THURSDAY
AUGUST 4TH, 2011
(Don't
Speak Its True Name IV: Music)
a
voice speaks to
me,
I
Noise.
Tones, scales, motifs. Song.
The environment, white dotted line
on black roads.
I have left Sonic behind.
I am walking on
monotone.
Barriers on all sides, guiding me towards what?
Can't
I just take Tiger Stripes and swing out?
Cast away the old
shapes? Go freeform and just dance?
This world of numbers is the
Musician's domain. They have total freedom, so long as they embrace
creativity within structured restriction.
But they are gods.
They need the limits,
as otherwise they grow bored.
As a human, as a kid, I'm already
living in fundamental limits. Cycles within wheels within cycles!
Mortality!
I think, within that, I'm allowed to
breathe.
Listening to
the vibrant wind. I hear nothing but my patience as it writhes away
from life's music. Old expectations, others' old favorites.
I
must craft my own
music,
II
By listening as
hard as I can, I manage to unhear the eights and fives, and I can
just about hear my own footsteps.
(Dammit.)
By trying as hard as I possibly can… wait, no,
goddammit! Jordan, listen!
Think
of spoonman. No, not the chorus!!! Fuck!!!!!
Walk in sevens.
Sevens will save you.
Step, two, three, f-- Step,
two, three, f-- Step,
two, three, f-- Step
Well,
Spoonman is more like 7/4, isn't it? I need 7/8. Or 11/8, or.
7/8
it is. 7/8 it is, then.
Step, two, three, f-- Step,
two, three…
I can hear it. My own footsteps.
I can feel
it. Inside my body.
Three
of a Perfect Pair. Back in N.Y.C.
Fuck! I'm overthinking this.
Have to be.
I've proven I can hear my footsteps.
Now I just
need to understand. It does well to understand.
Sound is life of
its own. Movement. Is movement life?
Remember what Donnie said.
Character is life after death. Story too.
Make
a story out of particles: Movement.
At the very least? Annoy the
gods.
Isn't that the most living thing of
all,
III
I enter a colorless city, knowing that opening my other
eye would take me elsewhere. I have no need for that. This city will
do fine. I need no escapism now.
I look down one alley, it's all
monotone. Whack the brick wall with my guitar controller, bring
vibration to the bricks.
Vibrations cause an unexpected
screech, bouncing from wall to wall-- a feedback loop.
Colors
fly in strands from my footsteps.
So I run.
Hitting every
surface I
find,
IV
..but what is this
doing? Now colors fly through the air, now what?
I'm making
pretty pictures, in the Musicians' world. They will have made this
possible to do anyway.
And the rhythm, my gait-- so it's no
longer fives and eight. So?
I'm still limited, still playing in
their world.
In the end, I'm running
from
the truth:
That I don't want to do this anymore.
That
I'm letting my friends down. I'm leading them into the gods'
arms.
Just because I'm reckless with my own safety.
Because
I'm.. suicidal. Not entirely, just enough.
Fuck.
How's
that for my music?
I don't want Fentzy here. I don't want Danny
either. Did I even want Bones?
I just want to find a place where
Donnie can be safe, while I…
end,
V
All sound ceases.
No
environment.
Even I darken.
If I want a chance to fade out,
the Musicians gave me plenty.
…
>_<
I guess
Sonic wasn't enough to carry me. When I was younger, yes. I'm sixteen
now. Too old.
What would
he say, though? If I could manifest him.
"If you have time
to worry, then run."
Here, I have all the time I need.
There's nowhere to run to.
"You
have to try. Get up, and run!"
I'm not a damn mascot. I get
tired.
"You don't understand. Just try!"
I know,
running creates color. Sound and motion. Like my thoughts spin their
wheels, uplifting, downtrodden. But why?
What am I doing?
Do I deserve
to feel I'm so special?
"The Harlequin thought you were
special. She's right."
The Harlequin? She was a sad fucking
mess. There are plenty of subs in the world. She'd have found one,
one way or another. And anyway, after all that she did? Should I want
to share
her
broken values?
"You're asking 'should.' Do you not know,
yourself?"
After all
that she did?
"Yes.
Do you not know?"
...there's a lot of things I don't know.
One can have the best values in existence, and still we make choices.
