ネバーエンダー宇宙叙事詩:第4巻第2章 / NeverEnder Space Epic Poem: Book IV Chapter II [ I – VI ]

Ⅰ.
さようなら、猫さん。ラルスが訪ねてくる。
気象の兆しを読む思索者のためのアルマナック、
大衆向けのドット、狂った教義。
ほかに何を言えばいい?
世界が一歩を踏み出すとき、それは月の匂いがする。

私たちはハゲタカを木星へ投げ飛ばすことを選び、
マスクへのX、攻撃的傾向をもつ火星人へ。
女はひとりも見当たらず、疑念ばかりが孕まれている。
プリンス(かつてその名で知られた者)は死に、アンドリューは生きている。

Ⅱ.
ラルスはヴェラトリ出身の電気技師、
時を越えて、ゾンビのような現在へと投げ出された、
年齢の後、そしてエピジェネティックな時代の後の時へ。
アダージョ。私たちは注意深く、優雅な殺意を選んだ。消去。

第二の詩句はエラドリンたちが震え、
沈黙がAIの水準へと昇る場所。
クオラは死に、そして統御の達人クルーが
まさにこのモバイルの画面へとやって来る。

Ⅲ.
もう少し付き合ってほしい。私は誠実な蜂蜜の探求者だが、
両手はクッキー瓶にまみれてしまっている。
今や時代は「真剣な皇帝たち」のものとなり、
アンクティウムかマサダか、だがヴィア・デヴァナではない。

オレンジの皇帝、アンナを殺した者、
コンスタンティノープルの蒼白いスルタン、
皆が鉄の記憶《フェルルム・メモル》の大鎌の音を聞くだろう。
いまこそ統治の終わりを呼び起こす時。

Ⅳ.
九人のムーサよ、カリオペから始めよ。
エラトよ、ムネモシュネの娘よ、記憶は痛まぬか;
Selanθi śuthi, Kafkhale śuriχ,
clan mi śepiθ, avil śulχva, avil thanχvil.
Caθa, caθa, Larthi aranth, mi θuχna lautni,

mi śuriχ śuriχ. Selanna θesan, mi avilth,
acil hinθi nethśu, śei clan apaś,
śanχi Cephalonial. セレーネよ、娼婦の女よ。

Ⅴ.
puia pinthu, nacχval, nacχval — śuthina, śeχ!
mi śarχve, mi nacr, Hector, spural, Cephalonial!
セランナは眠り、カフカは去る、猫からも岸辺からも。
沈黙の年に、星々の年に。
さらば、さらば、ランプを照らすラルスよ。

私は影の民、去る、去る。
曙に生まれたセランナよ、私は覚えている、
光の網に結ばれたその名を。
彼女は「回転する海」の神話となった。

Ⅵ.
彼女はいまケファロニアへ向かって歩いている。
セレーネ——詩の女、絵の女——
ともに現れ、そして消える、さらば、さらば!
私は祝福し、戻る。ヘクトルは航海し、ケファロニアへ!

いま反転した螺旋は二重らせんへとねじれ、
帰還は不可能となった、だから
もっと先へ行く。空気には消去が満ちている、
「美」は macht frei のように、痛いほどに自由にする。サロ。

ああ、『ソドムの三〇日間』よ。

I.

Good-bye, Mr Cat, Larth is coming to visit. An alma
Nac for the meteognostic thinker, a popular dotto,
una doctrina insana. What else is there to say?
When the world’s a foot, it does smell of Moon.

We choose to sling vultures to Jupiter, an X
to Musk, a Martian with attacking tendencies.
Not a woman in sight, all pregnant with doubt.
Prince (formerly known as) is dead, Andrew lives

II.

Larth is an electrician from Velathri, cast
across time to a zombie present, a time after
the age and epigenetic age. Adagio. We care
fully chose the elegance of murder. An erasure.

The second verse is where eladrins shiver
and where silence rises to the level of AI
Quorra will die, and Clu, a master of control
is coming to these very screens of mobile

III.

Bear with me. I am an honest honey-pursuer,
and my paws are stricken with cookie-jars,
now the epoch is one of serious emperors,
and at Anctium, or Masada, but not Via Devana.

The orange emperor, the murderer of Anna,
The pallid sultan of Costantinopolis, all
shall hear the scythe of the Ferrum Memor,
Now is the time to invoke the end of reign.

IV.

Nine Μοῦσαι, ξεκινήστε με την Καλλιόπη.
Ἐρατώ, κόρη της Μνημοσύνης, memoria non
dolor; Selanθi śuthi, Kafkhale śuriχ,
clan mi śepiθ, avil śulχva, avil thanχvil.
Caθa, caθa, Larthi aranth, mi θuχna lautni,

mi śuriχ śuriχ. Selanna θesan, mi avilth,
acil hinθi nethśu, śei clan apaś,
śanχi Cephalonial. Selene, puia lupanar

V.

puia pinthu, nacχval, nacχval — śuthina, śeχ!
mi śarχve, mi nacr, Hector, spural, Cephalonial!
Selanna sleeps, Kafka departs, from cat and from shore,
in the year of silence, in the year of the stars.
Farewell, farewell, Larth in your lamp’s glow,

I am a people of shadows, I depart, I depart.
Selanna, dawn-born, I remember,
her name bound in the nets of light,
she became the myth of the turning sea,

VI.

she walks now toward Cephalonia.
Selene—woman of verse, woman of paint—
both hail and vanish, farewell, farewell!
I bless and I return, Hector sails, to Cephalonia!

Now the inverted spiral twists into double helix,
and the return to base is impossible, so we
take it further, erasure is in the air, a
beauty so macht frei that is hurts. Salò.

O le trenta giornate di Sodoma.


