From the Cetian Archives Volume 22

Transcript from the Cetian Archives.

Volume 22

On the Occasion of the Third Cetian Lunar Apogee.

An Address by Julian Morrow

Translated by Xien Chou

Abstract: Contraindications within the Hawthorne Usber

Fellow Cetians I cannot tell you how much pleasure it gives me to offer you this address on this auspicious occasion, I have taken great pride in my elected role as First Ambassador to the Trans–Species Collegiate and I can only hope I have justified the faith that you have vested within me. In honor of the Lunar Apogee I would like to offer you the first productive translation of the Hawthorne Usber, which is currently at the centre of a furious inter-special debate. With the assistance of G. A. Keaney (1), and celebrated linguist, Bea Jaykay, (2) I will outline some aspects of our discoveries on this Usber to date. We are sometimes blessed by the synchronicity of historical finds and the Hawthorne Usber will prove, I believe, to be of the highest priority in our pursuit of knowledge of First Planet Catastrophe. As you all know the Hawthorne was contemporaneous with the Singularity Order Usber (3) discovery. We have formed a possible interpretation of Hawthorne, and perhaps formulated a tenuous link between these two bodies of knowledge. I will begin with three premises.

The first is that despite our understanding of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, (4) a document that we believed had credibility in the Ancient Past and our belief that it was used as a set of indices to determine right action, it would appear that many of species human were forcibly exempted from the doctrinal principles it enshrined; that is they were not exempt from torture, false imprisonment and fair representation in a penal code that we can only view as cognitively primitive. My second premise deals almost entirely with Numerics and Harmonics. Until recently we believed the Ancients were barely literate in terms of high order Numerics and had no comprehension of the correlation between self–similarity principles and Tonal Prime Harmonics; there is now tantalizing and elusive evidence in the Hawthorne which suggests otherwise. My third premise is currently unsubstantiated; however in the company of friends and fellow Cetians I will declaim it regardless. It consists of a dubious set of suppositions regarding climate and the Ancient art of mysticism and prophecy.

In our translation from the Hawthorne let me begin by stating three new facts. Firstly the speaker/writer was female, secondly she was of an unusually high order of intellect and thirdly she was undeniably imprisoned for unspecified reasons within a type of sanctuary. This latter term was used as a euphemism for prisons that specialized in chemical torture. As far as we can ascertain such sanctuaries (5) were used to detain, without any legal recourse, polizens who demonstrated aberrant behaviors (6). The name of our speaker was Rose Hawthorne. Let me begin with part of our first translation:

From Rose Hawthorne

4.3.06-2346-3 to the power of 3

Write it down they all advised, write it down and so I did.

And this is the way it happened, in the summer of 2/0/6 the light was blinding on the river of gold and my ears ached with the precognition, the indecency of such a thing, I bathed in honey and wild flowers and birds tore out my heart. Shall I be obscure and write poetry? Time stalled at the centre of stillness, there was an abyss in the great navel of the goddess. Underneath that, there was a volcanic heart, rumbling with the lava of congealed blood. Congested. Can there still be breath in such an unstructured fugue? O beloved, heart’s ease in the merging of forms; uncaged, unstrung upon the lute of time. Is there never an end, o an end, to love and mourning?

It is an evening of utter bloodlessness; my compatriots here are so drugged they will be the easy prey of any macabre medic.

A great Ox sits on my tongue, O Clytemnestra, the pain that never sleeps; be free my dead son, as fires are, as the tides of the sea are. Is there an alphabet for such words that I must speak? But quietly, quietly, before the mountains of chemicals in my bloodstream crash into thought and memory; and sit like mountains, like giant tombs upon the embers in my mind.

10.03022/6

What did I do to enter this long day’s journey into night? Starcraft is what I know. A tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury and signifying nothing. The jester of my court has ruination in his eyes. The dogs are fled and I remember Antigone and her tempestuous, and vengeful, brothers; for them she was executed by a King who had her walled up alive for defying the State. And yet still she spoke:

‘That order did not come from God,

Justice that lies below admits no such law.’

