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Child of Star

by Nahadoth

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Spiritstrand 07:13

about

"...[W]e sages, no matter our allegiance, always believed that knowledge was a fiction until it was transmitted to another and though I had learned and pondered so much, I grew restless with the inability to share..."


Full story/text below:
When one has suffered such as I have, one hopes to at least have their suffering remembered. Let my tale serve as a warning to those standing at the top of the path I once ran down. Even to have the sequence of my choices savored as a crass entertainment with no lesson would be better than the ten years I’ve spent hurling my frail cosmic presence around this room. I’ve seen the molecules of everything within - that candleabra hanging above the table, each wooden slat of the bed, even people, which I cannot look upon directly. I assume they are people. They enter and exit through the door. I cannot even muster that.

We were scientists, and as we loudly proclaimed our fealty to nature’s laws, we worked in secret to unmake them. In order to know beyond the limits of the body, we had to know the borders well. I had studied in anatomy in addition to alchemy and Kabbalist mathematics, even a little Enochian. My mother was a builder. My father was a builder. I had to know how things worked as much in this plane as the next.

There are two types of wise people in this world - those backed by institutions, and those outside of them. The first kind tells us how important the laws are, and how important it is to not resist them. Insert some improvisation based on The Downfall of Elder Sunna, who lost life and consciousness in an alchemical misstep. Be satisfied to know what we know. Why stare into the shadows? The second kind is like Elder Sunna herself; this kind of sage sacrifices comfort, reputation, life, consciousness in equal measure to see what can be felt after the fingertips end, what can be seen the limits of iris and pupil. Who will be better remembered? There are some who, knowing not just that I failed, but what it means to have failed, would ride on, undeterred. It is one of those young sages who will finally do it, I think, and before I lose count of the years.

I shall not talk about my suffering, not of emerging from some unimaginative hell after more than a lifetime awake within it, Nor will I converse about stumbling from that into an almost perfectly square room, right angles everywhere. Truly a constriction upon the soul. That I chose it, from all the inns bordering the forest, as the place to perform my work, is I hope an indication of my eagerness as well as my occasional oversight. Instead I will relate how I reached my current level of detachment. I don’t know that you are listening. You may be gone by the time I form the next word. Maybe every time I think I’ve seen you in this room, it’s been someone else? But I should like to maintain my allegiance to the method.

First one must know where to ask for the tincture. Like a speck of dirt in a bowl of water, it is impossible to reach for the tincture without the force of your desire disturbing the target, pushing it away. To ask outright would ensure you never hold it, smell it. I shouldn’t need to go into detail here - consult your Carroll’s Meditations and reflect deeply on the sigils you’ve made manifest, or there shall be no hope for you.

Once you’ve acquired it, place three drops into the boiling chamber of any low-grade alembic, along with oils of Myrrh and Rosemary. Heat slowly until the smoke swirls, then smash the glass on the ground. Ekins learned the hard way not to inhale directly. I’ve never seen human flesh take that appearance, not without years of managed decay, Lie on the floor or cot, minding the broken glass. A great spectral ribbon will slowly descend from behind the ceiling of the room, supporting your neck and shoulders and pulling you up toward a great sound. The rafters will shine as your body reaches the ceiling. It will drop, while your soul continues to ascend. This will last anywhere from three to five minutes in real time, but to your consciousness will be immeasurable. When you return to your body, you will have several grey hairs. You should embrace them.

This cautionary splash into the realms of bodilessness is only the first step. This time use your best alembic, and heat now 6 drops the tincture with oils of Thyme, Lavender, and Cinnamon. The blend should be bitter smelling, cloying, and it will swirl blue. Decoct into a small vial and cork immediately. At this point, you should make arrangements to pass the tincture along to someone else. You won’t be needing any more.

By now you should know that when a spirit enters a room with dubious motives, the result is a glimmer from within the rafters, visible even to the naked human eye. You’ll be looking for any pale demon with yellowed claws, but you won’t have to look hard. If you’ve made the decoction correctly, they will already have your scent. At this stage, you must retain no hesitations, for the path behind you evaporates with each step. When the rafters glimmer, you must immediately place the flute of bone to your lips and play a melody without hesitation, the more discordant the better. Let it speak a morbid fascination, and in doing so you will buy yourself a few minutes with which to speak with the demon. You must negotiate for a metaplume. The demon will arch its brow, and you’ll notice that beyond the skin that has never known the sun, and the claws that seemed to stretch down to its knees, the entity could wander the world without being identified. At that point, the negotiation is concluded, although it is important to continue the pleasantries - the demon’s curiosity for how a mere human could know of, let alone desire such a profound death posture, will override any hunger it may have once felt for your flesh, your spirit.

Perhaps the stakes were higher, but negotiating with the demon was easier than most conversations. Humans are far more adept at lying.

The metaplume, a swirling orb of yellows casting none of its light around, tickled first as it went down. Soon it was sharp pain as it traveled down my esophagus, into my stomach. The pain was to shake you away from your body, while at once giving you something to focus on when undertaking your death posture meditation. The timing of this work was essential - a kind of magickal choreography that when performed correctly would set the stage aflame.

I awoke...no, became aware in this room in which I had made all my preparations, performed all of my rituals. Then I discovered I could not leave it. I tried in vain to break the focus of the death posture meditation, to re-enter my body by force. Watched as the innkeeper found me, dead by appearances. Watched as the body was removed, the room attended to by a cleric and given a final cleaning. Watched as people began to stay there again. Watched them snore, spit, fornicate, the mundanity of corporeal life that I so longed for. Watched the days get longer and shorter through the window. Watched closely for the glimmer at the rafters, perhaps the chance at another metaplume. Any way to get beyond these walls.

Before long, I learned at last how to change my concept of consciousness. I had been holding myself in one spot. One perspective. Like a pair of eyes. I finally relaxed into the room, and could let myself sink slowly, as if pulled. I could never get beyond the floor, but in this state was fully able to withdraw into myself. I spent a year pondering questions I had never considered solved, another after that creating a civilization down to the language of its priests. I would only pause to consider another tenant of the room, and challenge myself to remember something of their behavior. Each body was still blurred in my perception, but I understood their every action, and soon, thought that occurred within the room. But we sages, no matter our allegiance, always believed that knowledge was a fiction until it was transmitted to another and though I had learned and pondered so much, I grew restless with the inability to share.

You must be prepared to fight ruthlessly against foul consequence, whether a petty theft or the stranding of a soul. You must be prepared to work, with greater effort and with no recognition, toward the acquisition and spread of knowledge. These are the guiding principles of our order, and all wise ones uphold them in spirit. You will find that upholding them will prepare you adequately for this work, although none can say that your experience will resemble mine in any way. If somehow you are hearing this and are still undeterred, I say this: You should make haste. I have so many things to tell you.

credits

released January 17, 2018

Nahadoth - Child of Star composed and performed by Adam Matlock, on various Casio and Yamaha keyboards, accordion, and a few software synths.

Album Artwork by Lucas Allen Cook.
Nahadoth Logo, album layout, and design by C. Knox.

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Nahadoth Connecticut

Melancholy, orchestral, wintry tones from the realms of the fettered mind
mystaltree@gmail.com

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