I’ve been keeping my head down and focusing on the work in the hopes the wrongs in my life will somehow right themselves. It’s never that easy, though. Just finished an intensive re-write on ‘The Colour Out of Space‘, and it looks as if the script is possibly going out to cast, although I don’t know if I should say anything or not. No one told me not to. Fingers crossed for this beast as I’m rather proud of the modernized adaptation we managed to fasten together.
Before I get started on the next script I’ve put a little elbow grease in the graphic novel I’ve been dreaming up in my head. This project is set to slow burn and yet I just can’t put it down. It’s the story I know the least about and still I keep tinkering with it despite that fact. It’s like an object which you aren’t quite certain what it’s used for, you only know you like the way it looks, and you want it just cause. So I’m going to post some of it here and play around with the text a bit. It’s nothing like it’s going to look, but maybe it will help clarify my vision. It’s still very rough and I won’t post the beginning having done so twice already.
|photo by Marnie Shelton Klein
Believers of the Unpure
Once upon a time the dark Mother was endless. She was the vast Immaculate Darkness. Mistress on the sea of Infinity. Benevolent. Malevolent. These terms mean nothing and are concepts of cattle. In the center of her swirling chaos a cunning affliction unknowingly came to be. Imperfection in perfection. Creation was conjured without consent. How could perfection recognize Imperfection? And so She fell. Matter took shape and became finite. It became trapped. Days became numbers. Binding concepts. The error in the system. The Demiurge; mad, blind, and insane. But being born of a deficit it never knew it was so. And so it never knew any different. Like us it fights craftily not to cease to exist. But our light reflects its light. Our light reflects our maker.
“May the curse, cunning, and blessing be.”
This world has blinded the minds of the Unbelievers.
Nyx, Nul and Nil: Sisters of the Wasteland
Nyx is the earth, the core on which the water’s lie.
Nul is the power of the ever-changing tides.
Nil is the breath of wind which guides and navigates.
Together they make up the vessel which traverses the sacred waters.
Positioned equidistantly around the table they ask a question, “who is speaking to us now?”
“I am the one who cast my fire upon this world and will watch it blaze down to the very last ember.”
“And what do we seek?”
“When you can make three into one, and when you can make the inner like the outer, then you will find the keys to the kingdom of high and low… Fire, sword, war… Do you know where you really are?”
“Show us the way, Father.”
The festering breath envelopes them. “Open your eyes Sisters of the Wasteland. Here you find the reality of your garden of delight.”
The scorched earth ripples in a heat haze in front of them, A world of ash and fire, scrub and rock. A world burned clean where nothing can grow. The mountains rise with jagged peaks around them, casting unnatural shadows as they huddle together for protection and warmth. Ravens turn in the skies, the only other inhabitants of this place. Winged messengers of the coming storm.
Nil: “This cannot be.”
Nul: “This world is a carcass, picked clean by the blind.”
Nyx: “Prepare sisters, prepare. For the trouble we expect will come.”
We are dreaming again. And from this dream we cannot awaken.
The three at the table: “Who holds the keys of knowledge?”
Outside of time: “They were lost by those who would not pass themselves, and they have made it so no one else can pass.”
The three at the table: “Does Pamphile know where?”
Outside of time: “Sleep. For you should have found a better answer…”
Seeking shelter the sisters have gone to the cave to weather the storm, hiding frozen in one finite point amongst the chaos.
Clotho – spinner
Lachesis – alloter
Atropos – unturnable
As sly as snakes and as quiet as doves, sisters, see yourselves, and spin us a new tale.
A voice whispers in the Darkness. The remnants of broken threads envelop them. Then, the spark of first light. Luminescence. A refraction of quartz which has never used its reflective skin before. One solitary chamber in the belly of the beast. Airless. Deathless Grace. So cool to the touch. How long have they been there now? Like roots they have grown into the earth, percolating in their shroud.
Three days. Three Ages. Three aeons.
Time to wake up!
And at that base was a stone from the sky, one which wept blood. From this aerolite, mixed with tears, fear, and fire, they forged new blades. The daggers from heaven, born of exile. Blow by blow they hardened them until they were strong enough to rip the fabric of creation itself.
Born of fire we are forged stronger now. A warm breeze catches the spark. The dross of matter burns brightly, bringing with it the breath of intention. We will turn the wine back to water. Hand in hand and heart to heart we conjure you.
Sisters of the Wasteland together in the cave: “We call on you Mother, Mistress, First and Always.”
She comes robed in silver and night and walks in dreams and darkness amongst the lovely, baleful stars.
She: “Can you answer this? When does One become Two. Two become Three, and out of the Third comes One as the Fourth?”
Nil: “First the circle.”
Nul: “Than the square.”
Nyx: “Than the triangle.”
Body, Soul, and Spirit. Realized together they exceed the limits of Nature. The spirit is free of its fetters. The light that shines in the darkness is the fourth.
Nil: “I wish to see the sunrise.”
Nul: “I wish to feel the warmth on my skin.”
Nyx: “I wish to taste the wind.”
Let us leave this place by the secret sign told to us at our reckoning. We know the answer now. Conjunction.
Rock scraping across rock. Stone turns to liquid as if the lower vibrations of nature are working in reverse. The cave mouth opens as they slowly stumble outside. An all encompassing bombardment. New eyes, new senses, new colors. The sun burns low in the sky as the first star gleams in the twilight. The desert is awash in in oranges and reds under the cover of deepening blue. The warm wind brings a fine sand which stings like a sunburn. The wasteland remains, yet they have become a part of it now, hardened like stone sentinels. The trial is not over, the veil persists. They will not see the dawn.
A manic laugh spreads around them, rippling like a heat haze. “Do you not see with new eyes? Your wish has been granted. Nihil Extraneum.”
In that word is a heartbeat. Wake again. In that word is expansion. Psychic stretching. Incubating. Collating. It is a Solution. There is Nothing from outside.
The voice is silenced.
Reading back through it now it strikes me it might be time to stop playing Godspeed You! Black Emperor in such heavy rotation. Maybe not as it’s so evocative and such a joy to write to. It’s coming on midnight and I’m going to out to stare at the stars for a while and contemplate just where this is all going. As hard as I try there is no linear process to my creativity. It’s all cobbled together from different pieces I pick up, discard, and then pick up again later. It’s a madhouse.
Much love from where the worlds touch,