Who we are inside doesn't determine our actions. Not one to one,
anyway.
"You're saying it's balancing acts, one after
another."
A constant tightrope, facing walls and long
drops. You'd think the walls'd help? Instead, they throw you
off-balance. You get used to one way, then you're thrown into another
language set.
"You're mixing your metaphors here."
Exactly.
It's another language set.
"So. If I'm understanding
correctly. You're doing fine."
Huh?
"You've got
some doubts, because you're human. You're in a mental prison that's
limiting you. But
you'll get out, because. You'll talk yourself out of it."
VI
I
blink, and I'm back in the city. All my talking has colored the
sky.
"Even when
presented with nothing. Even when cut off. No way out. Your mind...
self-perpetuates."
Behind.
Turn around. Facing me down. Two blurs, black suits.
Is it time
to talk?
"We
knew that you'd
escaped before. You
and Donnie together make a team. But if we put you alone, against
your fears? We were surprised. Aren't you?"
You
were testing me?
"Trying
to kill you."
"He was. I'm not."
"We
are one, Seppo."
"One
team. One test."
"One mind."
"Two
minds. Two characters."
"'Characters?' We are not
characters."
"There's a lot you don't realize in this.
What did you hope to achieve here, now? Isolate him, drive him mad?
Then what, Grimaldi?"
"An obstacle would be
removed."
"An obstacle? You think he's much a
threat?"
"I think he's-- we!! We think he's tenacious.
He gets in the way."
"I don't understand you
anymore."
The
left Musician's head has grown in size. I see now that they are not
blurs: their bodies are always vibrating. Fast vibrations, distorting
light around.
Uh. Should I be here?
"'Should!'
'Should!' Always a 'should!' Are you here, that is the
question!"
..yes?
"Then
yes! Be here! Be!"
u_u
I
see.
"Grimaldi,
let me speak. Let me do this."
"…"
head shrinks back to size.
"Jordan.
We know you, your mind. You wish to do some large things. You wish to
stop Rapture. Your doubts are strong only because your ambitions are
so great, earth-shaking, earth-shadowing."
"Also
because of your background."
"Yes. I don't think you
have quite realized. You run into trouble because others have plans
for you, meanwhile you keep thinking, questioning, deciding.
Your world had no place for your ideas."
None
for a better world?
"None
for a world where you have a place. No one had even considered
that."
"But there's something to that."
"What?"
"This
kid is all that is not accepted. His mind is filled with rejected,
mocked ideas. He is, somehow, Everybody Else. Too big for a seat at
any table."
._.;;
"Are
you starting to understand, Grimaldi?"
"Understand
what?"
"Why
he keeps coming up? Why the Archangel asked us to stop him?"
"..I
think the question is, does he?"
Me?
"Do
you see?"
"Do you want to see?"
VII
The
ground in front of me opens up, and out rises a fungal substance
emitting every color of the neon rainbow. A specter with a terrifying
face rises out of the smoke, and my ears are filled with a piercing
shrill shriek, the darkest bark.
A rumbling Donnie, a fragmented
Fentzy, dead Anna
at the end of strings that I hold.
I am
made of wood, with jagged smile.
Eyes watch me. Faces judge.
I
try to move, but the wood restricts. Strings tighten on my friends.
I
can only move in limited, certain ways.
Dragging the others with
me.
Is this character? Is this control? Responsibility?
..life?
Voices cry out around me:
"You arrogant
little shit!”
“You are the disease!”
“Should
have been an abortion.”
"The worst kind of
person."
"You're doing everything that you claim to
hate."
"Smartass."
"Asshole."
"Kind
of a dick, annoying piece of shit."
"He's just a
robot. He has no emotion."
"Strangling would be too
good for him."
Memories.
I
have to let go of the strings.
Donnie, Fentzy, and rising undead
Anna approach me.
Their hands around my throat.
Rosa comes
up behind them, wielding a knife.
It goes in my ear.
I'm
hit. I'm hurt. I'm kicked. I'm down.
My head is cracked open.
I
let it all happen.
But when they're done, when I'm still
alive…
Scattered wood chips on the ground around me…
They
destroyed the wooden suit.
It hurt. But it helped.
I get
the feeling... I'm going to have to get used to that.