Just saw Alwyn for the first time this week, he walks through quite jauntily, despite the impending tragedy. I heard the death bird early. It was apparently decided by the Critical Medic Team that Pearly Jane, who was elderly and unwanted, was clinically catatonic; a shock had quite undone her and she was ripe for experimentation. She had no recourse to Advocacy. Did anyone even know of her, living in her Government flat with her pensioner ways? The old and alone are always so vulnerable; they have no means to secure themselves from this travesty. In the dawn I heard Pearly calling out and crying, unquiet, I would have said, for catatonia. However the medics persisted with their medications till she was still, quiet at last, so quiet, and then she died. Her pain was gifted, perhaps, it comes of prophecy. How can I be so callous? Because I envy her? A spider wove her way.

I remember old poems, I am a liar; I try to forget them. Alwyn’s old poems have had their bones picked clean and he says he will never write again; the loss of a poet’s words, that appalling muteness, it’s a desecration which could infect the very tissue of the planet. It is a pernicious disease, this silence, killing us all. There are no real truth-keepers anymore except for the unclean, kept from the eyes of the world for the shame of it all. Therefore I rose up, fool that I am, and in the womb of our collective silence I shaped breath and uttered it into birth. Yes I know, perhaps too well, my poetic inheritance is from a long line of madwomen. From Emily Dickinson:

‘Crumbling’s not an instant’s act.

It’s first a cobweb on the soul

A cuticle of rust

But ruin-is formal-the Devil’s work’

The moon has set at last, it’s crinkly-crankly, crazed, she who knows the Way, guards it for all she is worth. For the future and the past.

24.022-624 to the power of 2 20 to the power of 2, 4 to the power of 8

This morning I woke to find you beside me in bed, having entered the Women’s Unit illegally, my blue-eyed love; your face was wet with tears, all you can actually say is that you think you will have to kill me, so badly do you want me, that this loving has quite destabilized you. O Alwyn, my ancient, ragged love; you have always been a general at heart. And then they took you away, drugged and restrained; you did not resist them. You stared at me helplessly as I stared back. Our eyes, our very retinas will tell the true story if we ever escape from here. Believe me I know the feeling; love is just an inconvenience here. Do I really believe that, I wonder? I get so tired of hiding these journals obsessively but they are proof for the inquisition and I will burn for them, metaphorically.

I heard some gossip about the woman they call The Bernster who is normally kept locked in the last room, a room with a green door where no-one ever seems to go, certainly no-one appears to return from the place beyond that door. The gossips say that she is scheduled for old the electro-shock treatment. Can that still actually be a medical practice in these enlightened days? Probably, they can do anything here, we always knew that.

This morning in pre-light dawn I saw the truth, I saw her walking in the Garden with an attendant. At first I thought she looked as if she had just come from another world, as if she had been talking to angels, like the grilles in her brain had been purified or something, like there was no space between her and Divinity. Until it wore off and then she was fucked with convulsions and the medics came again, like garbage collectors; yeah, put your drongoes out on Thursdays and we’ll deal with them. Pay your taxes first.

3033 to the power of 2 on the 7th of the seventh, 2/7

We will see what we will see, great forces pull me around the planet; if Alwyn leaves me here again I shall not rest, he protects my dreaming like gossamer, he’ll always tease me through, like thread, web and waft of the loom of time; my love and I.

Slept and dreamt again, if only it would stop, mayhap I’ll take their drugs willingly: it’s a blood day, red day colored by the dreaming, I cannot write it down for fear of how it will unravel me; Alwyn says I must but he does not have to live within it. It is for the children, he says, he is icy-eyed and furious with me again, for all the children we never had, for mine I had by other men; it is the part of the prophecy again. We are pawns in another game.

