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Ab Aeterno

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posted on May, 10 2011 @ 01:11 PM
“It came from beyond space, or rather – from the smooth edges around the parts of it we can actually see. It arrived piggyback on an asteroid. It fell upon the face of our planet in the breath of comets, with huge elliptical orbits thousands of years out from Sol, our sun. But come it did, and when it came in it came in gradually – the culmination of a slow revolution, directed from outside our own boundary, by forces unknowable and unimaginably remote. It had been arriving for aeons. It was in our rocks, and in our atmosphere. It grew stronger every time something burned, choking out the light under a blanket of sooty black pitch and smoke. It vomited up from the center every time our Terra-infirma heaved, rocked and exploded in primal tectonic rage.

A musician from Liverpool in the United Kingdom, was the first to put it all together, during a festival called the “last gasp of the twentieth century,” which was held in Ingolstadt, Germany, in late August -- 1996.”

“Ninety-Six, huh?” inquired the police Detective, but the little girl ignored his query and continued her soliloquy, without even stopping to catch her breath.

“The musicians name was Denny Lee and he played guitar for “Thee Krymzon Voyde” who were part of a progressive metal neo-folk fusion movement, which pretty much everyone hated. Denny was also fairly stupid, even by the standard of other musicians, who are on average some of the dumbest people you are ever likely to meet. This native stupidity, coupled with a prodigious coc aine habit, allowed Denny to visualize the world around him in a startling novel way: He was certain it was always falling apart in slow-motion. And – he was absolutely correct. It was.”

The police Detective drew a diagram on his tablet, representing his agent. The agent begin to organize his notes into categories. The last two categories were “Probably True” and “Possibly Bull#.” Everything he had written down fell into one or more categories. The girl continued her monologue:

“Eye-witness accounts place Denny down by the docks near the lake after 2:45 in the AM on the morning before the concert. Apparently he stood alone at the end of the number 9 boat ramp, in about a foot of water and wrapped in a green blanket. They say he was singing to himself and staring at the stars, which were unusually beautiful and bright that evening. One of the eyewitness accounts described the guitarist as a quote “living bridge between starlight and the ground below, which shook slightly each time his song reached a crescendo.” Another described “a funnel in the sky,” which “drained the light from the stars down through a hatch” in the top of the young musicians head. A third was close enough to Denny that he “saw” the guitar players skin turn “hard and luminous, like a handful of diamonds under candlelight.” None of the witnesses remember what happened next, after the ground stopped shaking. Because of Denny's notes and these other accounts, we can assume that most of the revelers present for the festival that weekend were under the influence of some fairly heavy drugs. This was likely by design, and I think that it's possible someone you have yet to account for may have spiked the fruit smoothies at the juice bar near the center of camp, across from the silent disco.”

The young girl stopped speaking the words and looked up into the eyes of Police Detective Bailys, who was now standing perfectly still while she repeated her story, again – from the beginning. There was more activity outside on the lawn now, and Alice could hear the sounds of the police issued jump-cars nearby, as well.

Bailys turned away from Alice and gazed outward through the picture window, down to the scene below. There were men and vehicles belonging to at least six agencies, parked on the grass between the house and the gate. The Detective touched two fingers to the mRad implant behind his left ear, and his adams apple bobbed sub-vocally. Alice focused on his lips, and they moved slightly, but didn't do much to betray the words he spoke into the device at his partner outside on the grass. The Detective finished his call and refocused his attentions on Alice, and his eyes were both friendly and fierce at the same time. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle, and Alice decided she liked him.

“Do you know what a narrator is, Detective Bailys?” she inquired.

“Of course” he replied.

“Well– I am the universal narrator” Alice finished. And after that they both remained completely silent for several minutes, while his mRad interface tablet whirred and clicked.