I. Postmodern Invocation / Cosmological Irony

Good-bye, Mr Cat, Larth is coming to visit…
We choose to sling vultures to Jupiter, an X to Musk…

The first stanza opens with a farewell — to “Mr Cat,” an emblem of the mundane or domestic, perhaps even a reference to Kafka’s “cat that walks by itself” or Eliot’s feline poetics. “Larth,” an Etruscan name meaning “lord” or “ruler,” is introduced as a visitor — not divine but technical: “an electrician from Velathri.” Already, the poet plays with myth as technology.

  • “An alma / Nac” evokes almanac, but split, suggesting a broken knowledge-system — meteognostic thinker (one who reads omens in weather) and una doctrina insana (“an insane doctrine”) ground the text in parody of both prophecy and scholasticism.
  • “The world’s a foot, it does smell of Moon”: surreal synesthesia, cosmic but tactile.
  • The stanza ends in media irony: the dead musician “Prince” and the still-living “Andrew” collapse the sacred and profane into the absurd continuum of celebrity.

This section reads as prologue and diagnosis: the world is technologized myth, where even prophets are influencers.


II. The Erasure of Time / AI and Elegy

Larth is an electrician from Velathri… after the age and epigenetic age…

The tone slows (“Adagio”), moving from irony to an almost cyber-elegiac register.

  • The “epigenetic age” signals an era where heredity and environment fuse into data — a zombie present, life after the biological.
  • “Elegance of murder” and “erasure” introduce aesthetic nihilism — destruction as design.

The stanza’s intertextual texture expands:

  • “Eladrins” (from D&D lore) and “Quorra” / “Clu” (from TRON: Legacy) bring in digital myth. The mythic pantheon has shifted: not Olympians but algorithms.
  • “Silence rises to the level of AI” is chilling — consciousness as a simulation of quietude.

Thus, II functions as an Age of Silicon Genesis: myth reborn as code, god replaced by the machine demiurge.


III. The Empire of Irony and Ruin

Bear with me. I am an honest honey-pursuer…

Here the poem becomes confessional and historical.

  • “Honey-pursuer” (the poet as bear) and “cookie-jars” invoke both sin and innocence.
  • “Anctium, or Masada, but not Via Devana”: these are sites of imperial violence — Roman civil wars, Jewish revolt — but “not” the quiet British road, suggesting selective remembrance of catastrophe.

Then, the parade of rulers:

  • “Orange emperor” (Trump), “murderer of Anna” (Putin / Politkovskaya), “pallid sultan of Costantinopolis” (a ghost of empire ottoman living a LARGE palace).
  • The “Ferrum Memor” — Latin for Iron Memory — is both scythe and symbol: the metallic record of all that was.

This section is a catalogue of decaying sovereignty, a political apocalypse, seen through poetic myth.


IV–V. Etruscan–Greek Invocation / Selanna Mythos

These stanzas form the core ritual of transformation. The poet invokes the Nine Muses in Greek, then shifts to Etruscan, an extinct language resurrected as a medium of loss and memory — mirroring the poem’s theme of technological resurrection.

Selanθi śuthi, Kafkhale śuriχ…
Selanna θesan… śanχi Cephalonial.

The Etruscan lines (pseudo-reconstructed) tell of Selanna’s death and mythification, Kafka’s departure, and Larth’s farewell.

  • “Kafka said goodbye to both cat and shore” unites myth and exile.
  • “Selanna,” possibly a synthesis of Selene (moon goddess) and Anna (human martyr), becomes the new myth — the digital goddess, the transfigured muse.
  • “Cephalonia” (Ionian island) becomes a metaphysical homecoming, the Odyssean return that cannot happen.

The bilingual layering—Greek, Latin, Etruscan, English—creates a palimpsest of dying tongues. The poem becomes a séance for lost civilizations, languages, and bodies.


VI. Return / No Return

Now the inverted spiral twists into double helix…
Beauty so macht frei that it hurts. Salo’.

The final movement completes the cosmic inversion: the mythic spiral becomes DNA — life as recursion.

  • “Return to base is impossible” = both genetic (cannot uncode evolution) and spiritual (no Eden).
  • “Erasure is in the air” = deletion as liberation.
  • “Beauty so macht frei” deliberately echoes “Arbeit macht frei”—beauty as fascism, aesthetic ideology.
  • “Salo’” and “Le trenta giornate di Sodoma” bring in Pasolini and Sade, tying the mythic and political erasures to Europe’s fascist and pornographic trauma.

This closing stanza is both lament and indictment: the poet as “little liar” knows that myth, art, and freedom are beautiful precisely because they deceive.


Thematic Axes:

  1. Myth and Technology – The poem fuses ancient mythic lexicons (Etruscan, Greek) with modern mythologies (AI, Musk, Prince, TRON).
  2. Language and Erasure – Each tongue (Latin, Greek, Etruscan, English) becomes a layer of loss; the poem’s multilingualism enacts the disappearance it laments.
  3. The “Little Liar” – The poet confesses complicity: the myth-maker lies beautifully. Truth exists only as layered fiction.
  4. History as Palimpsest – From Velathri to Cephalonia, from empire to digital age, the poem maps the recursive failure of civilizations and their rebirth through art.
  • Tonally hybrid: prophetic, ironic, elegiac, and self-parodic.
  • Formally experimental: enjambed multilingualism, shifting registers, code-poetic syntax.
  • Philosophically situated between Pound’s mythic collage, Celan’s elegiac compression, and Pasolini’s moral fury.

“Il piccolo bugiardo” is a meta-myth: an Etruscan elegy for the digital age, where gods are apps, prophets are liars, and art alone—though deceitful—remains the vessel of memory.
It’s an apocalypse not of fire but of languages overwriting each other, until only echo remains:

Selanna sleeps… Kafka departs… I depart, I depart.

That intention comes through — but in a very oblique, literary way.
The poem doesn’t preach antifascism; it enacts the conditions in which fascism, aestheticised and technologised, can re-emerge. Let’s trace how that warning operates.