The platinum light is blinding me again, the talons of a bird rake through my mind, my head is like a overripe mango, and then Alwyn comes and holds me, the orange subsides and sleep takes me like a benediction, until the world grows grey and hideous and words are streaming out; the medic comes; I’ve hidden all the evidence, the hypodermic comes on like a hammer, an anvil on a stone.

22-8.19.8.5 to the power of 5

Woke up today and feel like the grunge you find underneath a dirty fridge, yet oddly, perhaps from the trail of another dream, I am remembering when I first met you, Alwyn. Note how these journals are nearly always addressed to you, you who keep the other half of my soul on a leash. No person and no power can take that memory away from me, not yet anyway.

I remember light, the texture of early, early morning. The night before had been wild, full of a great harvest moon and the compatriots screaming and wailing, but the morning was ethereal as if the cries of wild birds had pulled the sun into the sky. I was still sleepy, over-tired perhaps, who knows. I came to the Garden, a special place where few people come, like a hidden Grotto, sacred with plants and old seeds, and visitations from birds, the wild lives here. Nature rules here, not civilization. It was my secret escape from all of the broken energies that rule the Wards, the Units, the pain, and the chaotic and horrific powers that contain our days in the form of drugs and medics, some of whom actually believe they are doing us good, healing us back to mindless conformity. And you were sitting in the heart of my sacred space.

I will always, all the days of my life, instinctively recognize another master Strategist. Bred in the bone, that trait, I watched you for awhile, knowing that you knew something was there, some other being close to your space. But I am part chameleon, I am as quiet as the cat I was named for, used to hiding, used to tracking my prey, and you had quite outraged me. You were preoccupied, computing the possibilities of escape, I recognized that scan of a building, note the exits, potential weakness in the cage. Are the hinges well-oiled, yeah you scanned it like a machine; your eyes were like metallic chips. You didn’t miss much.

It was already too late for me. My heart had flown out of me like a small bird; it went to plunder yours. There was nothing I could do; you looked so much like an ancient and mauled God, who had been hunted for far too long. You were seeking a crevice in which to rest a little, to regather your energies until the next assault. You really don’t understand how to concede. There are three moves in life for you; it is your mantra: advance, attack, retreat. You play a mean game of chess and at Go-Matse you are, so far, unbeatable. Old Chairman Mao would have had you executed for military thinking and far too much initiative on the battlefield.

Somehow in that moment I managed to cut myself on you, you got into my blood, like an infection. Love is a virus, I know. The biology of species drive, sometimes called love but really lust, I understand that perfectly. But I cannot name this, like music, like the games that bones play beneath the skin as they dance to the tune of your presence. I told you I would be good for everything, my flaw would be at the end, I can fold like water, Alwyn, not for lack of loving you, but for loving a greater vision more. Yeah just like Eurydice, turning her graceful neck and leaving her poor Orpheus hunted by his lute forever. How Hades must have laughed as Persephone veiled her face and the world was deathly without sound, even the potential for sound. Evil. You knew this about me almost immediately. I ran, or tried to run; it didn’t matter. It will never matter; you’ll find me wherever I go. What’s the point? Anyway you were in my Garden, sitting there like a maimed and disregarded lesser Deity, a God without a bone to play with and I certainly was not about to become a toy. So I ran. But not far enough, obviously.

22/ 2: Longitude 52, Latitude 33, ESNW.

Three days later. I made the good escape; I was so gone from here, traveling back through the old burnt forest, made it home via the back door. Busted pretty fast, but saw the kids, the cats, the keeper; it was enough. Betrayal is so easy, like complicity, turning your gaze, you might get infected. Care factor: Zero. Should have stayed lower, been more canny, but I had such a need in me for the children. C’est la vie. Did three days in the Maximum Security Unit. You get that; Jesus must have been so bored with his gig. In the Max Unit the Bernster really did try and kill me. She is too fractured now, two splintered, they’ll kill her soon; she could so easily be evidence in another Court. They won’t let her father see her, mouthed platitudes about her level of distress. The Bernster went ballistic, she’s still got the vestiges of humanity; her need was great and she begged them, but they are frightened now of what they have done to her. They really cannot afford to let her become Exhibit One in a Human rights Commission Case. When she sensed I was going to leave her she made for the kill, I had to kick box her down, and then the Medics came. Hypodermics all round, nice cocktail. Alwyn apparently sat outside that metal door for three days, not much anyone can do, you wait it out, play chameleon and you survive. Resistance is futile. I am so tired of it all, the days that fail to divide like a winter fog, while summer reigns supreme and the irony of it all, the whole situation, is quite barbaric.

