Alliteration, who was in hiding during the battle, anxiously flies from the fall of his fatherly cockroach companion. He hurls himself heavenward then timidly turns around twirling towards the ocean oracles. He has heresy and humiliation to regrettably report.
Alliteration does not hesitate, for there are no allies left for him in the floating sunset city. None save chaos.
Suddenly, Chaos, huddled in a ball, realizes it is alone. Chaos begins to swirl.
The swirling grows chaotic. And soon there is only chaos.
Thus chaos begets darkness.
And from the darkness comes light.
After light there is sound, there is sight, there is taste, there is smell, there is sensation.
Chaos is shaped into order. The order is polychromatic. It is prismatic. Six figures emerge. Six gods of the land, sky, and sea.
They are polyptic. Like a great wheel of color.
First, a blue and red figure emerges against a bright yellow sun. His body is a small 1/2 Greek man. His head is Horus' Raven. He floats on high (just like himself).
Far beneath him a tree grows. It is purple and dark. Its roots burrow into the underworld, its trunk emerges and exists on the visual plain, and its branches stretch out of human-sight. Its branches seem to chase the metaphysical heights of the 1/2 Greek, 1/2 raven god.
Around the trunk, strangling it or supporting it, is the leviathan body of a green serpent. The head of the serpent emerges as the upper-body of an orange German woman wearing a pair of out-dated spectacles. She reaches out with an amorphous tangerine fruit in hand. She appears to be waiting. She will give the world knowledge. Knowledge of good and evil. Knowledge of love and hate.
To the left of the purple tree is a fiery lake. The lake sits at the base of a crimson mountain. Wading in the water is a ferocious beast. His yellow humanoid body is covered in blue hair. His head is trapped in a ferocious roar. He is a patriarch (and his emerging blue-pubus hair is testiment to his status). He dreams of reaching the sky, of reaching the mountain's peak. But he is trapped in the lake of fire. His frustration is manifest as a Herzogian symbol of animal indifference.
In a blue grassy knoll, right of the purple tree, the body of a yellow man emerges. He sits in an aboriginal fashion. His head is a majestic scarlet rabbit. His eyes are cold and calm. He is at peace in this grassy environ, in this cool kingdom of isolation.
The tree continues to grow. Its branches spread. Above the head of the blue headed bear-man, the sky turns orange. The sounds of pipes can be heard lofting through the air. A pan-like figure sits awkwardly crouched on a high-branch of the purple tree, now turned orange and black. His horny goat limbs are purple, like the trunk of the tree. His body is green, covered in purple-goat hair. Like the snake-woman below, he wears dark-rimmed glasses. He is trickster, minstrel, and fool.
Across from the orange and black branches, green branches emerge. Sitting aloft those branches is a young canine. The canine, upon closer glance, is in fact a dogataur. Part man, part animal. His limbs are a purple St. Benards, his upper body is a young, grape bearded orange man. His glasses are round. The loyalty, inherent in his form, is both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.
The old gods are created from chaos. The cattle, the pilgrim, and the whale king bow before this new pantheon of old gods.
The world within is now without.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The Whale King Journey: Episode 11, Lord of Skies and Seas
The hooves keep on hooving. The chaos keeps on chaosing. The darkness turns sunset then ONYX DOOM again. All you can do is die.
Then. Suddenly. There is peace. There is light. There is sound.
The whale king lets out a majestic cry. Woouurrraowiuuuiiii..iiii. Woouurrraowiuuuiiii..iiii. The cattle in their madness, in their fury, hear this sound. They stop. They listen. One cow slowly sways her tail. Another lifts his tongue gingerly to his nostril. Farther down the block, yet another emits a gushing stream of urine. The cattle are calmed. They are in a trance, oblivious to chaos in their streets and cockroach gods in their skies. Several hypnotized cows are peacefully gorged with a double-edged, poisonous tarsus.
As the cattle stand hypnotized for the slaughter, the pilgrim, bloodied and battered, manages to reach the Bos Babe's majestic skirt. She quickly finds a red button located over the statue's gargantuan interdigital claw. The pilgrim lets out a Deutsche Xena holler and slams down on the button. The Bos Babe's torch turns and aims intelligently at the flying dea Periplaneta americana
BLAMMO! CRACK!