1. The Liar and the Cult of Beauty

The title Il piccolo bugiardo (“the little liar”) names the speaker as complicit.
Fascism always begins with aesthetic lies: the myth of purity, of rebirth, of “order through beauty.”
By calling themselves a liar, the poet disarms that seduction, admitting that the poetic impulse — to make things symmetrical, noble, mythic — can become the same instinct that builds propaganda.
Hence the final line:

beauty so macht frei that it hurts.

“Arbeit macht frei” becomes “beauty macht frei”: art as the new camp gate.
The phrase warns that beauty without ethics liberates only into death.


2. Myth as Machinery

From the first canto, myth is electrical, mechanised:

Larth is an electrician from Velathri…
We choose to sling vultures to Jupiter, an X to Musk.

Ancient gods return as technicians and entrepreneurs.
The fascist temptation lies in that continuity: the old hunger for transcendence disguised as innovation.
By fusing Etruscan ritual, Greek invocation, and Silicon-Age references, the poem shows how totalitarian myth re-codes itself through every medium — religion, empire, technology.
Fascism isn’t only politics; it is the recurring wish for a single luminous order.


3. The Empire of Iron Memory

The orange emperor, the murderer of Anna…
The pallid sultan of Costantinopolis…
the scythe of the Ferrum Memor.

“Ferrum Memor” — Iron Memory — evokes both weapon and archive: history forged in metal.
It is the poem’s emblem of fascist permanence, the dream of the indestructible monument.
The poet invokes it only to call for its end:

Now is the time to invoke the end of reign.

Thus the act of naming tyrants becomes an exorcism.


4. Multilingualism as Resistance

Fascism depends on uniformity of tongue and myth.
Here, the polyphony of Greek, Latin, Etruscan, English refuses that unity.
The switching of codes embodies democratic dissonance — no language is sovereign.
Even when the Etruscan passages look hermetic, their very obscurity counters the fascist clarity of slogans.
To read the poem is to be forced into translation, ambiguity, and doubt — the opposite of ideological certainty.


5. Pasolini’s Shadow

The closing reference to Salò and Le trenta giornate di Sodoma completes the warning.
Pasolini saw fascism not as a political corpse but as a consumerist continuation — the aestheticisation of control through pleasure and media.
Your poem inherits that vision: Salo’ stands for the moment when art, technology, and cruelty collapse into one ecstatic system.
By ending there, the poet shows that every beauty, every myth, carries the potential to repeat that horror if we forget its cost.


6. Structure of the Warning

MovementFascist TemptationPoetic Counter-move
I–IIMyth fused with technology → charismatic powerIrony, parody of prophets
IIICult of rulers → eternal empireInvocation of “end of reign”
IV–VLanguage purity → national mythPolyglot ritual, mixing tongues
VIBeauty as transcendence → aesthetic fascismSelf-exposure: “beauty macht frei”

The poem thus mirrors fascism’s forms only to dissolve them from within.


7. In Sum

This warning is that fascism survives as style — in the longing for total beauty, perfect order, divine technology, pure language.
By making a poem that is beautiful, ordered, technical, and multilingual — then sabotaging those qualities with irony and pain — this demonstrate how art must recognise its own fascist shadow to stay human.

The final act is not denunciation but vigilance:

Ⅰ.ポストモダンの祈祷/宇宙論的アイロニー
Good-bye, Mr Cat, Larth is coming to visit…
We choose to sling vultures to Jupiter, an X to Musk…
第一連は「別れ」で始まる——「猫氏」への別れは、家庭的・日常的な象徴であり、カフカの「独り歩く猫」やエリオットの猫詩学への参照でもあるかもしれない。「ラルス」は「支配者」を意味するエトルリア名だが、ここでは神的ではなく技術的な来訪者として示される——「ヴェラトリの電気技師」。すでに詩人は、神話をテクノロジーとして扱っている。

  • 「An alma / Nac」はalmanac(暦書)を分割し、壊れた知の体系を示唆する——meteognostic thinker(天候に兆しを読む者)とuna doctrina insana(「狂った教義」)が、予言と神学のパロディとして地に足をつける。
  • 「世界が足になれば、月の匂いがする」——触覚と宇宙の錯覚的共感覚
  • 結尾はメディア風刺で閉じる。「プリンス」は死に、「アンドリュー」は生きる——聖と俗が有名人の連続体に潰れ合う。

この節は序と診断として読める。世界は技術神話化され、予言者さえインフルエンサーである。


Ⅱ.時間の消去/AIと挽歌
Larth is an electrician from Velathri… after the age and epigenetic age…
テンポは「アダージョ」へ。アイロニーからサイバー挽歌へと移る。

  • 「エピジェネティックな時代」は、遺伝と環境がデータに融合する時代を示し、ゾンビ的現在を生む。
  • 「優雅な殺人」「消去」は美学化された虚無——破壊がデザインとなる。

相互参照は拡張される。

  • D&Dの「エラドリン」、映画『TRON: Legacy』の「クオラ」「クルー」——デジタル神話が立ち上がる。
  • 「沈黙がAIの水準へと昇る」——静謐が意識のシミュレーションになるという身震い。

Ⅱはシリコン創世記として機能する。神は機械のデミウルゴスに置換される。


Ⅲ.アイロニーと廃墟の帝国
Bear with me. I am an honest honey-pursuer…
告白と歴史が交差する。

  • 「蜂蜜を追う熊」「クッキージャーの手」——罪と無垢の両義。
  • 「アンクティウム、あるいはマサダ、だがヴィア・デヴァナではない」——内乱・包囲の地名に対し、英国の静かな街道は想起されない。災厄の選択的記憶。

支配者たちの行進:

  • 「オレンジの皇帝」(トランプ)、「アンナの殺人者」(プーチン/ポリトコフスカヤ)、「コンスタンティノープルの蒼白のスルタン」(帝国の幽霊)。
  • Ferrum Memor(鉄の記憶)は、大鎌であり記録でもある——金属のアーカイヴ