84: Latitude: 54mins 31 seconds, Longitude: 79 hours, 3 minutes. 33/7. Look you: The stars shine still.

I give in now, Alwyn, I will write it down, though Goddess in heaven help me. It is the dream and the dreamer must dance it.

I had a dream about a man so evil he rotted in his grave, but he did not actually change his form. He looked immaculate in that solid coffin. He had stolen his only son’s name. No flower would consent to grow near him. An oak tree was crippled by the presence of this unnatural corpse. The man had many allies who were burned after their deaths and their stink is still an offence in the nostrils of the world’s wind. The man was called El Lido, although he had no Spanish blood in him. No one ever discovered where he was born. El Lido was a kind of deity in the Stock Market where he traded in everything, but particularly in multinational drug companies, scientific research, and weaponry. Money oozed out of his every pore. El Lido had lots of highly polished friends and in the dream they keep meeting in tall buildings, ceilings made of glass, pure and deadly with their beauty, they meet to consider what they will next rape and pillage. I know I have to get away from them, but I am transfixed by their symmetry, by the blinding perfection of their convoluted schemes which conceal a maelstrom of power mongering. It all went beyond money. It became about playing God. These were the robber barons and kings and captains of industry and they cared so little for the rest of humanity it was weirdly fascinating to watch. In the dream I know I have to run and fast. Paralysis. Finally some street kids find me; they know everything because they spend their entire existence on the Ethernet, living in web two land, shuttling just beneath the icy juggernauts that trawl through cyberspace meticulously controlling the flow of power and money.

I try to warn my blood clan in the dream, screaming and raving but they are either too stupid or too stubborn to change their views about me. It doesn’t matter really; the children and I run like the sons and daughters of Atlantis, fleeing the Tsunami that broke the spine of Santorini and destroyed a whole civilization. They all drowned but for the Fisher king’s clan whose wisdom was a product of his daughter’s death, and earned with great pain. But he survived, so did his clan. I know this is what we are now, an incarnation of that travesty.

In the dream the moon is always tinged with red, the seasons spin, the planet spins on its axii. And then El Lido unleashes the pandemics and the virals, population control on an unprecedented scale. Somehow we get up high, trekking through ice and snow, dropping our dead like the detritus of leaves in autumn and then we finally arrive and hide in mountain caves, bleeding and traumatize. We live there like rats or foxes, careful in our hiding. Cradling what is left of a world we once knew.

And then the dream changes its landscape, deadly for a dreamer, it pulls me in too far; I have to weave through it or against it. You are always there in these dreams, Alwyn, even back in the time when Edward Longshanks and his pox cursed harlot burned and raped the highlands of the old people, betraying at long last the hidden remnants of the people of Ayr. The legend tells the sad story of how you would take no meat or drink for days while the unquiet spirits roamed ceaselessly. That is how it is in my world of night, beloved, spun and lost through whorls in time. It was written that our clan alone held true to the prophecy, that we suffered for it but through it we survived. Mangled, brutalized, but like seeds of a distant future, we were ready to go on. We know we have concealed enough DNA material within our curious recessive gene pool, that’s why the Scientists always described as Aberrant Genotypes. If only they knew, we were their insurance policy for the future, we chose the opposite path to the rest of the clans and we will survive. I have to believe this, Alwyn, or it is all been for nothing.