The air is full of light.
Pop, crackle, snap.
The cockroach god plummets.
Boom, Bang, Bing!
He ricochets off the street below crushing a small family of bovines. His body settles in Central Park. Dust, blood, and hair fly. Chaos, meanwhile, rolls into a ball and cries.
The whale king's song ends. He maneuvers his body to approach the fallen cockroach god. As he gets closer, he sees that the dancing leopards adorning the god's exoskeleton are now broken and battered. Blood streams from their eye-sockets like some extra on OZ. The whale king's eyes suddenly widen with fear and hatred.
It is not the blood that so disturbs the whale king. No, it's something else. Something written or etched onto the cockroach's exposed Malphigian Tubes, something he hasn't seen since his family was alive.Two large black tentacles crossing each other in an ominous and almost religious manner, encircled in white.
THE DREAD GIANT SQUID ARMY!!
Dark rage moves through the whale king's core. His eyes shift, like the coming darkness of a deadly hurricane on a previously sunny afternoon. Hundreds of miles away, in an utterly different universe, they have found him. He doesn't know how. He doesn't know when. But they have found him. The last of the rainbow whales. The last lord of the skies and the seas.
I feel a montage coming on, thinks the lord of skies and seas.
Then. Suddenly. There is peace. There is light. There is sound.
The whale king lets out a majestic cry. Woouurrraowiuuuiiii..iiii. Woouurrraowiuuuiiii..iiii. The cattle in their madness, in their fury, hear this sound. They stop. They listen. One cow slowly sways her tail. Another lifts his tongue gingerly to his nostril. Farther down the block, yet another emits a gushing stream of urine. The cattle are calmed. They are in a trance, oblivious to chaos in their streets and cockroach gods in their skies. Several hypnotized cows are peacefully gorged with a double-edged, poisonous tarsus.
As the cattle stand hypnotized for the slaughter, the pilgrim, bloodied and battered, manages to reach the Bos Babe's majestic skirt. She quickly finds a red button located over the statue's gargantuan interdigital claw. The pilgrim lets out a Deutsche Xena holler and slams down on the button. The Bos Babe's torch turns and aims intelligently at the flying dea Periplaneta americana
BLAMMO! CRACK!
The air is full of light.
Pop, crackle, snap.
The cockroach god plummets.
Boom, Bang, Bing!
He ricochets off the street below crushing a small family of bovines. His body settles in Central Park. Dust, blood, and hair fly. Chaos, meanwhile, rolls into a ball and cries.
The whale king's song ends. He maneuvers his body to approach the fallen cockroach god. As he gets closer, he sees that the dancing leopards adorning the god's exoskeleton are now broken and battered. Blood streams from their eye-sockets like some extra on OZ. The whale king's eyes suddenly widen with fear and hatred.
It is not the blood that so disturbs the whale king. No, it's something else. Something written or etched onto the cockroach's exposed Malphigian Tubes, something he hasn't seen since his family was alive.Two large black tentacles crossing each other in an ominous and almost religious manner, encircled in white.
THE DREAD GIANT SQUID ARMY!!
Dark rage moves through the whale king's core. His eyes shift, like the coming darkness of a deadly hurricane on a previously sunny afternoon. Hundreds of miles away, in an utterly different universe, they have found him. He doesn't know how. He doesn't know when. But they have found him. The last of the rainbow whales. The last lord of the skies and the seas.
I feel a montage coming on, thinks the lord of skies and seas.
The Whale King Journey: Episode 10, Bones, Child, Bones
The mooing grows fierce. The purple intensity intensifies indescribably.
Damn it thinks the whale king, Alliteration isn't helping things at all. Alliteration cackles as the Cattle of Crepuscular Light run wildly. Above them, the cockroach god shapes chaos itself while gouging several cows with his double-edged tarsus.
Newly-formed chaos enters the streets of the floating sunset city. The pilgrim becomes deaf with defeat. The whale king tries to speak, but turns dumb with thoughts of doom (more specifically, he tries to shoot a fissure-forming rainbow ray from his blow-hole, but is blocked entirely with young chaos.) The cattle turn blind with fear.
