verbal.
UNUS1 (PREMIERE PASSAGEM):
Of course, one wonders in the primi at a title such as zot!- howavyer, it's siphoned that in a Passagem there be one Gem, and they belonging to each sweetly without despert.
Lo, let us beginneth...much stalling has already woed herm; (-ahoed werm!?) and a poem waiteth to be commenced:
Li, see, a broached malfestinence
That I am roved to eat
Claw, raw, in filched carvendinance
That rawks and hooks go plead
Preast, we are the dead man
We are churned and breeding savages
As longing time will changeth me
Thus are all its ravages.
Thus are all its ravages.
-the Keeper
Theretwus and Thankstyou; on Keeper printings. That extrunct was solicted for its breftyose and exprensive qualities that lend theirselves to the volume. An overall studage of all Keeper might thennywhere negaped and deparle any heap of vim from you- so the Unus explains. In looong, coursly.
Thome writings of Keeper are of such manythings and many suchthings; things of such muchness and of so many thingnesses; in so grand a manyness, so delicate a gorgeousness in every part, plain and inkled inking; what is found is found and found again without self-reverence or cause for buttleshockling or overplaintivity, but dark playfulness, and man-shy loving, for in a poet's death none knows in what refectory sweet joy lay...and lo it makest all of us everyone sad, for we are unredeemed by he, and forevvytime blessed.
And Yea together his wordings we all did choose: The Keeper's ninth, 'a broached malfestinence, in filched carvendinence', (REF) for it outbouches of omn we knew and omn we shan't for misgivens from the end; we are sancried on our knees to have his speaking.
As'tis an edited 'gem preceding the troubly thing of beautiful lasthist, we forgo largery. Now come, come, let's curro curro to its first verbal.
Beautiful LastHist 1&2 from The Sandstone Epi-Tome
'The Sandstone Epi-Tome details the origin story of a delicate, far-future world, significantly more innocent than our own.'
BEAUTIFUL LASTHIST:
1
O! Creening seas! Career the stilching foam before what eyes rescue! There are but starries and naughtnesses in the ea. And loam he stands, He, that briskety, that maloudinence, that croached filibastard of the Lord, divine in such a mottled solution! He summons here the oceans, the pacia-atlanticites hording up from the bruttled overswash, the trintiias with vile, the leams of Crausatugas with spite, et the Drodonan brutes in swiddling uripenance.
Di! Each of thome rednesses curdle at lordish robes and He that look looketh only up, to naigre rainpuffs and twistling stams, to grove beyond groves, et to the bewild'ring eye of Gott.
Tri! Hes optics darkled in the track they bore; His heady aburned to its with'ring core; et His spirit wept with the sulcrum chore.
And on his soly Dau he mumbleth; "Don us that this straine is dreamt, Don us that it live nay more...pray, Gott..."
And hes lips drink at the schreaming ayr, on the drowned iea, where voxims die in the terraurigg vent, and pedals crumple 'fore what fate is sent.
2
"Omn is done," gezegd, "thes plaine is wet. Its lacrimance has drawn an ending sigh, its tremorance cast a final die, its mowing hence a blacken'd skie; omn is done, omn is done, omn is done."
Et the leams beamed and sung in throng, the hymnal song;
"Gott love ye, Gott bless ye,
sancta maria orata,
sancta maria prorata."
"Omn havst laurted, omn are slaurted; Omn is done, Omn is wept, Omn is done!"
Et the viles foamed with fangs they sang, dark klokkeklang;
"Gott love us, Gott bless us,
nob omne soror',
nob omne tsoror'."
"Omn ist spenteth, hope last wenteth, here I venteth; Omn is done, Omn is wept, Omn is done!"
Et silentias, silentias, as each is unthrust and subsides in that silence to where the grasses grow, at the beds of the waters; in the hallow pool, in the dying crutch, the sorrowed sole. Et naught was known, and he thought naught was done.
But the skie wraughd and broughd its word; "By the sun, omn is done, omn is done. All is done, little one, all is done." And deepst there, man fell, for he knew 'twas the vox af Gott, and spoke for he.
BEAUTIFUL LASTHIST:
1
O! Creening seas! Career the stilching foam before what eyes rescue! There are but starries and naughtnesses in the ea. And loam he stands, He, that briskety, that maloudinence, that croached filibastard of the Lord, divine in such a mottled solution! He summons here the oceans, the pacia-atlanticites hording up from the bruttled overswash, the trintiias with vile, the leams of Crausatugas with spite, et the Drodonan brutes in swiddling uripenance.