Life, my
mind, is going to hurt me. But I've been through worse.
I'm
ready for the hurt, this time I will make it free me.
My
Octavarium, VIII
Here we are again, in a maze of
mirrors, this time extending far into the horizon.
All of my
reflections are Musicians.
"You can talk yourself out of
anything, Rael."
What, you're gonna call me that too
now?
"There is nothing that we can do to you that you
haven't already done to yourself."
I'm pretty sure you
guys could kill me if both of
you wanted to.
"But we don't. We only wanted to
talk."
Then let's
talk. Enough of the misdirection and the tests and the word
restraints. Are you going to help me save the world?
"The
others will not be happy with us if they find out…"
Yeah,
I don't know if Donnie will be happy with me either.
"But
we must."
"We know what Rapture will do to the
world."
"We know what is coming."
"It
is a reality check. We, like the others, have been toying with the
power of fear. Rapture is a horror far greater than anything we have
wanted."
"We cannot compete. And there is no place for
us if we choose to join it."
"And here you are, human
and stubborn and slipping through all the cracks."
"Taking
your gods at face value, because you know full well that they are
better at being predators than you are at being prey. And you have
already seen the short future that would await you if you had even
approached other humans accepting that."
"The world
had no place for you."
"Yet you would still try to
save it."
"Your character is compelling. That counts
for something."
"Your story has legs, because
it is not just your story."
Even
with all my narcissism? I talk a lot about myself.
"Everyone
has an 'I,' Rael. It would be deceptive to put yours away. Anyone
reading your journals has the opportunity to do some mental math,
work on their side of the equation, and solve for X."
"We
would be fools if we, too, did not take this
opportunity."
Huh.
Well, it's nice to formally make your acquaintance, Musicians.
Where
do we. Where do we go from here?
"Your group has
settled in a dangerous place. Your habits have backed you into a
corner. You cannot stay, but you also cannot leave. You may
have to ride this one out, and take the first chance you get to make
your escape."
Can you
help us?
"We will have to see."
do
you want to
(Attached
is a detail from the book of Ptah: “Somewhere
between the first star of the universe and the last meteor to be born
(otherwise known as "the 7-11 of the Ceesverse"), I receive
an unexpected phone call. I didn't even know I had a phone.
Look
in the mirror, what do I see, held up to my face cellular
tranquility.
I say "Hello," she says "Seppo?"
I
say "'Tis me," she says "Louhi."
"Thought
you were dead," says I, and she "Just put to bed."
"Is
that so? What can I do," says I, and she "You know what I
ask of you.
"I'll give you my daughter's key
if you'll build me the axis mundi."
"I don't make for
power anymore, absolutely not for another hour of amore."
"Oh,
but don't you desire it? To create, shape, and
pontificertificate?"
"Your ambigunity," I affirm,
"afflectious so it may be, betrays more than you know."
"I'm
rubber, love, and you are only glue."
"Don't be
childish."
"I know I am; how about you?"
"Admit
to it, you wish."
"Tell me again, hero: Don't you
desire it? All that you may be. All that you may become. All that you
may behold, yours always."
"I cannot be beholden as a
hero."
"I know this more than any."
"I
feared that."
"Or did many?"
"I'm
hanging
up now."
"Still your tongue, hold your finger and stay
your thumb! Old and wise Seppo Ilmarinen, half-mortal and many-named
man, you know my disposition, you're aware of how I act. I wouldn't
come to you, first action back from the grave, my first thing done
since escaping Tuonela if we can call it that among its names,
epithets many-- be they as they are-- and nature eldritch-- a prism
refracting desire into the unspeakable just as speech does to an idea
,,,,,,,,,,,,,, unless I had a reason, unless I had a face, unless I
desiblue something intent something
rael
something
not in finite. You know this, Seppo Ilmarinen; you know this,
unstoppable smith. Hear my voice."
Look around my empty
head. Red star.
Cellphone in reflected world, lend yourself my
invisible ear. "I am here."
"Build me the centre
because you want to be the only one who knows how."
Stars
in my eyes, monomyth of the quarks born in my heart this night-- if
one can even tell the difference between day and night when there's
always stars out. The point, the abstract point, I'm trying to get to
is that of creative passion.
So I put that phone back to my head
and I say, "I'll do it."")