If I listen, now, in the dream to all the stories, watch the vistas of holocausts, I come every time to an angle, more like a bifurcation in the maze. Which path do I take? The worlds around me plummet like fireworks on New Year’s Eve, only deadly, and the sounds of the klaxon still clash inside my eardrums as the white horror of light burns behind my closed eyelids. The axis of our planet spins lethally again. What music I had is now all unraveled, like knitting torn mindlessly by malicious children who do not understand patterning and our DNA is strung out across the universe. Never quite lost, a possibility of finding something. And all this is nightly my own journey, stumbling along my very own Via Del Rosa.

I will say no more, my tongue is fraying as I speak, my hands are breaking, there’s a mist lurking at the edge of my mind. A great Ox now sits on my tongue. It guards the Way.

End of this section of the Hawthorne Usber.

I believe that most of you would agree that this part of the Hawthorne Usber is oddly constructed; there appears to be s singular lack of continuity, as Cetians would understand that concept. Let this be the first point in our departure on the journey of this discourse. We study the Ancients for precisely this reason: it allows us to challenge our own historicity and our fundamental Ethos and Philosophy. We come again and again to our own cultural blind spots through these exhaustive endeavors and we are enabled by these labors to view our own species through a new set of lenses. We seek above all to avoid an emulation of the underlying principles that drove the Ancients to a situation which generated First Planet Catastrophe.

In deconstructing the Hawthorne B. Jaykay (6) used the work of previous linguists who had decoded the encryption of The Key to English Language, found within one of the oldest time capsules. We believe that capsule predated The Singularity by many generations. I will refrain from analyzing the debate that surrounds that particular discovery in this paper as it is time consuming and we need to move on from fixations with pure academics; suffice it to say that B.Jaykay accepted the results of the encryptions and built upon them. Our major problem resides in the translation of the Ancient’s language. While we have understood much of the linguistic structure, the syntax, grammar and basic lexicology, we suffer from having a coherent context into which we can place our understanding. It is my person belief that such a lack of understanding comes from abhorrence and a type of primal fear. As a species we have an almost cellular memory of the genocide that the ancients enacted upon our own ancestors as a species on First Planet.

B. Jaykay has postulated that the languages of this particular period of history should be understood within its multidimensionality. That is he proposes that the language can be broken down into three different categories: ordinary speech patterns, Globish patterns and a less definable area that he describes as a Colloquia. He describes the entire language base as an Anglosphere.

Let us now examine some of Rose Hawthorne’s journal entries within these parameters. We see a repetition of words such as Medic, hypodermic, chemicals, restraint, Maximum Security Unit, electro shock, wards, escape and even a reference to the Human Rights Commission. The whole transcript is a reflection of the unnatural and cruel practices used on the people within the Sanctuary. Interestingly, the word sanctuary has, as its etymological base, meanings that imply safety and security. This is obviously not the case in Rose Hawthorne’s Sanctuary where people are routinely tortured with chemicals, effectively murdered, whether intentionally or not; and Rose Hawthorne is certainly of the view that these murders were intentional, particularly in the case of the woman Pearly Jane and the other women called The Bernster; that there was quantifiable evidence of menserea on the part of the Medics

The transcript is profoundly emotive, overly so at times, however its implications for our studies are of great import. We can no longer accept the document entitled The Declaration of Universal Rights as having true authenticity, for it has radical exclusions. (7) Those scholars who harbored romantic ideas regarding judicial politics and Ancient legal rights systems of jurisdiction will have to review their evidence after a complete study of the Hawthorne.(8) And for this we should be pleased, not disheartened. We are. I believe coming closer to a real understanding of what catapulted this planet into total annihilation. Nor should a re-evaluation of the Ancestor’s primitive legal structures really surprise any of us. Paolo Obrienicus(9) has argued consistently over five Decans that ethicists and juristic scholars have been suffering from an empathy with catastrophe victimology and its consequences on species human; and therefore failing to truly appreciate the huge disparities within an already simplistic and primitive set of penal codes. It is a now a notorious debate since new data has been processed in regards to human treatment of other cohabiting species on their planet and their brutal subjugation, particularly in the area of Ancient Scientific Research Projects. (10)