Di! Each of thome rednesses curdle at lordish robes and He that look looketh only up, to naigre rainpuffs and twistling stams, to grove beyond groves, et to the bewild'ring eye of Gott.
Tri! Hes optics darkled in the track they bore; His heady aburned to its with'ring core; et His spirit wept with the sulcrum chore.
And on his soly Dau he mumbleth; "Don us that this straine is dreamt, Don us that it live nay more...pray, Gott..."
And hes lips drink at the schreaming ayr, on the drowned iea, where voxims die in the terraurigg vent, and pedals crumple 'fore what fate is sent.
2
"Omn is done," gezegd, "thes plaine is wet. Its lacrimance has drawn an ending sigh, its tremorance cast a final die, its mowing hence a blacken'd skie; omn is done, omn is done, omn is done."
Et the leams beamed and sung in throng, the hymnal song;
"Gott love ye, Gott bless ye,
sancta maria orata,
sancta maria prorata."
"Omn havst laurted, omn are slaurted; Omn is done, Omn is wept, Omn is done!"
Et the viles foamed with fangs they sang, dark klokkeklang;
"Gott love us, Gott bless us,
nob omne soror',
nob omne tsoror'."
"Omn ist spenteth, hope last wenteth, here I venteth; Omn is done, Omn is wept, Omn is done!"
Et silentias, silentias, as each is unthrust and subsides in that silence to where the grasses grow, at the beds of the waters; in the hallow pool, in the dying crutch, the sorrowed sole. Et naught was known, and he thought naught was done.
But the skie wraughd and broughd its word; "By the sun, omn is done, omn is done. All is done, little one, all is done." And deepst there, man fell, for he knew 'twas the vox af Gott, and spoke for he.
Friday 30 January 2009
Sunday 25 January 2009
A Letter to Shevlin
SHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVVVLINNN!!!!!!!1111
GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!!!
RIGHT!!!
Okay. Thankyou for joining us. Basically, the crilching loam has been unsprunctified. We need twelve munch-bairns to reassimilate the twelfth crypton-gate at the south wattling. Is that underesplendent?! Good. Right. Basically, we need to undermine those bastard krovnchnies that will be waiting for you just as to kerspiddle north of the Underbloaming Trelch Fukner. I can't say it any better than that. I'm sorry, Shivlan, but you'll just have to reignite the brumn-fortress. It takes me much time to have sexual antrimetrics in the soul-fragellator, and if that's not twice-thristed and once-bloamed by at least 32:45 TREE-EGHM in the moon-tang we're going to have a serious mroblems with your spelk. And I mean it. I know we've had this conversation before, and we're going to have it again and this time I'll be sploaning for it to mean fristmas.
But of course, I don't want to to that. The least I'll be remandating with on this splok-Asian will be the pre-spattling of your loaned garment apartments. You'll have to sprit through nine fine truldge fliterries and won't be the funnest of fun-dunneries, I can have you knownst of thot, howayvier, all these thingies and many muchies are part and parcel in spittled spittling of a job in the maroon dreaming, telt-barging world of Quasi-Plazi-Intermandaplanestellatory Resplemanhectodatory 'Loaned and Heltringer 25.CCS' Ultra-Transflamutating Corps and Trorps Co&Sons. You knew that when you didn't sign up, and you know it then.
Back to the flatter, patter and matter in hand- (IN HAND!!1 *see app. 43 for details of punnatory gestatory intermanagement portfolio?!, sorry- undrift.) the rhyme, lime, and seasoning reasoning for this little oh-so-and-so-so Harold-in-Italy venturement de couf le buerre (as the french say) must ultimately be traced back to our long and longissentiory broam-tustling with those fresky little Ook-Mins. The planet-star of Cora-Interra, as you know, has long been the opti-gasm of the Anti-Resparastellatory Uninterrassertainated Filch&Moors-sponsored and thrice-bloamed Heltringer Deviatory Devious Sect Corps of the Uniformal Elite Police Brigade Task Force Generation 12.3259 Squadra-leagua Decimus. I am asking you, in short, to make flamn and damn and oh-so-shackle-me-thrice-broamed-in-the-trouser-splintage sure that not one fuck-swaddling, belch-maddening, underafloaminated cunterswazzle can torskivate themselves where they oughtn't and shoughtn't to be (in free and maddled swartaflarst.)