A few minutes later, Detective Bailys appeared on the walk outside the front door. He stopped and looked up as he pulled the door closed behind himself. It was sweltering and he didn't want to let the cold air from the inside – out. Bailys squinted in the glare of sunlight off the windscreen of his Cubby jump-car. His mRad buzzed and the incoming message rattled him from his reverie:

“The writer has arrived at the OpSec perimeter” intoned his partner in a melodious female voice, flecked around the edges with silky notes in Cheenglish and Spanglaneese.

“It's happening again, Moira” said Bailys, flatly. “Get a medical team up to the house right away. I have been dosed and it's likely everyone up here is now compromised in some way.”

“What are you experiencing, Graf?” inquired the voice in his mRad device.

“The usual” replied the unflappable cop. “Synesthesia's, mostly, with some minor temporal disturbances thrown in to keep me on my toes.”

“Roger that” the mRad replied.

Police Detective Graf Bailys stared down the path, past the emergency response Orbys, the Sat Rig and the rest of the assembled Cubby's. Men and women, numbering in the several dozen, scurried over the grass and onto the circular driveway, out in front of the large rural house. They had assembled in this way because the Detective had played a hunch. Months of good police work had been crowned by a flash of insight which ultimately led him directly to the little girl, Alice, and her strange narrative. Having heard the whole thing, several times, Bailys was convinced that the parts about Denny Lee were pure window-dressing, but he wasn't leaving anything to chance. His first impulse had been to search the little girls room for media related to “Thee Krymzon Voyde” and their concert at Ingolstadt, 41 years before. Finding nothing, he called in outside help via his agent – Moira on the mRad. Not only had she tracked down copies of the existing vid-sceenes from the concert itself, but she had also found a writer who had made his reputation on the Denny Lee story. Bailys was determined to leave no stone unturned. He watched the footage via holo-projection. When he finished, he noted the writer, moving towards him through the assembled throng of cops and media personalities and simulacrums.

She moved expertly through the assembled people and equipment, making her way towards the house, and towards Detective Graf Bailys, who was still standing by the front door. The Detective barely had time to register her sex, and to note his own reaction to it, before the next shift was felt by everyone at the site. He had been expecting an old man after all. Someone who matched the flavor of name and experiences, related to him by the agent through the mRad interface.

But the world lurched, caught on something, and then dropped, like the vertical controls on an old style television monitor. Black bands falling down through the floor – taking everyones lunch along with them, before stabilizing once again. Bailys leaned against the door, and turned looking for the writer, but she had disappeared. The Detective stumbled down the walkway like a drunk, trying to find his own feet after a bender. The men – uniformed officers for the most part – moved away as he begin to call out to his agent, through the mRad. It was better that they did, because he suddenly felt an almost overwhelming urge to kick the nearest person, hard in the knees or chest. But the flash of anger passed as quickly as the vertical drop which preceded it. “Moira” croaked the Detective through dry, chapped lips. “What in Heavens-Gate was that?”

The writer appeared from behind one of the Cubby's, which was now laying on it's side. The cop in it's pilots compartment was sprawled helplessly on his face against the Cubby's windshield. It was obvious to Bailys that the man had not been properly seated or secured in his vehicle before the crash. He moved to assist but was immediately overshadowed by a Treat-Team, who – grabbing the Cubby by it's external mirrors – and began to rock it back and forth until it rolled over onto its feet. The Detective turned back to the writer, who was sticking out her hand in a gesture of greeting. He took her hand and introduced himself, before leading her back through the outer door of the house, and into the living spaces beyond the main wall and picture window.

Do not be alarmed. Stay in your homes. Pick up a book. Reading is good for you. The truth is that the worst will likely pass without major incident for most of you. Yes, hundreds of millions of people are going to die, but really? That happens every year. Besides – you manage death at this scale pretty well all by yourself, now, don't you?

A party-girl puking in the bathroom. Early morning at the bottom of a fish tank through an LED lens afterglow. That's the way it began for a couple of kids in Los Angeles one Saturday morning. “Where my money at?”