We need to assimilate the above first premise with meticulous care. I would like to move now to the contentious area of my second premise regarding the assumed, and to some extent verifiable view, that the Ancients had a limited knowledge base in the area of Numerics, specifically the association between Numeric function and Harmonic function. As Cetians this is, of course, our first language and it would be speciocentric of us to rule out the possibility that no other species could have evolved a similar language and linguistic set of framework of complexity and density which may have similarities to our own communication system. In examining Rose Hawthorne’s purported attempt at communication within an Harmonic Frequency Scale we must remember that her perspective would have been similar to a minor in our species and that she would have lacked any sophistication within a dialect. Therefore I urge you to be patient with the decoding; it is literal in its substance and lacks, obviously, any sophistication in terms of its construction.

Let us now consider Rose Hawthorne’s use of Numerics in her journal entries with some sympathy for her lack of any substantial knowledge bas. At first glance the Numerics appear random, chaotic and almost nonsensical. That is until we begin to decode the encryption. Then we arrive at some rather startling revelations. Working with C. Suzuki (11) our finest matrix specialist in the area of Archo-Anthropology, we began working from an assumption that Rose Hawthorne was attempting to communicate within Formal Harmonic Structures. Certainly the Harmonics are clumsy and, at times, cryptic in the extreme. Nonetheless it is obvious that she had some expertise. The really interesting question this discovery poses is where and how did she acquire this basic level of understanding? Or did she somehow intuit it? It is actually beyond quantum statistical probability that these sequences were a random collection of Third Scales that happen to make sense, even if they are almost entirely literal, in a Pan-Harmonic translation. So, it is possible we might have to begin a re-visioning of our previous assertions in regard to the cognitive abilities of all the Ancients, and consider the possibility that a percentage of the population had evolved, possibly inadvertently, into a higher order of Cognition Functionality or first vestiges of executive synthesis.

Let us consider one example only of Rose Hawthorne’s abilities here for the purposes of this address. The most interesting sequence appears directly before she relates her dream to her friend or lover Alwyn. If we consider her Numerics they read as follows: 84: Latitude: 54mins 31 seconds, Longitude: 79 hours, 3 minutes. 33/7.

Such a Numeric phrase should have been a primitive geographic delineation of a point in space. It correlates to no known point that Helioseismologists (12) have identified in the current spherical asteroid that we believe was once a living, breathing ecosystem described as First Planet. Their scientific diagnostic tools in this area have been ratified as a continuous set of accurate indices that have, to date, proved to be remarkably accurate in their quantification of data and analysis in their domain of expertise. So it is unlikely that they have failed in this particular analysis. We may therefore confidently assume that Rose Hawthorne was referring to something else entirely, something which was innately related to Harmonics. In order to contextualize her encryptions we should remember her overpowering obsession with keeping her journals secret and undisclosed. What was she so frightened of the journals being discovered? Consider her repetition of the journals being a form of evidence that could have been used against her, her belief that she could be burned for them, metaphorically? This is significant as it suggests that she was privy to a codex of information that her fellow humans were not; and that the codex was proving dangerous to her personal wellbeing. However at this stage that question must remains unanswerable until we delve further into our research.

For those of you who are not inclined to follow the Pure Matrice Quantum Theory, here, I shall move through this section on my second premise rather quickly. For other scholars with a genuine interest in the following theories may I refer you to new work in Matrice and Harmony in the opus of C. Bargdon (13) as an initial point of departure.