Can you bake this for me? Titsaddle me back by the Culth of Nive, north of Sutra and wife of Merionetsata.
Many thanks,
The Bewledge of Min
GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!!!
RIGHT!!!
Okay. Thankyou for joining us. Basically, the crilching loam has been unsprunctified. We need twelve munch-bairns to reassimilate the twelfth crypton-gate at the south wattling. Is that underesplendent?! Good. Right. Basically, we need to undermine those bastard krovnchnies that will be waiting for you just as to kerspiddle north of the Underbloaming Trelch Fukner. I can't say it any better than that. I'm sorry, Shivlan, but you'll just have to reignite the brumn-fortress. It takes me much time to have sexual antrimetrics in the soul-fragellator, and if that's not twice-thristed and once-bloamed by at least 32:45 TREE-EGHM in the moon-tang we're going to have a serious mroblems with your spelk. And I mean it. I know we've had this conversation before, and we're going to have it again and this time I'll be sploaning for it to mean fristmas.
But of course, I don't want to to that. The least I'll be remandating with on this splok-Asian will be the pre-spattling of your loaned garment apartments. You'll have to sprit through nine fine truldge fliterries and won't be the funnest of fun-dunneries, I can have you knownst of thot, howayvier, all these thingies and many muchies are part and parcel in spittled spittling of a job in the maroon dreaming, telt-barging world of Quasi-Plazi-Intermandaplanestellatory Resplemanhectodatory 'Loaned and Heltringer 25.CCS' Ultra-Transflamutating Corps and Trorps Co&Sons. You knew that when you didn't sign up, and you know it then.
Back to the flatter, patter and matter in hand- (IN HAND!!1 *see app. 43 for details of punnatory gestatory intermanagement portfolio?!, sorry- undrift.) the rhyme, lime, and seasoning reasoning for this little oh-so-and-so-so Harold-in-Italy venturement de couf le buerre (as the french say) must ultimately be traced back to our long and longissentiory broam-tustling with those fresky little Ook-Mins. The planet-star of Cora-Interra, as you know, has long been the opti-gasm of the Anti-Resparastellatory Uninterrassertainated Filch&Moors-sponsored and thrice-bloamed Heltringer Deviatory Devious Sect Corps of the Uniformal Elite Police Brigade Task Force Generation 12.3259 Squadra-leagua Decimus. I am asking you, in short, to make flamn and damn and oh-so-shackle-me-thrice-broamed-in-the-trouser-splintage sure that not one fuck-swaddling, belch-maddening, underafloaminated cunterswazzle can torskivate themselves where they oughtn't and shoughtn't to be (in free and maddled swartaflarst.)
Can you bake this for me? Titsaddle me back by the Culth of Nive, north of Sutra and wife of Merionetsata.
Many thanks,
The Bewledge of Min
Saturday 10 January 2009
Jamie for the modern reader; Three Extracts
JAMIE ON EVOLUTION
As the theory of evolution by natural selection is a relatively modern (and silly) idea, there is no core scripture on it in the Stone Texts. However, the theory of evolution clearly conflicts with The Slabs of Creation. Here, it is chiselled;
All the creatures on the earth, he created them
Other passages that contradict this theory can be found in Laws, The Sacred Rejuvination and The Echoing Downfall. A phenomenal amount of work has also been done to counter this theory in many oracular logbooks and theological doctrines. The most famous piece of oracular writing in opposition to the theory of evolution is the popular hymn 'O, Jamie Who Made It All, Yeah" written by the oracle Yosiah Min IV sometime in the latter half of the fifteenth century;
All the creatures, 1 2 3
Jamie made them from his own
Yeah Jamie made the creatures yeah
And they did not evolve because
Jamie made them himself yeah on
The first day he made them all yeah
I include only one verse from the full hymn*, which has only ever been performed once and is said to be longer than the epic of Gilgamesh. However, one can already notice the clear themes of Min's songwriting becoming apparent in this, his first commercial work. This hymn is particularly more relevant than any other Jamiean statement on evolution because of its explicit and ferociously literal interpretation of the theological contention against evolution as a viable theory. Min is said to have written the hymn in a sudden rush on his way home from fuck, a popular practise in the late 2000s, and said this about his own work-
"I cannot say whether 'O, Jamie Who Made It All, Yeah' is a positive argument in the battle against Darwin or not but I would at least hope that your shiny fklukmp is raining on the sky lol because I never had the sheer dunkmp to filch my own filcheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee yeah?"