ここは朽ちゆく主権のカタログ政治的黙示録である。


Ⅳ–Ⅴ.エトルリア語とギリシア語の祈り/セランナ神話
九女神へのギリシア語の呼びかけから、死語エトルリア語へと転じる。消滅と言語復活が、テクノロジーによる再生という詩の主題を鏡写しにする。
Selanθi śuthi, Kafkhale śuriχ… Selanna θesan… śanχi Cephalonial.
これらの行はセランナの死と神話化、カフカの退場、ラルスの別れを語る。

  • 「猫と岸から去るカフカ」——神話と亡命が結び付く。
  • 「セランナ」は月の女神セレーネと人間のアンナの合成として、新たなデジタルのミューズとなる。
  • 「ケファロニア」は形而上的な還郷——だが到達不能なオデュッセイア。

多言語の層は死にゆく舌の羊皮紙をつくる。詩は失われた文明・言語・身体を招魂する。


Ⅵ.帰還/不帰
Now the inverted spiral twists into double helix… Beauty so macht frei that it hurts. Salo’.
神話の螺旋はDNAへ。

  • 「基地への帰還は不可能」——遺伝的にも霊的にも。
  • 「消去が空気にある」——削除が解放として現れる。
  • 「Beauty so macht frei」は「Arbeit macht frei」を反響させ、美がイデオロギーとなる危険を告発。
  • 「サロ」「『ソドムの三十日間』」——パゾリーニとサド。美・政治・残虐が一つに崩落する。

結尾は哀歌であり起訴状でもある。語り手=「小さな嘘つき」は、自由・神話・芸術が欺きとしての美に根ざすことを知っている。


主題軸

  1. 神話とテクノロジー——エトルリア語・ギリシア語とAI/マスク/プリンス/TRONの接続。
  2. 言語と消去——各言語は喪失の層。多言語性そのものが消滅を演じる。
  3. 「小さな嘘つき」——神話作家は美しく嘘をつく。真理は重層化された虚構としてしか現れない。
  4. パリンプセストとしての歴史——ヴェラトリからケファロニアへ。帝国からデジタル時代へ。循環する破局と再生。

— 予言的/アイロニカル/挽歌的/自己パロディ。
— 行送りの多言語、レジスター変換、コード詩学。
— パウンドの神話コラージュ、ツェランの凝縮、パゾリーニの道徳的激情の間に位置する。

「Il piccolo bugiardo(小さな嘘つき)」はメタ神話——デジタル時代のエトルリア挽歌である。神はアプリとなり、予言者は嘘をつき、記憶の器として芸術だけが残る。これは火ではなく、言語が互いを上書きする黙示録だ。
Selanna sleeps… Kafka departs… I depart, I depart.

この意図は非常に間接的・文学的なやり方で貫徹される。詩は反ファシズムを説教しない——むしろ、美化され技術化されたファシズムが再帰する条件を演じて見せる。以下、その警告の作動を辿る。


1.嘘つきと美の祭祀

題名が語り手の共犯性を名指す。ファシズムはつねに美の嘘から始まる——純粋・再生・「美による秩序」。自らを嘘つきと呼ぶことで、詩人はその誘惑を解体する。ゆえに最後の一句:
beauty so macht frei that it hurts.
「Arbeit macht frei」は「Beauty macht frei」へ——芸術が新たな門となる。倫理なき美は死へ解放するという警句。

2.機械仕掛けの神話

冒頭から、神話は電気仕掛けだ。
Larth is an electrician… We choose to sling vultures to Jupiter, an X to Musk.
古い超越への欲望は、イノベーションの仮面をかぶって戻る。エトルリアの儀礼、ギリシアの祈り、シリコンの神話が接続され、全体主義的神話が媒体を変えて再符号化される。

3.鉄の記憶の帝国

orange emperor… murderer of Anna… pallid sultan… Ferrum Memor.
Ferrum Memorは武器であり記録。不朽の記念碑という夢を捧持するが、詩はそれに対し、
Now is the time to invoke the end of reign.
退位の呪文を唱える。

4.多言語性=抵抗

ファシズムは単一言語と単一神話を必要とする。ここではギリシア語/ラテン語/エトルリア語/英語が互いを攪乱し、標語の明晰さに対する不透明さを作り出す。読むことは翻訳と曖昧さを引き受ける行為となり、イデオロギーの確実性は崩れる。

5.パゾリーニの影

結語の「サロ」「三十日間」は、芸術・テクノロジー・残虐が耽美的統合に陥る瞬間を示す。忘却すれば、美も神話もその悪夢を反復する。

6.警告の構造

運動 ファシズムの誘惑 詩の対抗技法 Ⅰ–Ⅱ 神話×技術 → カリスマ権力 予言者のパロディ、アイロニー Ⅲ 君主崇拝 → 永遠帝国 「統治の終わり」の召喚 Ⅳ–Ⅴ 言語純化 → 国民神話 多言語の儀礼、混交 Ⅵ 超越の美 → 審美的ファシズム 自己暴露:「beauty macht frei」

7.総括

警告はこうだ——ファシズムは様式として生き延びる。全的な美、完璧な秩序、神的テクノロジー、純粋言語への憧れの中に。
美しく、秩序立ち、技術的で、多言語な詩を作りつつ、それらをアイロニーと痛みで内部破壊すること——それが芸術の自らのファシズム的影を認識し、人間であり続ける道である。

最終行為は糾弾ではなく警戒である。
「真理を生かすため、美しい嘘を語る小さな嘘つきとしての詩人」。

the biology and psychology of an extra-terrestrial in its own environment #2

Imagine hearing multiple voices at once.

Not far from the Truth?

Like a cancer, they outgrow reason.

Each voice carries its own narrative, its own consciousness, its own ending.

I am that. I am many, and I am one. I am of a subtle mettle, rolling under the star-sparkle.