The phoenician haze of harrowing sunset hooves pierce the throbbing brains of the pilgrim and whale king. Memories of love lost and dulce juventud sweep their minds.
The pilgrim sees her family. They walk to the church. But something is wrong. What is on their face? What are they wearing on their hands? It's BONES, child! BONES!
The skeletal gaze of dead ol' mom and dad haunt the pilgrim.
Next to her, the whale king sees rainbows and bubbles, fabric and a bouquet of roses (bleeding profusely). He knows the end is near.
Both the whale king and the pilgrim think simultaneously to themselves. If only there was something that could stop a cockroach god. Something that could be used against Wyrms or Dragons, for example...
Damn it thinks the whale king, Alliteration isn't helping things at all. Alliteration cackles as the Cattle of Crepuscular Light run wildly. Above them, the cockroach god shapes chaos itself while gouging several cows with his double-edged tarsus.
Newly-formed chaos enters the streets of the floating sunset city. The pilgrim becomes deaf with defeat. The whale king tries to speak, but turns dumb with thoughts of doom (more specifically, he tries to shoot a fissure-forming rainbow ray from his blow-hole, but is blocked entirely with young chaos.) The cattle turn blind with fear.
The phoenician haze of harrowing sunset hooves pierce the throbbing brains of the pilgrim and whale king. Memories of love lost and dulce juventud sweep their minds.
The pilgrim sees her family. They walk to the church. But something is wrong. What is on their face? What are they wearing on their hands? It's BONES, child! BONES!
The skeletal gaze of dead ol' mom and dad haunt the pilgrim.
Next to her, the whale king sees rainbows and bubbles, fabric and a bouquet of roses (bleeding profusely). He knows the end is near.
Both the whale king and the pilgrim think simultaneously to themselves. If only there was something that could stop a cockroach god. Something that could be used against Wyrms or Dragons, for example...
The Whale King Journey: Episode 9, El Cielo de la Cucaracha
Dancing leopards line the gargantuan exoskeleton of the cockroach god. He is a stylish god. He straddles the space time-continuum like a fleshy turnip, full of dirt and spice. He brings forth destruction wherever he scuddles. The cockroach god has a thorax of pure fire, an abdomen of steel, and a head of hatred. His tarsus is double-edged and tipped with mythic poison. ('Twas Poison brought from DARWIN'S GALAPAGOS, they say, squeezed from the poisonous maw of a wild MUTATED BOOBY.)
The pilgrim senses a shift in the space-time-place-moment-continuum. She nudges the whale king pensively and stares leftward.
The whale king looks whale-fully around. He reaches his SMALL FLIPPER up to his sparkling left brow in order to get a better glance left.
Next to him, the pilgrim has long since spotted the cockroach god, its burning thorax is a dead giveaway. His body soon covers the setting sun.
The pilgrim stares grimly forward. She spits her gum out like a boxer with a loose tooth. In a city that chews bubblegum and/or kicks ass, it's time to choose or.
As the pilgrim assumes a Ninja-like stance, the cattle of the floating sunset city feel the darkness of the shadow cross over them. The sun... had it set? Was it gone? These thoughts fleet away as they stare upward. The burning thorax of the cockroach god is blinding. This is no sunset, it's a sun attack!
The panicked herd stands shocked and still. Then. suddenly. All turns purple.
"Stampede, god damn it! Stampede!"
The pilgrim senses a shift in the space-time-place-moment-continuum. She nudges the whale king pensively and stares leftward.
The whale king looks whale-fully around. He reaches his SMALL FLIPPER up to his sparkling left brow in order to get a better glance left.
Next to him, the pilgrim has long since spotted the cockroach god, its burning thorax is a dead giveaway. His body soon covers the setting sun.
The pilgrim stares grimly forward. She spits her gum out like a boxer with a loose tooth. In a city that chews bubblegum and/or kicks ass, it's time to choose or.
As the pilgrim assumes a Ninja-like stance, the cattle of the floating sunset city feel the darkness of the shadow cross over them. The sun... had it set? Was it gone? These thoughts fleet away as they stare upward. The burning thorax of the cockroach god is blinding. This is no sunset, it's a sun attack!
The panicked herd stands shocked and still. Then. suddenly. All turns purple.
"Stampede, god damn it! Stampede!"