It's funny the things you notice at the precise moment a planet like Earth enters the 5th dimension. First – everything gets a lot smaller. Right away, you notice that you've outgrown your cars and your houses and all of your 3D toys. Even the guitars don't fit anymore. They start to look ridiculous crowded up around your necks like cheap fashion jewelry. So you fumble for the quick release and you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror. In a flash you see it all, and it is terrifying. The words pour into your mind like a reader absorbing the pages of a cherished book. As your
well read pages are laid bare, you begin to grok yourself as a 5th dimensional “being” for the very first time.

What a strange name, this “being.” On one hand it implies that the creature so named is actually a “thing.” This “thingness” has meaning because it can be named, and because it “fits in” with other things that share it's “thingness.” On the other hand the word “being” implies some kind of “action.” An individual is always “being,” until they are not. “Not being” equals death if you are a 3 dimensional creature in a 4 dimensional space. Right now, I am being a “writer,” which is a word that describes not only an action, but a state of being. You, of course, are “reading.” Others are tending their gardens, making love, or browsing Flashbook on the Internet. All of those things are individual “states of being.”

The young woman shifted her weight from her left to right side, and the old writer saw his opportunity. He pivoted on his left heal and kicked inward at Megan Sandusky's right knee, jabbing her hard with the toe of his Doc's in her right calf muscle. Megan gasped and rolled away from the writer as she hit the floor. He continued to press his attack with snap kicks to Megan's feet and ankles, as she scrambled for cover. He was so focused that he failed to notice the trajectory of the fight: he and the girl had fought their way across the mezzanine, past the coat check and into the ladies restroom, at the far end of the hall. The writer cursed his bad luck. The plan was unraveling at breakneck speed, and – though he had every intention of breaking Megan Sandusky's pretty little neck – his preference was to break it as publicly as possible, just as she had broken his heart.

Of course this grown up young lady was a long way out from the girl she had been when he had first written her. After all, she was a grown up celebritard now, and a bonafide house-hold name. She ran in circles that had never even heard of the writer, let alone read his stories. She was now Diamanda Travean – mega pop-star on a thrill ride, and queen of half-worlds both terrible and terribly mundane. Her principal product: fame. She had turned the tables, and ignored the narrative he had created for her at a very young age. Her life-path had somehow diverged from the main plot, and that was the last unforgivable crime in his world. She knew what she was up against, and meant to deny him the fun of killing her in front of her friends and fans.

Later, they would find her body. And then he told us about the others. Deep in a Mayan sweat he cut across Louisiana, like the right hand of god. “I was thirsty” he said. I sent an agent in to speak with him about his confession, and this agent knew all of the old tricks, because he had been the first Stanford graduate of their burgeoning school of “magic.” The agent slammed his fists into the interrogation room table again and again, as if to emphasis some esoteric point. “If magic is the science and the art of causing a change to occur in conformity to the will, what exactly are you trying to change with your stories?” the agent shouted at the writer across the table.

“Everything. More or less.”

Saturine Jesus forgot to wipe the juice off his boots. And so I went into it, and the sky was like a blanket. Where are we? In the waiting room, of course. Hyperspace as a mental state, broadcasting the carrier wave of the universal Owen, which converges in 4D space creating monuments to our template reality. It's all bull#, of course. But it's also more then bull#. It's foundational to our experience of existence. Like an architects plan, it marks the boundary between what we know as “real” and what lies beyond the door. It is the landscape of insanity, and the blueprint for all future hells.

Anything that can be accomplished chemically, can be accomplished in “other” ways. “How do you short-circuit control, Joe? That's the question I would like you to spend your life asking.”

We took a jump ship out from Abyssia; the half-world about which the City of Dis remained locked in geosynchronous orbit above LA. We weren't planning on going back to the city, we were headed down. But the police had other plans.... I mean, don't they always? “What is love?” inquired old Bill. “The most natural painkiller there is.”