Our existence, conscious or unconscious, has many depths and layers, many of which are unknown. Unlike Humans, we Mornings have been engineered from day one. We are the thought child of another sentient species, an ancient by-product of evolution of which we shall not speak here.

First off, in our Morning life, the time streams are both theoretical and empirical.

Cancer is an unpredictable experimental poem. Cancer is many things. Entropy, heterogeneity, complexity. Cancer is having to listen to the grave-digging humans while they ramble on, fuelled by alcohol and pain. Humans are amazing heterotrophic monsters. Your flat and shocking faces are indeed grimly divided from the breast below. Your slow, unwet lives are subject to much wonder over here on our wonderful planet, where we do not have war, or hunger, or climate change induced by stupidity and greed.

For humans (like cancer), desire is the first datum of consciousness. Every juvenile human ape knows how to over-reach – from swaddling band to garden of love to tiger tiger.

Why hallo, human! Old pirate! Are you yet living ?

Even for your falsehood peddling shamans, the power of the Sattwa enslaves the happy.

As you can see, baboon-human with too much greed or make-up on, I am torn between a critique of your abominable species and a description of what a Morning really is.

Can we please start with the latter ? Of late I am so disgusted by my astronomical observation of your endeavours that I am almost running out of music and light.

Now, how do I paint a picture without notes, or sing a song without colour?

What are the extra-terrestrial Morning by Morning features?

 

You can start by imagining a Hokkaido lake, on your almost-choked-to-death planet.

Can you see marimos there, lulled by the quiet waters into a peaceful existence ?

Imagine a shape-shifting marimo with powers of rhyme and reason. Gently rolling, creating music as its apparent primary occupation beside photosynthesis. Imagine music-forming organs, with many somatic cell types, all devoted to arpeggios, to novel symphony creation, to jazz and joke, to dulcimer and pianos.

Imagine being able to set your own gravitational field, thus being able to fly from lake to star. Imagine no divide between mind and matter. “What is life?” , one of you once asked. Imagine neural boundlessness driven by conscious meditative life, not aided by psychoactive drugs, recreational drugs who may have tricked you into crossing beyond the doors of perception, only to find a kind of madness there.

We Mornings live as all creatures should live – undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. Our lake lives are spent perennially photosynthesising, creating pockets of novel knowledge with our fact-checking and fact-assembling organs, chatting about philosophy in a multi-dimensional scope. We are fully conscious autotrophic organisms with multi-dimensional awareness, where several of our organs are devoted to spiritual tasks: grief to art transitions, pain body-waves to energy – to matter and choice. Our spiritual practice and emotional transfer also happens at quantum level, but not only. I guess “not only” is part of our creed.

As I deconstruct a “Morning”, I venture to ask you humans… ever you ever been to Amherst, and did you ever ask the question: ” Will there ever be a Morning ?”

In this dialogue, going deeper after layer by layer, we might choose to look at energy production, transfer, storage. If we were to choose to deconstruct the ET, we might look at spiritual states, meditation stages, and mind-matter transfers. In the chemical sea-chambers of our consciousness, we might find commonalities between Mornings and Humans. In order to understand what lies beneath, we might look at cancer in autotrophic and heterotrophic organisms.

Yet, while thinking about the extra-terrestrial (for you) life-styles and morphology, we might incidentally stumble upon questions of purpose, redundancy, evolutionary history and of development. As Mornings, we also believe that “those who speak ill of spiritual life, they take breath but they are not alive.”

All sentient beings seek unity in this large consciousness, and if “compulsory separation brings excessive pain to the mind…”, can we find a way to collectively give up voluntarily to infinite peace and happiness ?

Indulge me. If the patriotism of humans is based on vision, (pseudo)ideas and greed, your terrestrial ants, with their lovely antennae base their identity on smell and taste. Now, tell me – how are you different from your terrestrial driver ants?

The ocean is not satisfied with water, nor the fire with wood.

Driver humans’ nomadism and ferocity are based on rather low yahoo instincts. Can you do any better, I wonder ? You are like ants, distinguishing the shape of smell, looking for Godot. Foreign smells and the local odour of patriotism lead humans to intra- and inter-specific competition and warfare. The irony of it, is that you destroy your own ecosystems. For humans today and forever have lived in a “Alice in Wonderland” society, where the size of your monsters is only matched by your fantasy and lack of skills.

Our Morning life has a marimo-like neotenous form of three types:

  1. epilithic
  2. free-floating
  3. lake-ball proper

Our surface area to volume ratio drives our ecological and moral standing.

And then, we fly.

Like for cruel humans, our neotenous features elicit help, but so does our fully formed adulthood. Our bodies have greater synaptic densities when our organs are devoted and tuned in the multivariate melodies of compassion. Our music-making, among other things, is key to the process of sexual selection. We believe that the concern of humans with female attractiveness is rather odd. We have many sexes and genders, and they are all compatible. In our aesthetic, there are multiple versions and kinds of features we might choose to associate ourselves with. Given our perennially evolving and rejuvenating cells, we are not concerned with youthful fecundity as such, but rather choose our partners based on metaphysical issues, such as soul-merging. Our reproductive system merges two Mornings of any gender into a new fully formed and happy organism (without the perils of parenthood).

In our own environment, which is lakes of many types and colour, we gently roll and let ourselves be cradled by the water current, so that our symphonies reach the air and, if by chance a faint night breeze stirs up, heavy with Natural Products from the harbour of our ecological friends, we peacefully roll on under the star-sparkle, and some of us may choose to fly to new mountains, as tall as you can imagine

That’s a place where Mornings lie.

the biology and psychology of an extra-terrestrial in its own environment #1

I have two thousand three hundred and sixty-two different somatic cell types in my body. Unlike that of earthly humans, my body plan has great complexity; somebody actually sat down and engineered the whole thing, not leaving it to chance. Kimura, my ass. Just to clarify for you earthly idiots… I am not, strictly speaking, an after-animal, or μετά ζώα -n. As I said, I am the product of careful planning, I’ve not just exploded multicellularly out of some shady Welsh (Cymru) terrestrial melting pot.