*the full hymn continues in App. 12
JAMIE ON FOREIGNERS
Prior to the outlawing of Freedom of Speech in 2065, Jamie’s views on the foreign peoples were largely distorted due to centuries of political campaigning and religious dissent. In the twelve years since World Congress passed the law banning free speech, a vague universal understanding of his word has somewhat been realised, but the details remain incredibly vague, and muddled at the level of intricacy. However, with the SPUJ’s exclusive access to the Stone Texts, information has been gleaned which has shed an enormous amount of light on the issue, though it has yet to be released to the public in a formal capacity. Suffice it to say that Jamie does not like them and would rather they be sent home. I will elaborate on this in the following passages.
There happens to be a parable, now infamous, in which Jamie physically assaults, psychologically taunts and rapes a young woman because, in his words, “This woman was a foreigner and it is only right that she face the consequences of her actions.” In fact, whilst the Stone Texts don’t specifically name the whos and wheres of this occurrence, the physical acts are chiselled in lurid detail; one passage recounting how he actually sustained a period of sexually enraged abuse for thirty days and thirty nights without respite. However, most liberal theologians today consider this a metaphor and of little moral concern.
It is with this story that I begin this explanatory chapter, not because it grabs the eye and incites intrigue, but purely because it is illustrative of the entire controversy surrounding Jamie’s opinion on those not of native race. Whilst a story of brutal sexual violence on the basis of race might at first seem ethically questionable as a children’s parable, it only takes some simple reasoning to realise that the tale is merely a piece of allegorical poetry. The same can be said for many other of Jamie’s words on this subject, and many folktales, rumoured parables or decrees within the Stone Texts. However, as with all things, let’s begin with the beginning. In LAWS 26-36.2/ Jamie’s definitive words on race were written.
It is chiselled;
Come, bedfellows, and listen to the sky, for there is a voice betwixt the stars and the black. It is the Man, and he has words:
“I command you- if you are drinking the water of your own rivers and the fruits of your own plantations then revel, for you are glorious. But if you are within your village and in your village you see a man of whom you are not aware, then you must bludgeon him, for he is a foreigner.”
The lord hath spoken.
It’s true that while this verse seems an offensive one, it is relatively tame in comparison to other more extreme sections of the great diatribe, as here;
Come, bedfellows, and listen to the sky, for there is a voice betwixt the stars and the black. It is the Man, and he has words:
“I command you- if you sup with your mother and your sister, and your brother and your father and your grandfather and grandmother, you are a noble people, and your crops will grow plentifully. But if you are supping with your mother and your sister one eve and through your window there is spotted a poor girl whom you do not recognise, you must throw rice upon her face and beat her with sticks, for she is the devil child and will ruin your crops.”
The lord hath said his word. Sleep now and remember the message.
Come, children of the doomed race, for see in your fields the foreign folk.
And peer 'pon his shiny incandescent face and say;
NAY
Say NAY to his ideals and his tubby feet
Send his black face home broken in the night
For this man was but a foreigner
And to him your rice is candy
One could have many hours of fun quoting these great verses, but for the average reader it may seem hard to reconcile the sensibilities of today with these 'antiquated' ideals. However, the modern reader is greatly mistaken- covert statistics taken from a survey of the terran population five years ago state that those who follow the express decree delivered by Jamie on the intrusion of foreigners increase their lifespan by an average of ten years. Who doesn’t want to live an extra ten years? This may seem like feeble and arguably specious reasoning to justify racism, but it is important to look at some of the great moralist leaders of our time; Benito Mussolini, J’OREK The Pissed, Bloodspew Von Killalot, and realise that most of these people must also have been racist.
JAMIE ON HOMOSEXUALS
As with foreigners, there is something curiously notable about homosexuals. Since Jamie felt that speaking of these people would "defile the soul of spirit, purge the mind of logic, destroy the creator, brutalise the child and the animal, make your home and your neighbours home a sick, sick desert, bring a vomit on the beautiful mountain ranges and forests, make the young woman an ugly woman; to trim her and make her insane," there is no direct indication of his teachings on homosexuality in itself, and so it is a far better and more liberal gauge to consult his still-living oracles.
