Month: August 2020

Remonstrations on the Inquiries of Pelbath, Wizard of an Unknown Age : Entry 1

Pelbath woke with a sense of delusion at where he was, even though it was his own chamber in a Keep of his choosing, with moss strewn walls and tapestries and a sense of leather and oak emanating from its core, however the certainty of peace which the room provided was a ploy , for the man in the center of this room was like a spider in a web and filled with expectation.

Outside the city came to life, and creaking carts and hammering metal began to play like chords on the instrument of existence, rising with the sun in a natural symbiosis. Pelbath opened a volume seemingly at a whim and began to read. “……Relwin ordered a conscription and few survived to tell the tale, many have called into question the following expediencies promoted by his reign but few survived to remit the knowledge to anyone whatsoever.” A bland book, a bland phrase. Histories often, are the summation of miseries and peace and they lack the ability to do anything but convey knowledge, and knowledge without emotion is merely an empty vehicle. Pelbath read that in his mind rather than the phrase in the book and he felt like the grappling hook of logic was weak, tenuous and falling apart at its center, he felt as we all often do, a helpless buoy floating, but as we often do as well, he forgot that buoys stand as warnings and not superfluous gally gigs, for men often scrape them selves on the shallows but never report about what happens to them in highest places.

Pelbath was no member of any Guild of Mages, Pelbath would never accept such a nonsensical burden. The idea of certainty was an affront to him and to many similar minded mages, joining in something uncertain with uncertain humans struck him as an assault on knowledge itself , and the act of speaking to others brought sweat to his mind before it even occurred. ” The coward dies a thousand deaths” etc.

The door was knocked upon.

“Yes , what is it? ” irritably called Pelbath, unused to interruptions of any sort.

“Your wash sir, as you requested.” replied a miserable looking Halfling, clearly a slave to it’s master and filled with fear.

“Thank you, forgive me for being remiss , Im merely consumed with thought little one.” said Pelbath ” You need not worry of your behavior” he echoed, and the Halfling relaxed visibly.

Pelbath would never grow used to the idea of slavery, or the needs of men to have anything at all using such means, but the facts of life smacked him in the face , even in his parlor, but his response to said Facts was his own prerogative.  And his prerogative contained much, much pelf and much indecision.

The poor creature retreated , and after its shadowed exit, Pelbath worried over it’s destination.  Though disgruntled, Pelbath was not a hateful man, Power in all its ridiculousness had humbled him and given him humble lessons.

While taking his washed clothing from their simple olive drab packaging, a note fell from the pocket of a shirt left unwashed  amidst the bundle of clean linen. ” Fancy this, I’ve lived enough and been dead enough to know that this entails some nonsense and an adventure.”  Instead it read like a shopping list of a wealthy connoisseur of the mons pubis, lover of the clitoral range, a grasper after the finest most verdant nippled givers of physical ablution, it was a who’s who of the finest brides in the city, all of them exposed magically and embossed onto this sheet, with statistics along the side, and a holographic movement to their bodies which gave them life and inspired lust even in the lifeless tired frame of Pelbath. “What the Hades, why me , why this?” What “this” was , fell short of even wishing to be determined by Pelbath, he rummaged and hung his clothes in his armoire covered in dusty gilt (guilt) with his family armorial crest barely visible under ages of lack of hygiene.

After two pipes of the finest Tetra hydra cannabinoid plant he could procure in this region (specially cultivated for him by the Dwarven cave hydroponicist, paid for at a pittance, as the seeds were given by Pelbath to the horticulturalist and thus ensued a lasting semi-friendship), Pelbath began to think more clearly upon the subject of the unwashed shirt and the tarot of physical statistics he had un-needingly stumbled upon before even tea or pipe, before even thoughts of cheese and egg were allowed, before he could have his morning shit, before he could….on and on, “Where has your philosophy gotten you Pelbath, your study of bilocation? Shitless, with a bevy of perfectly exposed princesses oddly in your pocket when you are too old to satisfy even the mere thought of one of them, why? Better yet who? Whose is this?”