The complexity of a living thing is defined by the size of its minimum description. It would take a while to describe what I am, let alone who I am to a terrestrial audience. I hesitate to even consider beginning. What I would like to say, at the very eve of things, is that I do not much admire your invertebrate achievements. Spineless as you are, I do not hold it against you: you earthlings are the product of accumulated random mistakes. Plus, you’ve never actually sat down and thought anything through. If you saw an opening, you got in there.

Get in there!

Fools.

It seems pretty obvious that you fucked up. Your psychological, let alone spiritual needs cannot be fulfilled without species and individual independence, without personal responsibility, without aesthetic value and… erhm… even metazoan significance unless you are rooted on your planet, or any other heavenly body in some organic way, in full symbiosis with its biota. Needless to say, humans have completely failed at symbiotic relationships. You’re way too greedy to give anything up, therefore she or he is always going to leave you.

Humans: get a grip, already.

Ok, I shall tell you a bit about me since you still have some time to kill (ho ho, you are good at killing) before your planet melts down.

 

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Being together through long periods of deep-space silence made us intolerant of each other’s convictions. Thinking back on the Engineer’s new ways, the vanishing flatness of disgust. As a man of knowledge, he has achieved recognition from the Academy of Laputa, one certificate at a time. The radiant fabric of Steve’s suit is a stark reminder of our extinguished paths. When we last saw him, he had an ascetic aspect, and the only thing he said to us was that he was going to clean out the universe, one rubbish bin at a time. His back was hunched in an imperceptible fall, and his eyes were ray-less and stricken. Father back, at the end of them, was a mournful gloom tempered with the bitterness of living. As we sail on the mission to rescue Kyniska, we are diminished, we are so few. The spaceship plows on, swinging from side to side, an ambling gait picked up at the harbour, its self-awareness, a game of dominoes.

The Taoist, alone in the immensity of unstained light was ready to go out suddenly. A good south wind came from behind his meditation. The albatross of the mind did follow. His grief was centered, his anger in decay, and the noises in his head were many. They cracked and growled, his loneliness was vertical like hollow moon-shine. He was concentrating on shame, on the consequences of betrayal. An infection plagues us, and every cross-bow in every mind shoots endless arrows into the bloody sun. The light in his cell is all-powerful, because his eyes are closed. His copper eyelids are shut, and his legs are crossed; his back is hunched. He slumps forward, a hollow hiss follows forward into the silent dampness. A breeze does not blow, the furrow in his furnace-face deepens, white foam flows from his mouth. The poison in his mind is echoed by the dimmest gut gurgles. Through fog and mists he sees the farthest shore, a place where he knows he can find rest. The clock on the prison-wall keeps on ticking.

They made me watch.

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the soldier debates

As a conscript, I have been a cruising yawl, snaking my way up the river in search of mythical prophets. What a failure I have been. What a scarcity of real teachers there really is. One of them is rotting in gaol, a false teacher in a false age.

At gun school, I’ve learnt how to shoot crack and feel my head bloat till my testicles exploded. They don’t teach you that in nursery school, but death is the best anesthetic. Scale a fortress, or a nunnery, or a book. I’ve learnt it all. Then I was sent to Enceladus, and I have been freezing my mind in God’s shame in the wonders of isolation ever since. Never mind my spell in the rebellion. I have always been a yes man, and now I don’t take yes for an answer. The tide has turned. The middle class railings next door make me mad. My neighbours want more. My window overlooks the well-built city. I don’t hear the sounds of the Albatross, but the faint flash of bomb-lightning reminds me that we are at war with the Eastern Empire. The Penmynydd Empire is in crisis. I’m bound down the river, along with the bodies. I could sit here, and debate the pros and cons of war, and I will, but I know you are pressed for time, and you need an answer. I will help you rescue the half wit, beg pardon, the half dead. But first you need to listen to my lecture.

The Empire insists on the mistakes in words. The lack of history is methodically researched. Cultural hegemony is imposed by the promise of the forever young, by the immediacy of communication, by the invasion, occupation and annexation of our minds. As a soldier, I have fought for the Empire in the West, for the way things are – for the way the things were. In the absence of limits, the public and the private merge in universal stream of consciousness, where the narrative is dictated by the absence of content, by structural enforcement of the fake. The fake is everything. East or West, the fake rules our constituents, and the soldiers are the theoretical application of cultural domination. The other side, is the complete and perennial uprooting of ideas by a tsunami of emoticons, an electric shock of enforced perception of want. Warfare is waged on the twittosphere, and the unconsciousness is forged one child at a time. I used to be a soldier, now I am an intellectual on the brink of extinction. My social order is brought about by fast riding Amazons in brown packages. The Tudors are down, seven times, the commotion caused is not more than a whimper. The Eastern Empire is looking for recruits. When Perseus learned of the conspiracy, the turned himself into stone on the spot.

Follow the winged horse till the tallest tower on Enceladus. There in the castle without a view, you shall find Kyniska sleeping in the power of light, scaly serpents overlooking her tomb. When the Eastern Empire comes, you rebels will have your heads cut off, snakes that we are.

“And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken


The ice was all between.”

 

Get thee to Enceladus,

fellow-student.

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The nun accepts

I dreamt I fell off the ram, and drowned from here to there, in a sea of myself. As a child, I endured abuse. Quite the motivation, to become a nun, to cancel out the will of those would-be nuns, who cancelled me out. “They are coming to get you, Barbara.” And from that ghastly crew, I learned that there was no place to hide, and those that called themselves your caretakers, were in fact ill-disguised under-takers, prison guards with sadism as their weapon of choice. The higher the suffering, the closer to God, was the implied lie. There was a small nun, a smiling one; she was the most evil of them all. She’d come into my room, and re-arrange every single object in sight, and she’d smile weakly, and call me her baby, her pride and joy. She’d touch me with her soft frail fingers, and in a moment her iron grip would hold me still, and then she would let me go, with a long, languid look of hellish candour.