“I saw flashes of Joey Ramone singing “Sheena is a Punk Rocker” on the net. Hair tossed and unkempt, in the traditional style. Hunched over like a great bird of prey, forefinger pointed outward towards the crowd, thumbed cocked back, in a hand gesture similar to a small boy affecting a pistola.”

“Alice,” the police Detective interjected, “What happened to Denny after the concert at Ingolstadt?” The writer pulled her mRad tablet out of a carry-all and begin to set up for her own notes. Bailys frowned. Alice was mobile again, wandering about her apartment, staring at the artwork on the walls, and playing with her own tablets control schema. The picture window disappeared completely.

“Oh? – He went completely insane.” she whispered. “They kept him at Fulborne until 2011, when he died of an aneurism. He was a painter, you know? A good one too.”

“Are any of these his?” Bailys inquired softly as he walked up behind the young girl, who was staring up at a large golden sun-disk over a deep purple background, which faded to the blackest blues near the edges of the canvas. Graf had never seen anything like it.

“Several” she replied. “I have three here. They were my fathers.” her voice trailed off, until only the whirls, pops and hisses of the Detectives mRad device were audible in the drawing darkness of the hall.

“Do you mind if I turn on a light?” asked the writer. The young girl nodded almost imperceptibly. Bailys stepped forward to examine the paintings signature block. It was titled “How Many Dimensions Am I Holding Up?” and signed “D-Lee/2009.”

“All of the big innovations throughout history were inspired by it” she continued at last. “Fire came first, and was probably the most direct leap upward. Next came the wheel, followed shortly by agriculture and the domestication of the dog. Grain was insurance against winter and against bad hunting seasons. Mankind settled into cities, and got religion. They codified laws and used these to govern one another. Architecture and art were next, and over the course of time, great monuments sprung up around the world, in honor of the sun. Around these, markets and temples were placed, at exact locations matching certain alignments. These were all reflections of the heavenly procession of stars and planets, which the ancient peoples of the world had watched and used as markers to guide their expansion, from primitive superstition and darkness, towards technological singularity. Every intentional act is a magickal act. Let there be more light!”

“So what then?” the Detective interjected. “You're telling me that Denny believed that it was the sun which caused these evolutionary steps upward in human consciousness and technology?”

The girl frowned. “It wasn't just what he believed. It was the truth. Look at the arguments for intelligent design: There are no intermediary steps, and few bridges between the gaps in the fossil record. That was because of the jumps, and the jumps came from the sun. From the central sun in our universe....”

“So everything that is happening right now?” Bailys offered, “It's all....”

“It's all part of the grand design of the cosmic center-sun.”

Most of the archons never left the city-center, for fear that their own thought-forms might overwhelm them outside it's gates. These thought-forms were more easily controlled inside, near the sun-orb, where reality was less malleable. Yet – occasionally, renegades would leave the city, and explore the land beyond the Duad, where they invoked terrible beauty and infinite devastation wherever they dared travel.

The greatest of these was Iao Ho Logos Akashik; the “name” of god, translated, which reads – “god, the word, the record” – in most of the human tongues. For in the beginning was “the word,” and the word was the same thing as god. The living word was will always be the very first magick. “Let there be more light!” This is, of course, the most difficult magic to learn, and is even more difficult to utilize effectively. For the word is the sum of all knowledge, “gnosis,” or – all that is or can be known. It is all languages and all thought. It is the sum of all experience. Further – it is this “god-word” that describes real things, and consequently – creates them. All culture, learning and history does unfold itself from “the word.” It is the basis of all religion and all technology. It is the foundation of all science and philosophy. To master the art of the word itself is to master the engine of creation. To verbalize ones dreams and make them extant is the power that mortal beings call “god.” It is the core of our existence in a 5 dimensional universe.

