|when all else fails make some sense
||[Jun. 28th, 2008|07:38 am]
The Book of Fluids
|||||Starsailor - Music Was Saved||]|
I read once in the Necronomicon that in Cthulhu's language there is an action, ng'fhtagn'h; or "with-dreaming". For my words in the liber fluidorum, this is the left-hand orb of irrecumbent numinousness.
The right-hand orb is, as the permutators have taught, the process making sense of itself as a multitudinous, baroque cosmology to learn limitation and appreciation by enumeration.
As all limited expression of infinity is but one of many cries in wide darkness, such as of lashing horsepersons, thought of publication had never occurred me. With one hand, as I said, is imparted the social joy of dreaming among friends, in such a fashion as in one of myriad roleplaying games of beauty and glory that have come and gone in my time. In all such games nothing world-lasting is built, but rather things are made to dance and to serve for a brief while, before melting back into the clouded valleys between our cyclops-homing mountains. What dreams, but the most despairing, are consistent across the night? Thinking thusly I may have erred, and so poisoned the grounds with inconsistency, with overabundance of reference (are there enough lilies to weep over so many nameless graves?) and with broken threads. But that I thought, and planned little, but moved my brush by moments' impressions to move and dazzle my fellows, because so humble were the pretensions.
With the other hand, as I said, is imparted the knowledge outside truth that the book wrote itself upon the fabric of our lives and mine, not as a lower reality but as an elsewhere that is also home. Verily I doubt Klot or Corso ever shuddered as I have been made to shudder contemplating what I -- when being more foolish than usual -- claim to have written, as if I had freedom or control. And once granted these realities cross-influence, I have navigated into troubling paradoxic straits of cosmology, which I can but slowly negotiate: the unstoppable cunning of Moebius' plan and my delay in finishing my contribution coincide, for reasons the second paragraph of this essay explains.
And these explain why a) I never considered publishing, and so wrote in a careless way that would be nightmarish to revise unto publication, but I'm not against it; and why b) the end of XXXII eludes me still.