The Whale King Journey: Episode 8, The Microverse of Tears
A tear falls silently from the sky. It does not think to scream.
It looks upward and feels the sensation of air. It watches its home, the rainbow ducts of a gigantic floating ocean mammal, disappear. The tear thinks of the air as a pond. The tear is merely a pebble skimming across the surface. As it prepares to skip along the pond's surface a second time, the tear suddenly realizes the gravity of its reality. It is vertically descending, not horizontally arcing. The tear forms its own small tear, which forms its own small tear, which forms its own small tear, which... And the sidewalk shatters them into pieces.
Moments earlier, a microscopic universe forms in a microscopic second. In this microscopic universe, there are many microscopic worlds. One of those worlds is inhabited by microscopic life. Many tiny millenia later, that microscopic life advances from being micro-microscopic single celled organisms to microscopic multi celled organisms. Those multi celled microscopic organisms evolve into many different micro-beings.
Eventually some of those microscopic cells create a microscopic chimpanzee. Those micro-chimpanzees become microscopic homo microantique, which eventually evolve to a microscopic version of primitive humankind. Micro-humanity evolves micro-rapidly. In only a few tiny millenia, they inhabit much of the known micro-world. The micro-people accomplish great feats in micro-science. They create elaborate micro-machines to avoid micro-labor. They travel to the micro-moon and chart much of the known microverse. The shape of their galaxy, the Micro Macrocephalian Way, causes some micro-scientists to allege the microverse is in fact the face of a sparkling, crying whale. They are rejected as micro-madmen.
An even tinier amount of years later, the micro-people nearly destroy their world in a massive micro war. Micro-war was not uncommon among micro-people. They would often fight over micro-cultural differences and micro-resources. This time, however, they had a destructive amount of micro-war technology. No one's sure who dropped the first micro-nuke, but micro-life on the micro-world was nearly micro-obliterated. Soon after the micro-Fallout, micro-scientists put all their effort into restoring the micro-world. They discover that the VITAL and MORTAL ESSENCE of JOY is the main microscopic source of energy in their SMALL WORLD [TM]. The concept is rather micro-metaphysical, but micro-scientists believe that tapping into the micro-essence of joy could restore the micro-world to its prior micro-glory. As they tap into the vital and mortal essence of joy, they are able to subdivide the joy into another micro-essence of joy, which they can then subdivide into another micro-essence of joy, which they can then subdivi... And the sidewalk shatters their micro-universe into pieces.
Life, Joy, and the Universe would grow infinite were it not for city sidewalks.
Meanwhile, up above:
"Welp, that was a good cry, eh ol' boy?" The pilgrim says with a tear-lidded smile.
"Ay, Capt'n, Ay." The whale king winks (with a vital and mortal essence of joy).
It looks upward and feels the sensation of air. It watches its home, the rainbow ducts of a gigantic floating ocean mammal, disappear. The tear thinks of the air as a pond. The tear is merely a pebble skimming across the surface. As it prepares to skip along the pond's surface a second time, the tear suddenly realizes the gravity of its reality. It is vertically descending, not horizontally arcing. The tear forms its own small tear, which forms its own small tear, which forms its own small tear, which... And the sidewalk shatters them into pieces.
Moments earlier, a microscopic universe forms in a microscopic second. In this microscopic universe, there are many microscopic worlds. One of those worlds is inhabited by microscopic life. Many tiny millenia later, that microscopic life advances from being micro-microscopic single celled organisms to microscopic multi celled organisms. Those multi celled microscopic organisms evolve into many different micro-beings.
Eventually some of those microscopic cells create a microscopic chimpanzee. Those micro-chimpanzees become microscopic homo microantique, which eventually evolve to a microscopic version of primitive humankind. Micro-humanity evolves micro-rapidly. In only a few tiny millenia, they inhabit much of the known micro-world. The micro-people accomplish great feats in micro-science. They create elaborate micro-machines to avoid micro-labor. They travel to the micro-moon and chart much of the known microverse. The shape of their galaxy, the Micro Macrocephalian Way, causes some micro-scientists to allege the microverse is in fact the face of a sparkling, crying whale. They are rejected as micro-madmen.