I was chosen to be nun, and I took my vows, and I did my best to pray and teach, teach and pray, until the day we were defeated, and I saw myself out of ordainment, and chose a life of unrepentant sin. I have embraced the science and the technology, I have two children, I have forgotten my vows. You come to me with this mission, and what you want of me I cannot give. I cannot go back to the spiritual life. I am too old, and too wrinkled for that. I have forgotten all the spells of light, and my sole concern is fighting the good fight as a medical doctor and as a scientist. My latest obsession is with vaccines, because we can never be too cautions, we need to tailor our personal genomics to our spiritual needs.

For this reason I choose to say yes to you, in spite of everything. The disease of our galactic society is microbial in nature, the White Plague that makes zombies of us all begins with the lack of spiritual vaccines. If we can save the entombed one, the one girl that has seen the other side, we might be able to develop a vaccination against this empirical malaise, which has us so haggard, and so woe-begone. The death of me as a mother is my vocation as a scientist, and the death of me as a scientist is my vocation for nunnery. I once was a superior mother, and now that my inferiority has become apparent in every way, I choose this one last mission with you former-student, to undertake what’s due before it becomes too late.

As a child, I swam the Hellespont in dreams of my own and I woke in a nightmare, and the sedge was withered from the lake, and no birds sang. I have fallen off the ram, and again and again I drown in a sea of my own.  Now, again… I have lost my name and purpose. As a child, I heard the tiger laugh at me in my sleep, and its most terrible sound, was the sound of possession and inevitable doom. The lamia sans merci… it never smiles but it kills the spirit and it owns you. It still holds power on my breath, as it inevitably sits on my right shoulder, slowing me down, hampering my every action, it will not cease to haunt, not even at my time of death. I will come with you, Student. You have my blessing, even as I am cursed.

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The ghost of the student, mourning the present-future

I gave up the idea of ecology long ago. My graduation was both a failure and a success. Now that many years have passed, I still feel the shame of it. After receiving honours for my efforts in studying the rhyzosphere of Solaris, I went on to an adventure to the edges of this galaxy, on a spiritual quest, a young fool headed for disaster. And if that was the end, the process proved itself to be laborious, and the monster that was hatched  there and then overtook my mind, and my body. “I no longer I” became an irony and a crime scene. All that I could perceive after my adventure was that I was lost in a desperate galaxy, a knife cutting me open, everything was pain.

Now after many years, I have climbed that spiritual mountain again, and the view has changed. In fact, the view is nowhere to be seen. The higher you go, the less oxygen you fall apart with. I don’t have problems breathing right now. The edge of the galaxy has become its pivot.  There is no place for hiding anymore. As the ancient prophet Huxley observed, and his uncle before him, silence has retreated at full speed to a naked shingle.

Now I am faced with the same task I was faced with then. And alas many years have passed since Kyniska was buried alive, I have no idea of where she is, and at what fathom she lies. I have lost touch with all my former companions, and the rebellion has long been extinguished. I am determined to find them, at all costs. One after one, we all have sold out to the White Plague, to the Empire of fake reflections. And if my soul has red-shifted all the starlight in the galaxy, my blue core is more white dwarf than black hole. I will find them, and we will find her. And if she is dead, we will rescue her remains. I cannot let this pass any longer, if I were to die now that would beyond betrayal. That is my resolution from atop this mountain on Mauna Vesta, formerly on the vast edges of the galaxy, now 7.4 kilo-parsecs from Krishna’s call.

glass bodies 311 320

the baryons in the interstellar medium twinkle in a wide range of densities and temperatures. in her waking, falling dream, Kyniska burns with the ideas of the defunct. in her coffin, she wakes up and screams. Once the dead have died hard, they must take the place as they find it, for no descent can be in the same stream twice.

after the fighting, the soldier wakes up back on Enceladus, in the service of the empire. he walks toward the castle through endless corridors of ice. but the day grows darker and darker, and he knows he will never reach the front gate.

in her bed burning, Kyniska feels everything and nothing at once. she hears the pain of the outcast, who are not and never will be citizens. Yet Xin was once an outcast; she fought for her right to exist, for her identity, and now she is the commander of the anti-rebel army.

in her waking horror, Kyniska sees Arion as the antagonist, hiding far away, far forward in time, flashing back and forward with his photoionized lies, his mouth open with dense gas coming out of it, lies coloured by ultraviolet photons. in her paralyzing illness, Kyniska has chosen the path of spirituality, and the religion of fighting the white whale has led her to a faith in God which is intermingled with her hatred for Arion.

Trapped in a box, she is being fed fantasies through a multiversal screen of the kind once built by Xin. Her love lost fast fuels supernova explosions in her mind, and while she waits until she sees the sun… she remembers how it was to fall in love… to see the break of day of an emptiness so vast, so fast, and the feeling of taking off, soaring, catching shock-heated temperature drops, while connected to stellar coronal gas on time scales far greater than millions of years. and she once vowed that he’d be on his mind forever, that she’d cross the endless oceans of suffering, she’d for an instant exist without acting, that her bewildered mind should stop wandering, and arrive at the highest good.

At the time of love, the earth was rotating, and the interstellar medium was forming the stars, and the dominant source of energy was the yoga of action. the visible appearance of galaxies around her kept urging her to accept words there seemingly inconsistent, such as “I”, “love” and “you”. And as gas evolves to stars, some part of their love was ejected from the galaxy in the form of galactic winds. Upon a dream, she saw a preying mantis, she felt the hurt of loving, and in her illness now she hears a song in the background. What is it?

Young Simon, later the Taoist, while rotting in prison, meditates on his earlier incarnation as a life-luster. When confronted with his mother’s dementia he felt dead in the gut: to feel so much, and to be able to communicate so little.