The most prominent leaders refused to talk on this topic, due to personal shit, however a few less well known members of the Oracular Conglomerate have agreed to speak, with the condition that their names be hid. The team of researchers on our hefty, scattered volume of Jamie analysis gathered a surprisingly vast and varied amount of quotes that bore shocking veracity on homosexuality. Here are just a few;
"There is no reason why homosexuals should not be accepted in a society such as ours where people can put their cocks in the mouth of a dog in a Dutch coffee house and positively spurt with joy. Were you to ask me the same question five years ago I think I would have called you a madman but I've been to Holland and this thing with dogs really does happen and so I've had to rectify my opinion."
As the theory of evolution by natural selection is a relatively modern (and silly) idea, there is no core scripture on it in the Stone Texts. However, the theory of evolution clearly conflicts with The Slabs of Creation. Here, it is chiselled;
All the creatures on the earth, he created them
Other passages that contradict this theory can be found in Laws, The Sacred Rejuvination and The Echoing Downfall. A phenomenal amount of work has also been done to counter this theory in many oracular logbooks and theological doctrines. The most famous piece of oracular writing in opposition to the theory of evolution is the popular hymn 'O, Jamie Who Made It All, Yeah" written by the oracle Yosiah Min IV sometime in the latter half of the fifteenth century;
All the creatures, 1 2 3
Jamie made them from his own
Yeah Jamie made the creatures yeah
And they did not evolve because
Jamie made them himself yeah on
The first day he made them all yeah
I include only one verse from the full hymn*, which has only ever been performed once and is said to be longer than the epic of Gilgamesh. However, one can already notice the clear themes of Min's songwriting becoming apparent in this, his first commercial work. This hymn is particularly more relevant than any other Jamiean statement on evolution because of its explicit and ferociously literal interpretation of the theological contention against evolution as a viable theory. Min is said to have written the hymn in a sudden rush on his way home from fuck, a popular practise in the late 2000s, and said this about his own work-
"I cannot say whether 'O, Jamie Who Made It All, Yeah' is a positive argument in the battle against Darwin or not but I would at least hope that your shiny fklukmp is raining on the sky lol because I never had the sheer dunkmp to filch my own filcheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee yeah?"
*the full hymn continues in App. 12
JAMIE ON FOREIGNERS
Prior to the outlawing of Freedom of Speech in 2065, Jamie’s views on the foreign peoples were largely distorted due to centuries of political campaigning and religious dissent. In the twelve years since World Congress passed the law banning free speech, a vague universal understanding of his word has somewhat been realised, but the details remain incredibly vague, and muddled at the level of intricacy. However, with the SPUJ’s exclusive access to the Stone Texts, information has been gleaned which has shed an enormous amount of light on the issue, though it has yet to be released to the public in a formal capacity. Suffice it to say that Jamie does not like them and would rather they be sent home. I will elaborate on this in the following passages.
There happens to be a parable, now infamous, in which Jamie physically assaults, psychologically taunts and rapes a young woman because, in his words, “This woman was a foreigner and it is only right that she face the consequences of her actions.” In fact, whilst the Stone Texts don’t specifically name the whos and wheres of this occurrence, the physical acts are chiselled in lurid detail; one passage recounting how he actually sustained a period of sexually enraged abuse for thirty days and thirty nights without respite. However, most liberal theologians today consider this a metaphor and of little moral concern.
It is with this story that I begin this explanatory chapter, not because it grabs the eye and incites intrigue, but purely because it is illustrative of the entire controversy surrounding Jamie’s opinion on those not of native race. Whilst a story of brutal sexual violence on the basis of race might at first seem ethically questionable as a children’s parable, it only takes some simple reasoning to realise that the tale is merely a piece of allegorical poetry. The same can be said for many other of Jamie’s words on this subject, and many folktales, rumoured parables or decrees within the Stone Texts. However, as with all things, let’s begin with the beginning. In LAWS 26-36.2/ Jamie’s definitive words on race were written.
It is chiselled;
Come, bedfellows, and listen to the sky, for there is a voice betwixt the stars and the black. It is the Man, and he has words:
“I command you- if you are drinking the water of your own rivers and the fruits of your own plantations then revel, for you are glorious. But if you are within your village and in your village you see a man of whom you are not aware, then you must bludgeon him, for he is a foreigner.”
The lord hath spoken.
It’s true that while this verse seems an offensive one, it is relatively tame in comparison to other more extreme sections of the great diatribe, as here;
Come, bedfellows, and listen to the sky, for there is a voice betwixt the stars and the black. It is the Man, and he has words:
“I command you- if you sup with your mother and your sister, and your brother and your father and your grandfather and grandmother, you are a noble people, and your crops will grow plentifully. But if you are supping with your mother and your sister one eve and through your window there is spotted a poor girl whom you do not recognise, you must throw rice upon her face and beat her with sticks, for she is the devil child and will ruin your crops.”