An even tinier amount of years later, the micro-people nearly destroy their world in a massive micro war. Micro-war was not uncommon among micro-people. They would often fight over micro-cultural differences and micro-resources. This time, however, they had a destructive amount of micro-war technology. No one's sure who dropped the first micro-nuke, but micro-life on the micro-world was nearly micro-obliterated. Soon after the micro-Fallout, micro-scientists put all their effort into restoring the micro-world. They discover that the VITAL and MORTAL ESSENCE of JOY is the main microscopic source of energy in their SMALL WORLD [TM]. The concept is rather micro-metaphysical, but micro-scientists believe that tapping into the micro-essence of joy could restore the micro-world to its prior micro-glory. As they tap into the vital and mortal essence of joy, they are able to subdivide the joy into another micro-essence of joy, which they can then subdivide into another micro-essence of joy, which they can then subdivi... And the sidewalk shatters their micro-universe into pieces.
Life, Joy, and the Universe would grow infinite were it not for city sidewalks.
Meanwhile, up above:
"Welp, that was a good cry, eh ol' boy?" The pilgrim says with a tear-lidded smile.
"Ay, Capt'n, Ay." The whale king winks (with a vital and mortal essence of joy).
The Whale King Journey: Episode 7, The Void in Space and Time (Place and Moment)
The pilgrim thinks of a city without cattle. She goes further and thinks of nothingness in its place. She thinks of the void. The void thinks of her.
It remembers, oh so long ago, when she stared at it with her deep, chocolate eyes. So, so long ago. A tear would form in the void's eye if it weren't so devoid of shape and form. The void begins to feel that it is both literally and figuratively empty inside.
It feels a lot like an Anglo-French/Old French void in the 13th century: "unoccupied, vacant." The void's heart, were it to have a heart, is equally vacant. This emptiness brings to the void's mind some memories of the past. Those lonely old days when the void used to drink a lot of wine and was called vocivus. (The void's girlfriends called her vociva and his neuter friends called it vocivum. The void generally went by its root,vociv-, with good friends.) Back then, the void was "empty; void." But why wouldn't it be? After all the void used to hang out a lot with that vacuum kid, back when they called 'em vacuus/a/um. That bastard was the worst wino of them all. Vacuus/a/um was a whirling ball of nothingness. And vacuus/a/um always left an "empty, vacant, unoccupied; devoid of, free of" streak wherever it swept by. Those were long dark days indeed. And they lasted well into the Dark Ages.
Meanwhile, the pilgrim is sucked into her thoughts of the void. She wonders about the void as a space free of place. Or an emptiness of place and space. Which came first? Place or Space?
She muses. Space must be the lovable child of place (in a strange chicken and egg sort of way). She cannot conceive of space without first understanding what a place is. After all, a space is just a theoretical existence of a place before it becomes a place, right? So, wait. Maybe that makes place the child of space. ...sigh. Her brain and body burn with inward curiosity. She is sucked deeper into the void.
Jesus Christ! The void inwardly cries vacuously. It hurts so much to feel the pilgrim thinking of its nothingness, but to not touch her (no matter how far she is sucked into her thoughts of its vast emptiness).
The void is "lacking or wanting" (something), just like it felt at the beginning of the 15th century. It never really made sense why it felt that way. The void's legal career was really at its height in the 15th century. The void first got a reputation as a force to reckon with a couple centuries earlier. As a verb c.1300 the void would go gallivanting around to "clear" (some place, of something). And when it stepped into law it was quickly able "to deprive (something) of legal validity." By the mid-15th century the void already meant "legally invalid" in most courts throughout the English speaking world. Still, that whole time, while its legal career was skyrocketing, the void still felt "lacking or wanting" (something).
As the void remembers, the pilgrim swirls vacantly in the midst of her vacuous thoughts of space and place. The pilgrim thinks of those days back in the church. As she thinks she feels a strange sensation that someone is next to her. She speaks aloud to the stranger. "Who are you?"
A voice rings out from the void. It has a thick French accent. "I am a sew-zee-ologist, intelleczual, and philawsopher. Many conzider me a Neo Marxzist. I was zinking of la présence et l'absence and was zucked into zee void." The stranger's form slowly emerges in the pilgrim's thoughts. He wears a turtle neck and his hair is white.