Try as he might he must not persist in thought on this, he had seen what he was like, a fool rabid when on an idea train, he would smoke too much, drink too much, think too much. The idea gleaned would had better have been gleaned from sober refusal of acknowledgement, a separate space not a space shared with a substance was what was required for good thinking, thought aloud as he unconsciously began loading his third pipe.

He began frying an over easy Thurg egg, simultaneously boiling slowly his bed of rice, and adding the particles of plant based analgesics into the yoke of the exactly over easy egg, lastly cutting into naturally octagonal shapes , his tomato gourd, afterwards sprinkling them with the powdered tusk of what was said to be the horn of the last Klodian (a race of uselessly Horned men who died out in a plague when first encountered by the Lexicographers), however it was more likely a mild narcotic and it served the purpose of a flavor additive as well, a double duty pleasantly given by nature to a mere thing.

After this a shower, all water provided by the aqueduct, a taxed service merely paid for and then received and if not paid for then not received, no one knew where this aqueduct came from, no one asked. Every day we ask no questions of the very things of life which we should question.

He donned his grey robe , checked his beard and neck line, “Blasted neckline” he muttered as he placed on his black leggings and high grey boots made of the skin of sixteen tribesmen who bet their integumentary system in a gamble with a Warrior ( Pog or something guttural if i recall)  long ago in his employ but since dead, needless to say the wager was lost, the shoes were comfortable and considered a not ill gotten gain, this is a hard world and those men would have died of gluttony anyways and had raped and done enough evil to deserve to be boots.

This was always the hardest part, opening the locks on his door and leaving his home, uncertainty lay outside even for the most mundane creatures, nothing, nowhere was safe, not even ones mind before one opened ones door to enter the Outside. Pelbath peered through his eyehole with a jointed mini telescope in case an assassin were to blow a poisoned dart into his eye. No one there good, he replaced the telescoping jointed lens and grabbed his bladed Halberd of a walking stick and three loaded and safetied poisoned mini crossbows, one dagger on either sleeve of his robe, in a leather case with a retraction button for instant use, and dark shaded glasses of his own make which alleviated his anxiety at being seen, heard, or in any way being notorious.

He was not much of a wanted man, but his fear of others wanting or otherwise believing things harmful and or terrifying to him and their secret passions kept him keyed up for action, as the world always seemed to pulsate with it, especially when you wanted nothing more than to be left alone.


A Long Return

These days I see no reason to bandy about anymore, I feel words our like scythes slicing outwards and I fear to use them, because I know other’s scythes are looking for me as mine were blatantly attempting to shadow their own movements.

At a young age I seemed to decipher a pattern of events, one which denoted a lie rather than an efficacious way of monitoring things.  I saw that the word Reality often meant what one wanted it to mean and that breaking through its feeble definition merely required breathing on Earth for one day and existing around others to see that it was a vapid nonsense to perpetuate.

I found myself a very animal, hairy, smelly if unwashed and full of himself to a degree  previous explanations do not give reason for.

It burns as if to smoke acid to  admit this , but it is a fiendish repertoire with which I’m familiar.

I want to reek of the mythic and invest it in every word and fiber of my bone. I also wish to never be so foolish as to believe in false Gods, and thus am sucked into a Greek type esplanade of emotion where everything I uphold is destroyed by what I convey through my actions.

Because I live as if God were dead, as we all do, and if he is, it isn’t conscionable.

I wish to never contrive to do anything. I wish to always spontaneously respond to events. This is deceptive to say, for it seems to imply I mean to not think, which is not the case. I wish to thinkingly roll into every situation without an previous anxiety brought on by foolish conceptions of “Reality”.

And days and days have brought nothing but more of this. As if some teacher of shadow was aping my steps and always giving lessons as I fumbled forward. And ghosts or  ghost like things abound in my day to day life. Just last night i dreamed a labyrinth and in its conclusion I spoke to my son and he was quietly dripping blood red tears from his eyes. Rather than waking in a cold sweat, I awoke calmly, an initiate of grey recollections and odd night infused auguries.  As I write this I recall the day a hawk’s shadow rode before me as I drove in my device toward town, it broke away to the music on the radio.

