New Pantheons. Homage to Alan Moore.
From a lonely, mist-hidden place full of contradictory legends, an island resembling three to five World-Serpents coiled together in an infernal, obscene mingle of bliss and coitus continuous, a coal dark cloud is permanently emerging. It bleeds from the lungs of the terrible beasts, and it blends into and with the entrails of the decaying Mother and the tears of the dying Father.
Many, many men, women, and creatures in-between, and children, whose time of innocence is ever too short, inhabit these lands. Nearly all of them are oblivious to the architectures of time-consuming traps, or of the galloping of recurrent nightmares, their fiery manes shedding light upon art murders, or even of the creatures that walk among them at broad daylight, though hidden in the interstices of the sun beams, buzzing like swarms.
A little few are seers. And a little few are inscribers.
The age came for one of its children to be born under the sign of the tryfolt, the all-encompassing, all-uniting crossbeam of Odin-Wotan. This is a path that frequently leads to madness, sometimes loneliness and occasionally to absurdly dangerous abyss-looking. A sacrifice, certainly, but crucial in the world’s course. At the right age, the little boy fell right down into this invisible pool as a child, burning all his surface skin, traded by a snake’s. Toth’s beak was open, Bragi held high an empty cup, Hermes lost his words, Tenji’s wrist hurt.
Rune-inscriptions, bird auguries, bard-poetry, modeling, coloring, and more… each and all idioms comprised hordes of people striving for remembrance of things past, “the sign of the salmon”, and for heralding things to come, “the sign of the swallow”. But they were not salmons and the strong currents pull them away and far into a sea, which - maybe under this very moon, maybe much, much later, when men feed in sunlight and sea-spiders - will dissolve all and all will be forgotten. And they were not swallows and the future is a storm, and it blows out on us and no one moves.
But the new snake-skinned boy had a plan, a plan that he learned from the shadows he’d seen in the abyss, a new language only he deciphered: to learn a modest part of every skill, to bring them together into a knot, to stew them all in a potion and become a new kind of weaver. Thus he inscribed runes with chocolate-fudge in the surface of music, and sculpted poetry in clay with his eyes, and hummed nursery rhymes about electromagnetic argot, and painted colors that blind men could see with their tongues and draw pain and love and rage and bursts of laughter in the night wind, and planted seeds that turn blue and cross Bifrost back and forth, and made squares and bubbles and made them splash in all the six directions, outward of their little paper prisons, just like a pebble thrown at a lake of implicated realities, ripples producing fish, monsoons, a gentle breeze and an equatorial haze. He broke in, out, away, down, up, forth, through, and with. He scorched paths…a walking, crooning Ragnarok. He was a man now.
Something gave in, eventually, something even stranger… memories of new seeds would wake and no soon said than done, forests would sprout out and cast their new, ripe inebriating fruits, sprite insects and shadows all over the reinvented territory. Some of the fruits looked like women’s secrets. Some other left a taste of blood in your mouth.
Now, he lives with snakes hidden in his beard and hair, much probably a coiled one living in the deep waters of his mind, seldom spying out to the world through his watchful eyes. Even with his mouth shut, he speaks to himself under his breath, his veiled tongue moving.
Many, many men, women, and creatures in-between, and children, whose time of innocence is ever too short, inhabit these lands. Nearly all of them are oblivious to the architectures of time-consuming traps, or of the galloping of recurrent nightmares, their fiery manes shedding light upon art murders, or even of the creatures that walk among them at broad daylight, though hidden in the interstices of the sun beams, buzzing like swarms.
A little few are seers. And a little few are inscribers.
The age came for one of its children to be born under the sign of the tryfolt, the all-encompassing, all-uniting crossbeam of Odin-Wotan. This is a path that frequently leads to madness, sometimes loneliness and occasionally to absurdly dangerous abyss-looking. A sacrifice, certainly, but crucial in the world’s course. At the right age, the little boy fell right down into this invisible pool as a child, burning all his surface skin, traded by a snake’s. Toth’s beak was open, Bragi held high an empty cup, Hermes lost his words, Tenji’s wrist hurt.
Rune-inscriptions, bird auguries, bard-poetry, modeling, coloring, and more… each and all idioms comprised hordes of people striving for remembrance of things past, “the sign of the salmon”, and for heralding things to come, “the sign of the swallow”. But they were not salmons and the strong currents pull them away and far into a sea, which - maybe under this very moon, maybe much, much later, when men feed in sunlight and sea-spiders - will dissolve all and all will be forgotten. And they were not swallows and the future is a storm, and it blows out on us and no one moves.
But the new snake-skinned boy had a plan, a plan that he learned from the shadows he’d seen in the abyss, a new language only he deciphered: to learn a modest part of every skill, to bring them together into a knot, to stew them all in a potion and become a new kind of weaver. Thus he inscribed runes with chocolate-fudge in the surface of music, and sculpted poetry in clay with his eyes, and hummed nursery rhymes about electromagnetic argot, and painted colors that blind men could see with their tongues and draw pain and love and rage and bursts of laughter in the night wind, and planted seeds that turn blue and cross Bifrost back and forth, and made squares and bubbles and made them splash in all the six directions, outward of their little paper prisons, just like a pebble thrown at a lake of implicated realities, ripples producing fish, monsoons, a gentle breeze and an equatorial haze. He broke in, out, away, down, up, forth, through, and with. He scorched paths…a walking, crooning Ragnarok. He was a man now.
Something gave in, eventually, something even stranger… memories of new seeds would wake and no soon said than done, forests would sprout out and cast their new, ripe inebriating fruits, sprite insects and shadows all over the reinvented territory. Some of the fruits looked like women’s secrets. Some other left a taste of blood in your mouth.
Now, he lives with snakes hidden in his beard and hair, much probably a coiled one living in the deep waters of his mind, seldom spying out to the world through his watchful eyes. Even with his mouth shut, he speaks to himself under his breath, his veiled tongue moving.
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