"Tell me, petit soeur, of your church," He says as though clairvoyant, "I care."
The pilgrim slowly begins, "the church created a sense of place and space. It was a place that could be divided into three spaces: mental, physical, and social. The church brought those separate fields into one theoretical unity, though there is always tension between mental and social space. Visually, the verdant imagery in the church's apse mosaic and the quincuncial form in the Pre-Cosmatesque floor evoke a mental space, an imagined form of paradise."
"Ah, indeed, but let me rey-mind zjou of zee lived or zocial espace," the old French man interjects, "How doze zee zocial espace define zee church az a place?"
"Time based rituals shape the church's meaning. I shaped the church's meaning," the pilgrim states with discovery, "I was at the Eve of the Assumption following the spiral floor design. I was inclined to admire the apse mosaic, to think of that imagined mental space. And I saw paradise. It was big, lumpy, and blue. It sparkled like a rainbow. It swam like a whale." The pilgrim is suddenly jolted to life. The whale king! She has left him in the Floating Sun Set City He is alone and surrounded by bovinic hordes. Thoughts of the void had sucked her in. She must regain control of her earthly form.
The void resists. It wants to be her mental space, to be her paradise. It does not want her to leave. The void has wanted her since those Dark Age days in the pilgrim's church. The void loves going to church, filling its place with unearthly nothingness. The priests on porphyry slabs are always kind enough to spread threat of the void all over the ears of sinners. The void loved spreading over the pilgrim's ears. It could sense the sin, the wicked freedom, in her. It wished that instead of seeing paradise, she would see the void. But she saw neither. She gave into that damn beast, that damn whale.
The pilgrim calls back to the void, "you can't fight the tide that binds. I am only free with the whale king. But truth is he is only free with me. Release me from your grasps, foul void. Move on."
The void releases. And it feels true emptiness. It tries to occupy its time with verb usage and legal work, but nothing quite makes up for her absence. By 1727, the absence grows so great that the void literally becomes a space, an "empty space, vacuum." In its timelessness, the void knows it has always been an empty space. The void decides to call its friend vacuum up. They get destitutely drunk on ancient wine. Deep inside the void a French sociologist, philosopher, and intellectual is drowned.
The pilgrim thinks of the whale king and the floating sunset city. She flows past miles of nothing. At the end of the nothingness she sees a light. Her salvation emerges in sight, like a gigantic blue turd with fins and a blow-hole. The whale king makes a sonic-sound of relief when he sees her.
Where did you go? thinks the whale king. Without her he felt almost non-existent. She hears his thoughts.
"Nowhere, now here," responds the pilgrim cryptically.
They stare at one another with deep, formless love. Distantly they can hear cows mooing "Rains down in Africa." The pilgrim buries herself deeply in whale king's mane. Their tears of joy salt the city sidewalk.
It remembers, oh so long ago, when she stared at it with her deep, chocolate eyes. So, so long ago. A tear would form in the void's eye if it weren't so devoid of shape and form. The void begins to feel that it is both literally and figuratively empty inside.
It feels a lot like an Anglo-French/Old French void in the 13th century: "unoccupied, vacant." The void's heart, were it to have a heart, is equally vacant. This emptiness brings to the void's mind some memories of the past. Those lonely old days when the void used to drink a lot of wine and was called vocivus. (The void's girlfriends called her vociva and his neuter friends called it vocivum. The void generally went by its root,vociv-, with good friends.) Back then, the void was "empty; void." But why wouldn't it be? After all the void used to hang out a lot with that vacuum kid, back when they called 'em vacuus/a/um. That bastard was the worst wino of them all. Vacuus/a/um was a whirling ball of nothingness. And vacuus/a/um always left an "empty, vacant, unoccupied; devoid of, free of" streak wherever it swept by. Those were long dark days indeed. And they lasted well into the Dark Ages.
Meanwhile, the pilgrim is sucked into her thoughts of the void. She wonders about the void as a space free of place. Or an emptiness of place and space. Which came first? Place or Space?
She muses. Space must be the lovable child of place (in a strange chicken and egg sort of way). She cannot conceive of space without first understanding what a place is. After all, a space is just a theoretical existence of a place before it becomes a place, right? So, wait. Maybe that makes place the child of space. ...sigh. Her brain and body burn with inward curiosity. She is sucked deeper into the void.
