Archive for December, 2014

Emergence

Posted in Meta on December 21, 2014 by glasganon

It’s all lies.

That’s what you have to keep in mind when it comes to the “paranormal”, the “supernatural”, the “occult”, whatever you want to frame it as. Everything you hear, everything you see – hell, even everything I’ve said – it’s all half-truth. Para-normal. Beside the real.

Which isn’t to say the other half is a lie, necessarily. You know that old saying, about how if you were to the point to the moon, a dog would only ever think to look towards your hand, never towards the sky? The half-truth is the hand half-open, one digit extended (painkillers, little white moons, tucked inside the other folded fingers).

When we watch a movie, we’re not constantly assessing whether or not what is happening on the screen is “real” (whatever that means), whether it has actually happened (whatever that means), or who is lying (whatever that means). If an artist draws a portrait of you, he’s not really trying to get you to believe that you’re nothing more than graphite on paper (although…). When a friend delivers an anecdote, we don’t demand evidence – but we also don’t believe that everything they’re saying is one-hundred-percent true, either. (“YOU CAN’T MAKE AN OATH ON THIS BLACK BOOK.”)

A lie is the sugar on the bitter pill of truth; it makes it easier to get in your gullet. I’m all for taking painkillers for the sickness reality’s given us. Don’t call it Lunacy.

All these half-truths are meant to get us to think. Metaphor, ‘pataphor, semaphore six times removed, one thing pointing to another, pointing to another, pointing to a hand that’s pointing at the moon while the other pats the Dog of Sickness. It’s not enough to read the writing on the wall – you have to move your mind down to each and every individual letter, all the way up to the soaring heights of symbol. (“TURN YOUR EYES FROM WINDOWS TO DOORS”).

It’s not a random accident, for example, that the only way to access a colossal, seemingly-infinite tower standing in desolate plains can only be done by passing through a circular (seemingly-infinite) tunnel (the negative space of a horizontal tower) under metres of rock. It’s also not a coincidence that the acolyte has to press buttons labelled 1, 2 and 3 (three realities) at the same time (bringing them into synchrony) then denying all three by mentioning the basement (sub-reality/the level of symbol and metaphor/para-normal/beside the real) to get access to a woman who owns books (grimoires, grammaries) that describe reality through magick (spells) and symbol (spelling). It’s also not insignificant that these two locations are, in our level of reality, physically within sight of one another. They’re connected. (“THE SPELLER DWELLS IN THE CELLAR”.)

This is not a random assortment of meaningless, arbitrary details and cosmic mis-takes: each part, each Key, is connected to every other one in cryptic, but altogether concrete, ways. In a spider’s web, the spaces between each strand of webbing are just as important to the overall structure of the web as the strands themselves; what’s missing is just as important as what’s present. What am I missing?

I guess I’m missing myself. Or that I was missing.

It’s important to not only be good at crafting a lie, but to be just as good at crafting a half-truth. I’ve spent almost three years pretending to be someone else, someone I created, just to give myself a place to hide – but you know, you can only hide objects inside or behind other objects. Where do you hide a mind? Inside and behind another mind. A mind that said “None of it’s real!” “It’s just something I wrote for fun!” “It’s all an art project!”

Maybe you believed it, maybe you didn’t. Remember, it’s not about whether or not it was true, or if it was a lie. It’s about the hand that’s pointing at the moon. In this case, it was a bit of sleight of hand. Sleight of mind. (“THE WATER RESTING ON YOUR EYES PROTECTS FROM ALL THE FOULEST LIES“).

That’s why I went missing. I left Glasgow, travelled down south for a while – “it’s all gone south, really,” I said to myself in Portsmouth. It wasn’t enough. Every city, every town, every village, every farmstead – every congregation of people has its relics, its pilgrims, its acolytes, its bibles, its holy words, its prophecies. Its secrets.

I tried the Appearance of Three Ladies in Brighton, only, it seems as though They’d always been there, mistaken for phantom nuns (phantom, nones) at Apes. I watched as They made their eternal walk down the Devil’s Dyke. I lost the Colder Capacitor in Tunbridge Wells when London’s Acolytes came down to find me – appropriately enough, on September 18th – and I cried “Weal, weal, weal, weal,” all the way home.

And now: I’m home.

Things have changed. Everything old is new again. And Glasgow’s Gideon Keys have grown older and younger. Some survived, some have died, some will rise again. And I know I have to go back, to write this all down – forge the next link in the Chain – before we forget that all of this, the Keys, the Held Breath Conflicts, Eilidh, the Glascau Curator, Lady K, and Dominic, all of these things were real. Beside the real. Para-normal.

And now:

“THE DAMSELFLY FLITS ON THE DOOR OF THE DEAD, WAITING FOR THE KEYS TO TURN IN THE LOCH.”