I am having to write this post in a dimly lit taberna because my Internet Service Providers are shit. Yes, I am talking about you Orange. You are shit. But by this time a crack team of homeostatic robots with pincers that inflict gangrened wounds are advancing towards your HQs, they can’t be detected by your puny security systems, and shall climb up your tower of evil like oil arising smooth up the dirty water of your existence, because I deserve justice. And you, punishment.
And why do I say this? Perhaps because my trip down the dusty roads towards this point in the plains where one can tap into the pool of light which teh interwebs is has been fraught with peril and doom, and even though I am alive, I am also scarred and crazed and require retribution which can only be paid in flesh, a few pounds, yes.
As the caravan marched between the crags of el Paso de la Bestia, yellow like bones of giants laid to rest in the graveyards of the desert, we noticed a strange vibration, a humming, a chanting accompanied by tribal drums that surrounded us like a ring of invisible fire, every black flame a ghost raising from the earth and ululating a siren song that penetrated our souls insidious intent on drawing us towards damnation. The horses went crazy and kicked and jumped, and old Silas, my trusty man-at-arms muttered something about the Indian Jewelry. About how this place is haunted, and a beastly wendigo roams its nights, a creature of shadows feared by the tribes of old, its claws pierce not the flesh, but the idea of the flesh with a poisonous caress. Only a primeval sign can keep it at bay but the knowledge of the nature of this sign went the way the tribes of old went, vanished in the shadows of history, so the beast roams unchecked ready to devour those who tread its grounds.
That night was hell and blood, dense darkness pushed against the feeble circle of light of the bonfire like an oleaginous sea licking the pale shores of our sanity, Silas said there was something out there and shot his rifle into a space of nothingness where something which was neither alive nor dead roamed, he shrieked and yelled like a madman, gentle Silas who taught me how to ride a horse when I was small, turned into a animal crazed with fear and rage, trapped inside a cage of light, a cage with fragile bars being bent out of shape by an unimaginable strength and a will to consume, one moment he was there and afterwards he wasn’t, he didn’t run, his arms went first and his twitching legs afterwards, something dragged him out into a place which is the opposite of fire but burns eternal, to make him burn with it.
At that moment I fainted realising that there was no way out and this night would be the last I’d breathe, slipping into a dream which was also a trance, and I saw a circle of ectoplasmic figures raising from the ground around me, they looked hollow and wise and their hair was braided and decorated with feathers, one of them spread its hands criss-crossed with deep ridges and iwhispered something in a tongue I couldn’t understand and a shape glimmered from it into the dust of the ground. I awoke and knew what to do, scrambled to that space where the piece of silvery jewel shined like a mirage, picked it up, put it inside the moribund bonfire and when it was hot enough, marked my flesh with the symbol it was, I screamed into the space of the night as it seared my side, but something screamed, shrieked, ululated stronger, a million tendrils of evil hungry furious and unsatisfied which slowly faded in the distance like a maelstrom of putrescent water sliding down a sink in the centre of the desert. Then I fainted. When I woke up, I saw the horses rigid and dead with a grimace in their noble faces that I didn’t know could exist in the faces of horses. I never found the piece of Indian Jewelry, but I carry its symbol carved in my flesh, and it makes me feel stronger.
Void of a horse, I had to walk through streets of a city where hordes worship at the altar of old Gods whose words and rituals have been rehearsed and rehashed for all eternity, for so long even the Gods themselves have become exhausted of a repetition of tribute and homage, piles of fruit and meat and barrels of beer rotting at the feet of their icons, laid there by worshippers who don’t understand that if the city is to grow and thrive, new Gods need to be created, and with a new attitude, one that isn’t happy having found, but dissatisfied because it has found and keeps searching, tapping into new mythologies and legends with zest and wild eyed enthusiasm. And so did colourful flies swarm over the city to feast on all this wasted produce, directed by the magic wands of snake oil sellers clad in fancy outfits agitated with a cynical pretence of enthusiasm feigned in exchange for a leather pouch full of gold.
Aghast I walked in the tumult, trying to ignore the shrieking, the generic tribes crowding in front of icons of wood I could have sworn were crying static in utter boredom, but then there was a new noise and I looked behind and I saw a bizarre caravan approaching in the distance, crowds stepped aside to let it pass, they stared at its colourful banners envious, aware that such colours cannot be achieved through a new posture, but with crazed gusto and a commitment and an inner knowledge which resonates in the truthfulness of the crazed music of their march, gypsies not intent on settling to create a new church and establishing rules for worshipping and belonging, but just passing by as part of their colourful crusade through all lands, like a long snake drawing a symbol of life for the birds to observe mirthful from their high positions in the bosom of a sky which shines brighter, all clouds cleared by the merry singing of this caravan. I followed them mesmerised through vibrant landscapes emerald and obsidian and purple and eventually got here, turned into a convert of nothing and all at once, a believer in a spirit or idea more than a form, one of singularity achieved through sincerity and intensity, I am but spreading the word now, nothing to learn and everything to enjoy, both when listening and when following not their path, but their joyous example,
Man Man- Harpoon Fever (Queequeeg’s Playhouse)
Be special. Get tickets at Resident, Edgeworld or Rounder. FTW