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.
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| 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.”
“Wake up!”
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,
S-xx
