Oscha and Le-Gen
A dissonant squiggle
(a dis-integrating story - with great affection for Ken Wilber of IN fame)
…Records are confused, often played backwards... records are confused as to His original Name...
Some spoke of Will Berk, others of Ken Will Be Rs, and yet other documents mention Kwill Ber.
The archives as written in the coeurral are no longer explicit, ever since the Times of Grimmer Memoire when a fractal gnomelaffer was found LOLling amongst the crystal memory banks, fractomagnet in one hand and laserphone on his third eye, madly spinning in his gyrosphere as he conjured living demonglyphs and sent them wasting and vorticing thru the coeurridors, trailing streams of nonsense and spazzy logic. DOG had a real night of it that night popping that gonome thru the wormhole backwards to weak 'n havoc.
Ever since, large parts of the archives, have, troublingly, made more sense than they previously had, at least according to leGen. Dark and shrivelled stories remain of psychotherapomps shooting into the farthest reaches of tram-personal 4-space, after just a micro-spin down that memory lane, now as crooked as the proverbial Bush Chronicles of ancient history. The attempt to get straight became no more than a broken chortle in a moot throat.
'IN Wilbeer wet rust' remains inscribed over that ferral archway to this day, adding more wrinkles to the brows of anyone foolish enough to style hesself "historian", for even the old lettering imploded on itself, spun as it was round the horror toroid, thru the cunningly disguised klein bottle, to splash weakly somewhere or other... and if you ask whuh?, I can only warn you to be a larm, be very much a larm.
'You were there!', leGen the Krone screeched, when I had my coming of age Fission Session with her at age 13. I'm surprised I remember this.
"Yes, and you didn't have a clue then either, my cloddy laddy, my feebly piddly, though you became a mental pretzel trying by the end of that life. Hack! hack! hack!" she wheezed thru foul and humid oral tissues. 'Your methods are still pretzel logic!' I knew she was right, that I had spent too many lifetimes retreating up my own timelines, and breaking out randomly. What else could I do? The story had been written. I think. By someone. Perhaps me.
She gathered her skirt in a mighty exhalation, leapt on a passing grok, and squealed chillingly as she rose:
'O Nikel Brew, if only you knew!
A Klein Bottle turns, into you two'
... or was it 'into you too'?? And why did she always call me Nikel Brew (rather than, say, Golden Draught or Dark Stout), like a witch, when she knew my name was Wik Reblen of the ancient family of Will Beer?
That mighty exhalation from her petticoats, torn and dangling and impenetrable, had sucked the living daylights out of me, and flung me like a fragile crepe thru one of her wormholes, a long and grimy tale which must one day be told (tomorrow, perhaps?), for it was another fractal turn closer to the galactic centre of the main Set-piece whence we had both emanated….
.... to be continued, later, over there somewhere, maybe, if this is not on IN, I'm talking to you Ken, if you’re peering into the aquarium here through that fish-eye of spirit.
Aaaarghnnn!! Fffnnnfffsss! Kschhhhassss !!!! ppppffffff…. Hack. Grunt. Splutter. SSpittttooonn!
Whatever it was between my teeth, I spat it out with extreme inverted gusto as I came too… Well that’s one way to recover from a futuristic witch’s psychic blast implode up a wormhole …. Ecchhl..
Back to the story, which must be told, about she who must not be obeyed, by he who, at the time, had nothing worse to do.
But my name - was it Wik? or weak? Or wiki? So encyclopaedic? So… distributed, and open to interpretation? Was a wikipede a mythical beast with many twisted footprints, facing in all directions at once? History had grown dim on this too, as dark light invaded the universe of bright light, causing all those left alive to see the past and the future entwined in a completely different non-light geometry. One peered through the gloom, into a soup of flashing, squirming entities, circulating on a scale unknown to currents beyond, created by the perpetual motion of … it. It of which we rarely speak, and when we do, we mutter inanities to disguise the truth of the horror-scope that starts to manifest when we do…
I also believed that the ‘klein bottle’ was code for ‘worm’, in the toroidal sense of disappearing up your own, ah, extended alimentary canal tube, as it worm… or perhaps a worm-pede or millipede, the thousand-footed armoired worm of Ancient Times. The legend has it that to be bitten by a millipede was to be given your marching orders way into the future, but to be cursed such that you have a thousand feet, and have to think about each step you take while marching. As the proverb says: ‘A journey by a thousand feet begins and ends on the first step’.
