The New Flesh
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Transcript of The New Flesh
The Earth has a skin
And that skin has diseases
One of its diseases is called man
He no longer recalls the exact length of his confinement and the memory of first being brought here is vague. The only fact he can rely upon is that he was captured and confined here during the first of the great purges, which to his failing memory seems an age ago. In the early days the vast labyrinth of cells and examination rooms saw constant activity as new faces appeared hourly, each baring the sigil upon their brow that made of them renegade. Wasted and forlorn each resigned to the fate that awaited them. Each attended by a guard they were ferried between cell and interrogation room ceaselessly. The guards masked and clad in the darkest of robes and cloak bore an air of indifference to their charges as they simply went about their duty. A duty they neither relished or despised for like all servants they but followed orders. Those who gave the orders remained aloof and never was there so much as a sight of them. It was rumoured amongst the inmates, on the rare occasions when solitary confinement became communal, that they were outlanders from a far distant world bent on domination and empire building. But all of this speaks of a past and the present veiled in disbelief presents a very different picture for through the first transformation, as his interrogators called it, all would change and this much was found to be true. Having no measure of time he can but speculate upon the time he has walked the labyrinth unattended by others and as far as he knows he stands alone in this place. His first instinct, one of escape proves futile for though he has crudely mapped the labyrinth, each passage, each cell is a prefect reflection of the next and the next in endless procession. An eternal twilight serves as light, its source, unknown and to his ever attentive ears he catches but whispers upon the air, quickly replaced with silence that hangs like a shroud upon everything. His basic needs are met with powered grain, dried and desiccated fish and phials of water he discovers each morning and evening within his cell. Where they come from he knows not and though he has on many occasions sought to discover their origin never has he glimpsed another who might deposit them, it is as if they simply appear. During the time of the guards this was understandable but now, in the absence of another living soul it is a mystery. His time is spent in endless pursuit of meaning. What of my once fellow captives? What of the guards and what purpose is served by theses circumstances? He has no notion of any of this and as such the lode stone that determines his existence is centred around the first transformation that insinuated itself into his awareness, took root and flowered into a monstrosity of absence.
Long ago he resigned from holding memories of a time before this place as this but served to cause him pain and though that pain spoke of feeling and life it did but torment and in its absence did he know a species of peace called by some oblivion. So now he wandered the endless corridors, unrelieved by difference and when fatigue claimed him he fell to the floor and there he slept and upon waking always found himself in his cell and the presence of his meager sustenance fortified him sufficiently to commence the cycle of his ritual again and again. It became the foundation of his awareness that however far he appeared to walk the labyrinth in his cell he found himself on waking. This he knew by the small mark he had etched into the seamless surface of the wall to the left of its door, but perhaps this was also replicated? How could he know? His clothing, a second skin of a fabric light yet substantial was of the deepest black, matt and almost invisible were it not for the weight of it he could feel upon his skin. Occasionally it emitted a pale mist that he took to be its means of cleansing both him and itself. During this process he felt the dullest of sensations stirring deep within the vault of his memory. These he suppressed for as he learned long ago they did but serve to torment him, instead he gave himself over to reverie and phantasy and by virtue of this alone had he remained sane. The whispers he often sensed, if not heard, increased as if they would coalesce into shadows that revealed themselves in the slight shift in the perpetual twilight that attended him and as he began to pay attention to them a phrase, well almost a phrase insinuated itself onto the mirror of his mind. With ever repeating insistence that spiraled into frenzy, come, for I await thee, This accompanied by the slight shift of the twilight and the presence of musk upon the air informed him that he was no longer alone. But was this but the phantasy of his stimulus starved mind creating its own world born of need? If so the pressure in the air and the signs of a presence all but denied this and as he surrendered to the almost presence he wondered even more as to the purpose of this place and time. During the times that fatigue claimed him a clarity denied him during wakefulness granted him glimpses of something formed of shadow and dust held by the presence of musk into a semblance of form that pressed itself against the skin of his awareness and whispered unknown sensations into the barren field that was his mind. Patience my dear one, the time is near is all that he could translate from the frenzy of impressions that now assailed him without pause and upon wakening he was relieved by the unbroken silence that attended his days and the whispers were consigned to the well of fancy where doubtless they bred both angel and demon according to their fancy.
! ! !
The Hall Of Mirrors
Awareness like smoke drifts upon the surface of a placid pool, breaks the membrane of sleep and awakes. A hard surface greets him and perpetual twilight is replaced by the brightest light and he sees his face before him. Lines etched into his skin speak of age and yet the sparkle that dances at the corners of his eyes tells a different story. Rising to a seated position he surveys his surroundings. All around him his reflection dances across every surface and he but sits at its still centre. There a child cradled in loving arms. To his left a young boy stretches his arms and legs testing them against the limbs of an ancient oak. To his right a young man steals his first kiss from the vision of beauty he holds in his arms. Upon the ceiling a man nestles his own child in arms both strong and gentle. Memories of his past cascade down the corridors of memory. There a gentle creature caught within a net of softest light and there, limbs entwined by a gossamer thin web of opalescence is he finally trapped within a labyrinth not of his knowing and now beholding all that passes before and through him the softest of whispers breaks the silence. Welcome traveller upon the shores of night, the second transformation now attends thee as soon as heard silence drops like a curtain upon a tableaux of wonders. Rising to his feet the first of many faltering steps stir his legs from their somnambulance and he advances into an eternity of reflections that rise and fall like autumn leaves caught upon the breeze. For what feels to him like days he advances, legs growing stronger with each step and yet the horizon remains constant and he sees nothing that is not of himself. A labyrinth of a different form has he entered and where the first was of twilight this one is of light all but blinding in its intensity. Here he is no longer claimed by fatigue for here time ceases and the perpetual moment unfolds. Turns upon itself and casts its ever present self upon the surface he takes to be a distant point. Were there time he would measure the passing of events. In its absence the eternal moment but changes and his yielding mind surrenders itself to the second transformation and in its embrace he comes to rest within a valley, verdant as Edens first days and beneath the outstretched arms of an oak does he take his rest. Birdsong caresses ears once the sole possession of whispers and of this he drinks deeply. A dragonfly of mercurial wing alights upon his knee and dozes in the light and warmth of the sun above. A hind of deepest red grazes upon the grass, occasionally casting her gentle gaze towards him and as this scene unfolds he is absorbed into the entity he once would have known as tree.
Deeper he descends and moisture calls to him and in quest of this he enters the chambers wherein the mystery that is the world weaves her dreams and a mantle of softest earthlight is woven around his emerging form as upwards he now spirals through root, trunk, branch and leaf and soaks in sunlight like nectar and beneath an ocean of stars is he graced by starlights embrace. Beloved Childe whispered upon the night air raises his mind to the surface of the mirror and there before him its reflection shimmers and one more facet of the hall of mirrors reveals itself. One more veil drops to the leafmould beneath his feet and the surface transforms into the hardened diamond brightness that serves as his recall. Where once he beheld a face of ancient contours now he gazes upon that of newborn and in the depths of eyes violet memory stirs and the place of beginnings is recalled. Yes beloved memory now serves as a maiden fair. He smiles in his recall and casting all shapes aside he ascends and upon wings of liquid light does he perceive history revealed through the books of life and death. There an amniotic oceans embrace spills life onto a reluctant shoreline and the cyphers are cast in blood and bone. The second transformation serves as witness and into the cells of memories vault is all consigned as