My position on Rose Hawthorne’s knowledge of the practice and theory of certain aspects of Harmonics is that she understood the Theory of Thirds, Fourth Dimensionality and that she understood the matter referred to as: The Tesserect Continuum. She understood, in short, that the harmony necessary to balance in her world was fatally flawed and that no correlations in terms of possibilities, abstractions of Harmonics or representation in Parallel Symmetry were going to provide a possibility for survival of her planet, even perhaps in the Quantum field. Hawthorne knew her world was, for the most part, utterly doomed, and only her limited knowledge of Helix Harmony and a form of Anthropogenesis in Harmonics was likely to save her immediate clan or bloodline. She also intuited the cycloid nature of experience and assimilation (14).

These contentions bring me rather aptly to my third premise: the nature and exploration of Prophetics on First planet. Cetians consider it irrational to speculate about futurisms, reconfigurations or postulation possibilities. We consider it irrational because we understand the nature of Fractal Evolution within time/space continuum. The proliferation of possibilities has been studied exhaustively within the College of the Ariadne Codex. (15) It is generally agreed that this is a highly specialized field and although some of us enjoy the implicit mysticism in these endeavors, few of us have chosen to pursue that field of knowledge as we are unwilling to undertake the high risk area of an Infinite Gap Crossing. We have lost many fine minds to this experience and those Cetians who have returned intact are amongst venerated within our ranks; that is exactly as it should be, we collectively bow to their breathtaking courage in the pursuit of authenticity in Pure Knowledge. The cost of true Bicameral consciousness is high, and earned at great personal cost. I refer you all of course to the works of Taosaurus (16) whose ethos has shaped our collective consciousness; and at whose urging, we undertook to participate in the Inter-Special Collegiate. It was Taosaurus who first understood some of the significance of the Usbers and who insisted that we engage with a new, and highly volatile, branch of knowledge. And through this interaction we have all changed.

It is my belief that Rose Hawthorne had something similar to an evolved Bicameral Intelligence. It is an idea that I cannot support with any fact at all. A speculation, perhaps even a premonition, a word we learned from the Ancients. I believe this largely because of the dreaming sequence. She refers to a systematic decimation of the planet on the part of its so-called managers. She intuited, I believe that climate change was radically out of control and that the situation had become irreversible for all species on the planet. Perhaps we will never know what happened to Rose Hawthorne. In her own world she was persecuted and degraded, subject to a deprivation of liberty and routinely poisoned with chemicals. Regardless of this she appears to have had a psychic constitution that was threaded with something akin to TeK 4, a marvelous, yet strangely, fragile courage is revealed throughout her experiences described in the Hawthorne Usber in her recording of her personal journals. It is as if just as she is almost certainly defeated by one horrific event or another, her courage is renewed. It is this tensile quality, almost oppositional in its intensity that appears to ensure her defiance dominance and oppression. Perhaps I have spent too much time reading her work. I will conclude this dissertation with a short extract from the new Lillith Usber, a platelet that has been badly damaged by particle collision in space and time; however I believe that even this short fragment will generate further tautologies within our studies. Real knowledge is found within the fulcrum of oppositional forces, sometimes of great magnitude. It is the still centre as Taosaurus has described it, a place of stillness and uncut, vast energies, changeless and changing, and the dark core of potentiality. This we all know, for we have survived it.

From The Lillith Usber

The blind caterpillar reflexively weaves its own shroud. The Queen bee sits in her six sided cell endlessly reproducing the buzzing hive, the hen submits to incubating a nest full of eggs, flies and beetles shake with fear as their offspring take flight.

Only a mind debauched by learning makes the natural strange. Is there a creature to whom birth or death is not utterly fascinating? Now here on the threshold I will speak. For years I taught my tongue to mind its words, trained myself to forget. Only my heart would not yield to the dance of lies, the web of conspiracy. Words betray you.

But now the earth waits for me, days slide by like water, darkness absorbs me. And I still remember that once, as a little girl, I danced alone out in the garden under the wild fat moon.

I would like to suggest to you, fellow Cetians, that Lillith may have known something about the dark core of potentiality. And in our very own earliest history we find something similar to resonances found within all three Usbers currently under translation. I refer you to Taosaurus’ First Cetian Archive and his most famous interpretation of our past.