The lord hath said his word. Sleep now and remember the message.
Come, children of the doomed race, for see in your fields the foreign folk.
And peer 'pon his shiny incandescent face and say;
NAY
Say NAY to his ideals and his tubby feet
Send his black face home broken in the night
For this man was but a foreigner
And to him your rice is candy
One could have many hours of fun quoting these great verses, but for the average reader it may seem hard to reconcile the sensibilities of today with these 'antiquated' ideals. However, the modern reader is greatly mistaken- covert statistics taken from a survey of the terran population five years ago state that those who follow the express decree delivered by Jamie on the intrusion of foreigners increase their lifespan by an average of ten years. Who doesn’t want to live an extra ten years? This may seem like feeble and arguably specious reasoning to justify racism, but it is important to look at some of the great moralist leaders of our time; Benito Mussolini, J’OREK The Pissed, Bloodspew Von Killalot, and realise that most of these people must also have been racist.
JAMIE ON HOMOSEXUALS
As with foreigners, there is something curiously notable about homosexuals. Since Jamie felt that speaking of these people would "defile the soul of spirit, purge the mind of logic, destroy the creator, brutalise the child and the animal, make your home and your neighbours home a sick, sick desert, bring a vomit on the beautiful mountain ranges and forests, make the young woman an ugly woman; to trim her and make her insane," there is no direct indication of his teachings on homosexuality in itself, and so it is a far better and more liberal gauge to consult his still-living oracles.
The most prominent leaders refused to talk on this topic, due to personal shit, however a few less well known members of the Oracular Conglomerate have agreed to speak, with the condition that their names be hid. The team of researchers on our hefty, scattered volume of Jamie analysis gathered a surprisingly vast and varied amount of quotes that bore shocking veracity on homosexuality. Here are just a few;
"There is no reason why homosexuals should not be accepted in a society such as ours where people can put their cocks in the mouth of a dog in a Dutch coffee house and positively spurt with joy. Were you to ask me the same question five years ago I think I would have called you a madman but I've been to Holland and this thing with dogs really does happen and so I've had to rectify my opinion."
Wednesday 7 January 2009
Roam
---i ran into your house as the feeling struck me pulled up every word written on the fax machine pulled out every sheet threw them on the lawn took a golden hatchet saw your mother waiting dove into the ceiling I AM IN THE BLUE COLD AND ASH When life was just abating drove a twisted nail through the thing I wanted more than YOUR EASY TIMER MAKE A LIFE HERE IN THE BLUE COLD AND ASH You are just a running Little angry doorman it's my favourite letter binds me into pieces try to run along for words and words and readers never saw the cold tar WITH ONE SWIFT CRASH that ran across the winter made it all my own said I'd join you for now ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMM PULL DOWN THE HATCHET OF TWELVE ROOOOOOOOOOOOO I AM I AM IN THE BLUE COLD AND ASH OOOOOO!!OOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMM When life was just abating drove a twisted nail through the thing I wanted more RRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO my favourite letter binds me into pieces OOOOAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAA""!!!!!! ran into your house as the feeling struck me AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA MMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM you are just a running Little angry doorman M MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM woman MMMMMMMM MMMMMM MMMMM
M woman MMMMMMMforever yoursMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMERRRRRRRRRR ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMM I AM YOUR PHALLIC MOTHER, AND LIKE YOU, PULL DOWN THE HATCHET OF TWELVE I KNOW THAT WITHOUT YOU I WOULD HAVE LOST CHRIST LONG AGO yoursMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMERRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOO your houseMMMMMMMMMMMERRRRRRRRRRROORMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM I KNOW THAT WITHOUT YOU I WOULD HAVE LOST CHRIST LONG AGOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMwomanMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.
M woman MMMMMMMforever yoursMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMERRRRRRRRRR ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMM I AM YOUR PHALLIC MOTHER, AND LIKE YOU, PULL DOWN THE HATCHET OF TWELVE I KNOW THAT WITHOUT YOU I WOULD HAVE LOST CHRIST LONG AGO yoursMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMERRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOO your houseMMMMMMMMMMMERRRRRRRRRRROORMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM I KNOW THAT WITHOUT YOU I WOULD HAVE LOST CHRIST LONG AGOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMwomanMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.
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