Jesus Christ! The void inwardly cries vacuously. It hurts so much to feel the pilgrim thinking of its nothingness, but to not touch her (no matter how far she is sucked into her thoughts of its vast emptiness).
The void is "lacking or wanting" (something), just like it felt at the beginning of the 15th century. It never really made sense why it felt that way. The void's legal career was really at its height in the 15th century. The void first got a reputation as a force to reckon with a couple centuries earlier. As a verb c.1300 the void would go gallivanting around to "clear" (some place, of something). And when it stepped into law it was quickly able "to deprive (something) of legal validity." By the mid-15th century the void already meant "legally invalid" in most courts throughout the English speaking world. Still, that whole time, while its legal career was skyrocketing, the void still felt "lacking or wanting" (something).
As the void remembers, the pilgrim swirls vacantly in the midst of her vacuous thoughts of space and place. The pilgrim thinks of those days back in the church. As she thinks she feels a strange sensation that someone is next to her. She speaks aloud to the stranger. "Who are you?"
A voice rings out from the void. It has a thick French accent. "I am a sew-zee-ologist, intelleczual, and philawsopher. Many conzider me a Neo Marxzist. I was zinking of la présence et l'absence and was zucked into zee void." The stranger's form slowly emerges in the pilgrim's thoughts. He wears a turtle neck and his hair is white.
"Tell me, petit soeur, of your church," He says as though clairvoyant, "I care."
The pilgrim slowly begins, "the church created a sense of place and space. It was a place that could be divided into three spaces: mental, physical, and social. The church brought those separate fields into one theoretical unity, though there is always tension between mental and social space. Visually, the verdant imagery in the church's apse mosaic and the quincuncial form in the Pre-Cosmatesque floor evoke a mental space, an imagined form of paradise."
"Ah, indeed, but let me rey-mind zjou of zee lived or zocial espace," the old French man interjects, "How doze zee zocial espace define zee church az a place?"
"Time based rituals shape the church's meaning. I shaped the church's meaning," the pilgrim states with discovery, "I was at the Eve of the Assumption following the spiral floor design. I was inclined to admire the apse mosaic, to think of that imagined mental space. And I saw paradise. It was big, lumpy, and blue. It sparkled like a rainbow. It swam like a whale." The pilgrim is suddenly jolted to life. The whale king! She has left him in the Floating Sun Set City He is alone and surrounded by bovinic hordes. Thoughts of the void had sucked her in. She must regain control of her earthly form.
The void resists. It wants to be her mental space, to be her paradise. It does not want her to leave. The void has wanted her since those Dark Age days in the pilgrim's church. The void loves going to church, filling its place with unearthly nothingness. The priests on porphyry slabs are always kind enough to spread threat of the void all over the ears of sinners. The void loved spreading over the pilgrim's ears. It could sense the sin, the wicked freedom, in her. It wished that instead of seeing paradise, she would see the void. But she saw neither. She gave into that damn beast, that damn whale.
The pilgrim calls back to the void, "you can't fight the tide that binds. I am only free with the whale king. But truth is he is only free with me. Release me from your grasps, foul void. Move on."
The void releases. And it feels true emptiness. It tries to occupy its time with verb usage and legal work, but nothing quite makes up for her absence. By 1727, the absence grows so great that the void literally becomes a space, an "empty space, vacuum." In its timelessness, the void knows it has always been an empty space. The void decides to call its friend vacuum up. They get destitutely drunk on ancient wine. Deep inside the void a French sociologist, philosopher, and intellectual is drowned.
The pilgrim thinks of the whale king and the floating sunset city. She flows past miles of nothing. At the end of the nothingness she sees a light. Her salvation emerges in sight, like a gigantic blue turd with fins and a blow-hole. The whale king makes a sonic-sound of relief when he sees her.
Where did you go? thinks the whale king. Without her he felt almost non-existent. She hears his thoughts.
"Nowhere, now here," responds the pilgrim cryptically.
They stare at one another with deep, formless love. Distantly they can hear cows mooing "Rains down in Africa." The pilgrim buries herself deeply in whale king's mane. Their tears of joy salt the city sidewalk.
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