From Taosaurus:

Memo: from the Newspeakpoem 1.1.2. 21‑33.6.

What use are words … when we have lost there meaning. They that once contained the quinine of our dreams, our antibote, the bishus is just non gone and as for Shinto, it barely existed.

But the old high language we know: Thanatos, thearos, creatrix, egasrtas, iberatue, unellio, key. The web consumed it.

I have here the first words the Wildlady spoke:

Will I ever translate it into the lexicon of the cellular, the heart, the spirit, the rainbow rozella flashes by an agony of green. Am I awake or dreaming in the sea? Cross reference hemisphere. I am so tired I have forgotten speech. Can that be possible from a wordsmith? My soul is tired and my sister is waiting for my shade. Andiamo.

And then she, dying, wrote the last words, her finger bleeding. It is hard to read even now ‘It is truth dying, jeweled in the dragon’s eye, except for the central nexus: zero I hear them, the Queen bee in the hive, homing, I know many answers they hum, what questions lies beneath the weaving of flowers into hon. Who met the ice lynx? I did my sweet, a perilous …” It is now unreadable.

She had many words the wild lady. Used them well. She had said that once we had tawny woods full of words, bound behind the oaken doors before the priests forgot to feed the wild birds and the sea died. And some of this legacy she bequeathed me, heir to the dance of Krystos and Ariadne. For I sensed the maze of words, the many ways, the contouring maps and I heard them keep us, the wise rats and the fox, I heard them clawing in the wells, underneath the city burying their dead Dictys. I once went in that place and was allowed to watch their golden eyes, saw how they interconnected at the hexus and without a trace, only a fleeting sound they are all disappparu. They were hiding from a maelstrom.

So I chose once again my oldest name:

Lady of the Wild Things, beast of the heart, acushyla, wait for me I will return. There are some not fashioned to yield. Their blood pounds through them. Compromise is their nemesis. They do not understand how to bend like the willow in the spring time storms. So I am. Or was. Time is the master. Everything changes. Everything remains the same. It is. Only music understands it. Pachbelis Cannon.

STATUS 24. 9. 2033 ‑ File Abfyle. No 8

Emergency Report: Fax Priority one. Ground Control to Major G.L.R.

Report arriving asap. Codex: 2.7.9..8.11/41G

Please note emergency situation. Planet dying. Regret unable to conclude landing instructions. Please divert course and preset airspace vehicle for galaxy continuum shift. Parallel axis: vevarsi North‑West. Reply: Do not transmit. Don’t bother. G.L.R.: I had a dream: Puffalo the magic dragon kissing my son over the legendary cliffs of Wales, the eyries of Culcairn. The eagles came and all the beasts of the world were wild with the terror of themselves except the cats and foxes and the dogs died in the street and I remembered whilst my mother used to say on Solstice days when the weather changed

‘Hark hark the dogs do bark the beggars are come to town some in rags, some in tags some in velvet gown.’

I am dying. Thank Ceinwein for living through this would be unspeakable. I have tried to live well, loved Catiline my wife. Oh Ceinwein pray you defend my little ones for there is no man there in the green country now and my children were strong and fair and Caitlin a beauty who could play the lute and sing. Caitlin, my heart, do not forget me. The fucking fools, misbegotten fiends from hell, hell will freeze over for this lot ‑ the mighty shall fall and still we will not be free. Never victorious, never defeated. Love and pain have triumphed. Caitlin…

Memo: 14 05 1.952.20035 7.7.33

Kai was cold. Ice. There lacks a word she thought, there was a word. She remembered the Summer Palace. Wrote an epitaph. Another one. From such a place comes justice like a winter dream to graze the earth back to bone for beyond the amphitheatre of lies, desires and curses.

And then she closed down transmission. She heard the old woman humming. The hive murmuring. The queen of lies, she thought. The queen of masque. Why do I torment myself?

Kate McNamara April 1008

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