It was always difficult to know, I knew, and anyway when I wore one of my own masks, as I had been sure to do in this fracas, it affected the instream of grokkables in odd ways, almost klein-like in its bottleness and its tendency to go well beyond the brief it had been given, dimension-wise. Different masks shrunk me into well-defined sub-holons, some going way down into turtle territory, the turtles to which I refer being those which support all the illusions on which this particular multiverse is based. I’m sure the educated reader has a reasonably useless opinion about this, himself.
But back to the story - I really can’t keep patronizing the reader by over-clarifying the narrative thread.
The wrong spel
Yes, LeGen, Krone extraordinaire, witchest warlockfem in outre-world, hyper-spin doctor to hobo stars of high warp. Yes, her. I could smell the dark fizz, the sizzle of her malevolent will to hang me in her dessicated extra-galactic hall of infame, I, the specimen she had been ransacking worlds in hypo-demon-space (HDS) to locate, pin, twist and evert, to fix onto one of her sfears, turn into a bauble with just enough life-will remaining to understand the whore of what had happened.
But she did not know that my habit of indulging my psycho-spirit-neurosis was her undoing for this particular ransack. So skanky-wild had I become in multi-locating, so hidden in my own masks even to myself, I could project a world of imploding reality-mirrors now, by reverse-energising and back-engineering those twisted spel-currents of hers. I pushed fractally-impaired anti-spirals up her spel-channels to create a serious interface issue for her. Heh, heh.
But was it always So?
Was there another Way?
And why Me?
These questions cry out to be asked, so there they are. But back to the story.
… So many lives flashed through the horridors of my private akash. In particular, that life in the galactic control-room, which we called Dest-in-Nemes, where I had really blown it almost a zodiac of time-space back on the eonklok. That was the Dark Matter Opening, for those either dark enough, or light enough to risk entry. In my hubris, I claimed to be both, becoming a power and a curse, which made me sometimes dangerously visible to other players, who usually hid in their own dark-sol-ness, or just lit out.
The dark was fast, the light was brilliant, and we were choosing to master matter darkly. The gift was to shift between matters, balance the thesis-antifeces, get our shit together and get the hell out if the light lifted or the dark closed in... and at the ‘time’, LeGen was a player with another a-gen-da.
While I had followed my transient nature bi-locating ballistically in a universe of juggled spheres, LeGen had been looking in universal nooks and fissures for the darkest of the Dark Lite, collecting wormhole-darkstar energies, such as the ruins of Cassini, the moon of Jupiter which had in fact been created as a darkstar some time back, as revealed by the mushroom-brain called Wholegland in the days of flybuys. She hoarded and attached these energies to the dark filaments which trailed from her twisted petticoats.
If you lived in the ‘light’ sphere, you saw only light ... invisible were the denizens of dark matter, the aethyrs, and the black light theme parks. But to those who had the requisite blindness, which was dark-seeing, LeGen was the most brilliant of those denizens, with a brilliance that sucked light and life into spinner-filaments, a process she had named something like ‘ooro-booro’. I was the only one who could see her from the light, as I had a foot in both lamps, dark and light. So, to her surprise I could funnel-fast through her wormholes and push through to the dead-end of the worm, her heart of darkness! Whoooo......! And I came out alive, as it worm. But of course, I couldn’t resist putting a hole in the end of that worm, because, well, you know, I could. Well, she felt that as a deep dark prick which spilled the contents of star-booty borealis-like across inter-galactic space, leading to a serious shift in the imbalance she had wrought with such focused malintent.
From then on,
it was Ourobouros unchained
it was a pricked worm
it was a star turn
.... it was the Worm Wars.
One of our cohorts at that time, the poet lariat of the Great Lupus, began to write the ‘Worm Anals’, an on-going rift in poetic good taste, as you can read for yourself:
The worm, the Worm
Don’t let it turn
Turn the worm and
Your soul will burn
Turn the worm
From head to stern
Hook the worm
Your soul returns
Lost souls return
Dark matter burns
Light matter learns
Light/dark in churn.
... at this point he suspended work on the great annals of the worm, because ... (snip)
Editor’s note:
Back in the reelworld, we are wondering at this strange material that is appearing on random unplugged computer monitors along with a lot of melodic static, which doesn’t yet cohere. We will continue our experiments in electronic trans-communication with whatever this n-space is from which these chronicles emerge. We, at least, will stay tuned to see if there are any more such fragments.