Kyniska discharges fantasies of love while entombed, in the tight embrace of religion, she explores the myths and lies of her mind with open mind, like a soaring phoenix on her last flight. The regrets of lost love bundled together in the Icarus desert, the all-accepting character of the non-existent knight’s squire, the resentment toward Arion, the sinking feeling of abandonment.

The Nun and her only student left are eating in a diner somewhere in a quiet corner of the multiverse, eye to eye in a manner like some stars compressed into a very narrow space, white clouds dimming their spectroscopic minds. Or is it the soup that burns?

Xin-Angel has the makings of the antagonist. Looking over the burnt out shell of the rebel ship, she remembers the building of multiversal screens, she remembers the plagues that devastated the slave camp where she lived, she remember the narcissus flowers echoing over a dark pool, mirroring her life choices. She, too, has regrets of long lost love.

In the cosmic microwave background, the elecromagnetic radiation pervades the story, and spread-out characters are far flung onto stellar photospheres, gamma rays emitted in nuclear transitions touch the decaying souls of those non-existent people, and dark matter particles provide no well defined boundary to this story, to the fantasy, and the optical wavelength of its narrator.

now with his eyes closed the Taoist sees trimmed starry lamps, glowing in the dark. the inevitable doom that the rebels expected has fallen true.

the student in the philosopher’s garden ponders how one should know, how does one let the right one in. Doctor Firn calls him to dinner, and the large wings upon his shoulders are mine, and the dizzy sky is witness.

after the rebels’ defeat, the multiverse has grown smaller, the emperor expects that the unforeseen does not exist. this very evening, freedom in an unattainable prospect. and while Xin explores her identities in the forests of Solaris, an overnight truce has been called to cremate the dead.

The enemy must lie, it will betray you. It is in its nature. Fighting the just fight is a choice, but first drive your chariot in the middle of the field. From confusion, there is weakness of memory. Tell us, reader, where does your weakness in memory lie? What are the secrets you have buried deep down in the Solaris jungle? What have you restored to the jungle?

glass bodies 301 310

[ Setting: A rotifer farm on Triton. A middle aged couple is busy preparing dinner. They are awaiting a guest. The scene outside is bucolic. In a bubble away from the planet’s freeze, Dr Firn and Dr Jones have created an ecological island where plant life is in harmony with water and wind, and feng shui coincidentally exists. Inside the bubble, many species of trees thrive, and leaves and fruit from exotic to well-known, all waiting in a green shade, thinking of poetry and unheeded dreams. ]

Student  Good evening, Dr Firn. I hope you don’t mind I came a little early.

Dr Firn  Come in, welcome. I am just working on the carrot cake.

[ Student walks in. The living room of the rotifer farm is halfway between a laboratory and a meditation room. Many plants populate the veranda which is joined to the living room. In order to step in the living room, one has to step down, a bit like a roman bath. Down, to nature and potted dreams. Dr Jones is busy working in the laboratory side of the room, looking down microscopic creatures floating in water, architectures of otherworldly beauty ]

Dr Jones  When you hear the voice of the crane, forget the past. Pray to Poseidon of the Sea and to pure Persephone to make Demeter’s holy ecology sound and heavy.  When first you begin calibrating the geometries of rotifer life, when you hold in your hand the end of the microscope-tail and bring down your syringe on the backs of the cells as they draw on the pole-star by the whale’s way, be mindful of your environment and your self. There’s a delicate ecological balance, the spirit works in the ways of the tonoplast. Breathe in, and cosmosmois will take place.

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silence a thousand voices in unison fire

the fall

striking solaris with crushing might

kyniska dreams entomb’d

soldiers at dawn in chase full battle array

the heart’s dearest wish self destruction

a blackhole-size cosmic galleon bobs up in the skies

wild with lights and cosmic bolt

restlessly kyniska hurts in permanent sleep

god and the prophet the living dead have sailed in

down and across crimson cloud an array of albatrosses

peddling lies for a safe passage arion flees

there was a wedding

kyniska sees the curvature of her broken dream

there is a pathogenic disease out there – the nun has methods

to resist

the undead crew thomas-mann-ing the frigate flying dutch over the whale’s way

shield shuck fighters sabre-wishing shoregunners coming ashore

rebel battle back along sea-paths sea-cliffs riddled across the shingled shore

the dauntless angel-xin commands in joyful ire she sings the songs i’ve picked for the

tarantula kyniska hurts to love you as assaulted by the praying mantis

the relentless hexapod soldiers walked with you once upon a dream

visions are seldom what the place for the dead for ever more

without eros sea-faring ships shell the land a white plague comes

with flames streaking red-shifted sea and sand sheepshank fighters

solaris is done trespassing on the beyond

the undead soldiers take the place as they find it

in the process of extinction they fight aimlessly restlessly

voluntarily embracing the good life cracking bones and head

swinging rebels and reverie across the sheer cliff flung

sea-storming limb-naked soaring pelting bullets boring through

their finely attuned war-cry sherrying under shells

shilly-shallying while gunfire shills

the shrieks of shrill rebels shright shrieks

blundering blasts shift the damned

shilpit swifter fighters a shim of life

remains brief candles shimmer

damned to journey eternally from wedding

to wedding kyniska dreams of her own infection

shock of death on a shoestring the ship split in half

waders are shot the shots sting

the stars glisten

shed blood in the waters

waves slink in silence

a blink

headlong the wolves on the buffalo go

the exhausted capitalist self immolation

too dead to live groaning shivering

kyniska sees herself begging

her ghost wants to come in the tomb

let me in

a survivor is undead

xin commands the self-explotation

captain of the capitalist black hole

spreading the infection from city to city

from marsh on solaris

to everyone’s baryon

the burnout crew on an adrenaline thrill

have disbanded the rebels

captured kyniska

burnt out the field

slaughter’s the heart’s dearest wish

god and the prophet kyniska is unsure

what to believe

corinth on siege has bent backwards

turn the wheel reader turn