In a sense, we are always doing it, always creating our reality. Only the process is slow and painful in 3D. The boundary between what is “known” and “what can be known” is thicker here, and not as obvious. I believe that you only know the things you know because you read the things you read. The word is therefore more then the mere study or pursuit of knowledge, it is the method by which we extend our empire. We are taught the simple things at first: addition, subtraction, multiplication. We are shown the rules of grammar and punctuation. Over time, we divide, and learn the rules of logic, story and philosophy. Upon this rock is built the foundation of our sciences, our arts and our civilization. Most of it is covered – at least partially – most of the time. It has to be, or we would all go insane, just like Denny Lee.

Who, what, where, why, and when? And what if aliens were real and not simply pretend? Would anyone go to work, or to church, if they knew for sure that they we are not really in control of the flow of living information which comprises their “reality?”

And so I planned it, yeah – the absolutely perfect crime. I had the gun, I had the money, I had the “more where that came from,” and I was picking through roses for thorns....

“....With your tongue down my throat?” she asked again, and the Detective stood like a statue next to the writer, in front of the painting of the sun.

“And the homo-superior?” he asked, finally. This is a virus, transmitted through the blood plasmate itself, or through ultraviolet light?”

The world lurched and dropped again. But by now, most of the principal characters in the writers story were used to the sensation.

Graf Bailys turned away from the painting of the sun, and walked out through the door to Alice's room, past the picture window, now faded, into the main foyer. From there it was only a few steps out into the yard, to the assembled throng, perched in their hastily assembled Cubby's, crouching on the blackened lawn. His men – for they had once been his men, after all – were still somehow recognizable, though they had entered hyperspace several minutes before the Detective emerged from the house and where now close to 20 feet tall.

Graf looked down at his hands, and they were like stars. Patterns of chaos, forming new constellations super-imposed over the tattered remains of the old sidewalk. He turned at last to face the front door to the old house, and something like a laugh achieved escape velocity and left what had once been the lips of a man, when he had still been small and alone, trapped inside an illusion of finite space and time. The house was gone, of course, and in its place stood something that reminded him of a unicorn. Was it the writer, the girl, the painting, or even the house itself? He had no way to be certain, but he he was more certain now then ever before.

“Hey Moira” he called out just before the last transition. “Listen. I think I figured it all out.”

But there was no answer from his mRad. Her soul was free.

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 09:26 PM
The entire story also posted on wordpress by E-Hedonism.

If you are that writer, that's great. However, if you're not, it's called plagiarism and can get very complicated in a legal way.

Please clear this up asap.

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 09:30 PM
reply to post by masqua

That is me, sir. The Church of Entertainment Hedonism is my "band," my writing and my thoughts, for whatever they are worth. Let me know what else I can do to clear it up for you.

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 09:33 PM
I will take your word for it. There ARE simple ways of confirming such things, as you likely know.
But I'll abide by your word for the nonce.

The writing is excellent, btw.

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 09:50 PM
reply to post by masqua

Thank you! I edited the post on the wordpress site to include my ATS username at the bottom.

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 10:02 PM
I noticed.

Thanks for the verification and I'm very glad to have your work in the forum.

As a fellow creative artist, I'm sure you can appreciate my caution regarding plagiarism.

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 10:04 PM
reply to post by masqua

You have nothing but my thanks for your diligence. I am very pleased, and very appreciative, that my favorite site on the Internet has a forum dedicated to writers, and I do not take this forum for granted.

Thank you again!

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 10:06 PM
Look under your username.

posted on May, 10 2011 @ 10:07 PM
reply to post by masqua

Bless you!

posted on May, 11 2011 @ 09:38 AM
Brilliant piece, thank you!

It's a pleasure these days to find the rare philosopher-writer, with such command of the language.

S & F


posted on May, 11 2011 @ 11:48 AM
reply to post by JR MacBeth

Thank you so much for reading. I really appreciate your time and your kind words!

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