There is an odd stork like creature in an impromptu marsh brought on by winter floods that I and my son’s see as I drive them to school. There is a mystery about this unlikely creature in being where it is, which every morning, gives me an odd sense of Bulgakovishness which floods the day and makes it more positive.

I can do nothing but think of this creature as anything other than a preternatural prototype to all birds, an oddball genius of its ilk clinging against the most tenuous marsh provided by the crust of Earth. Today it was not there and the sense of Absence was like a large stone monument placed before my vision of the day.  Its tone by the way was grey and elegant, patrician-esque.

How odd the voices we must speak in to say what must be said, to speak of a marsh bird we must invent terminologies, for we know nothing of marsh birds. To say things on the nature of what is obvious, we must refer heavily to tomes of men who said things densely about the obvious.  Admittedly some things can’t be easily said, but things that can be, should be. Men waste time posturing and because of this there are cyclical repetitions in thought which should never have been. Because of this one will open books that were once aligned with ones thoughts, and see an enemy, and an embarrassing disclosure on your formative education.

I wake each day at 5 am.  I make preposterous plans against the day, I concoct Martial approaches to mundane affairs, I imagine my responses to friends queries in a sense like they were of the stature of Oaths made on Delphic Mounts. And there is always a knowing of something undone, a thread left unsown, a weird omen of something more, everyone goes to the party but no one feels like I do when they are at the party, and if they do nothing is said of it. A grand paranoid idea permeates everything, though no one had an intent, all is filled with intention.  And my brother told me I should write. There would come an end he suggested by his words, of this, of all, and this would be like an emetic, softening the way.

But the way remains as it was, and nothing is softened.

Meanwhile I struggle to try and find a way to make writing anything other than an quiet form of masturbation, something more than a shadowed pulse felt only by me, a night song sung by birds no one hears.  I always thought wanting things would make them more achievable, and yet I scrape out a meaning from ancient texts of men and women who wanted what I want, and of them , there are only scraps left. An echoing library of ‘Was’s” and “Mights” lining out the invisible musculature of concern. Even history for me has taken on an edge of fiction, for trust is involved and I have little.

The night settles in at my home, my wife jangling dishes in the kitchen, my son’s voices murmuring, an accent of the moon and the clouded shadow, all of it. I’ve drunk too much, but this was always a possibility, or rather I expected It was, and wasn’t afraid.

Often the weight and measure of family life is ported towards an goal which we are stricken by often, and suddenly. No one speaks vehemently on the subject of what ails them, they tend to be more voluble on what does not. Wasting permanent time on nonsense. And so when we have too much to drink we imply a heavier burden on ourselves rather than reflecting on our past achievements, we burden ourselves with a “perhaps” failure. Drunken remembrance is convenient, as all of it is, but forgetting takes a waxen art of chance which I’ve never known.

At 4 am, I wake slightly to take my stomach medicine.

At 5:45 I roll around knowing that I must read, shit, and look feverishly at the internet.

If certainty were an acceptable thing I’d laud us.  But it is not. Thus I question every act of a species which is geared toward a sense of certainty.

Failure is always comfortable, failure always reassures itself, failure always requires a defense.

Worries over pains and Diets consume me, Concern for my children and thoughts on the Present World and the Future create a quilted robe around my cerebral cortex.  In thinking of the cerebral cortex I  Googled a diagram of the functions of the Cerebral Cortex,  doing so I was whisked away and in my mind , a cold calculated Drs. voice repeated back the latinate names in a staccato, each psyllable a bullet rattling in a tin can, it assailed my sense of Spirit to see my mind so mapped, and succinctly labeled. Worst still, that It was labeled by Humans, a race yet to explain any First Cause. A race who’s only claim to fame is to make inferences from datum collected over aching millennia by randomized acts and a sense of something, the Something always different but always  replicated from the bones of the previous Something.

If only in synthesis we created an overflow from what was within but not out of some sense of post modernist fixed angst, we could circumscribe the Known, rather than groping in ebon night with ineffectual hands towards a mystery which need not be.