Archives for the month of: August, 2015

Perhaps most of the worlds of all the universes possess no language, and are dumb, utterly inexpressive – silent as the airless moon – but O-yon is not like this.

Language is born of language | Languages possess architecture, and in O-yon, there are many lost and buried tongues, branches that are broken from the tree or do not blossom, or blossoms which, caught in the desert of time, become like fragile fossils, dry, perfect, but without scent…

In O-yon, it is said, there was a time before speech, but of that time, necessarily, we are ignorant || Then came the oldest language, the hypergrammatic language of the Ancients, the ‘Metallic ones’ | Their mysterious characters, inscribed in metal books, without date, without lexicon, are too complex for modern minds to comprehend, and so their beautiful, miraculous world remains closed to us, a matter of yearning, debate and controversy.

After the Ancients, came the LateAncients, whose language, made up of ‘Gonfi’ – ideograms – permits us the tantalising sense that we may understand their greater minds, and even that we might touch the glory of their forebears, the Metallic ones. For it is into the Gonfic LateAncient language that certain key Metallic books are said to have been translated, and of these books, the most wonderful book of all, the book of Metallic sutras, known as AmorZineZirIramOAram­TanZo, which means, transcripted into our common tongue, The Sacred Book of the Whole World of the Word of the Law of the Beautiful and Simple Way – the book to which all signs are ultimately drawn, and from which all signs ultimately proceed.


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To be strong in spirit, one should be like a RoMayZine.

This is a matter of absolute purity. You have a goal: you must attain it. Therefore you have a task. All people of spirit need a task. A task is like a container for the spirit, giving it form.

Say this task is very, very difficult. Imagine it is like an attack on an enemy force. You are alone: you are outnumbered. To attack means you must almost certainly die.

What should you do? A wise person, a practical person, a sensible person, they would retreat. They would recognise the nature of the task is too dangerous. It would result in their death, almost certainly. They would wonder, what could be achieved — to go towards death in this fashion?

So they give up the task, or go about it a different way.

This is a sign of weakness of spirit. A sign that the spirit is weak and diluted.

You must simply go straight on: go forward. You must show your spirit. Show you are unafraid. You will not hide your spirit by saying “Er…” or “Um…”, or “But if I…” or “Perhaps I can…” — no, not at all.

No: the goal is great. The task is great. It demands a great spirit. To show your spirit is the key matter here. To be brilliant and unambiguous. To express what it means to be a human being who has not allowed themselves to be broken by trivial concerns of life or death.

Consider this carefully.

It is an honour to be totally alone. To begin with nothing, and as nothing. To find the whole world against you, that is the most honourable of all.

A wise person, a practical person, a sensible person: what would they do? They would be wise, practical, sensible: they would say, But I can’t win. I can’t fight the whole world. I must make allies. I must, if necessary, kneel. I must compromise. I must do as the men and women of the world generally do, which is to break, very slowly, over the years, and call that “learning” or “growing” or “experience”. I am no fanatic. I love life. I will remain alive.

Good advice, you might think? No, no. Terrible advice! The advice of the deceivers, the weak, the self-serving. People who, as they advance, shed their spirit as they go, becoming more and more futile, less and less brilliant, taking on ever smaller and smaller tasks, so that the task of life itself becomes a game, a trite ritual, a hobby.

A RoMayZine, though, would never bend, never compromise. You must go straight on: you must make the world bow to you. You are stronger than the world. You have your task: to accomplish it, you must be seen — that is part of the task, perhaps its very essence. You must show yourself as brilliant, pure, you should walk with swagger, confident that the world will bow to you. If you go to your death in this way, then the world will bow to you, even if it believes it does not.

Weak and trivial spirits lead weak and trivial lives, and go to weak and trivial deaths. They empty the world of meaning, slowly.

The world is full of dust. Lies, deceit, betrayal, mendacity, fraud, arrogance, blather, laziness, viciousness, bullying, hypocrisy, wrath: dust. Weak and trivial spirits, what do they do, but carry bits of dust around all their lives, in pots or in bags or in the cupped palms of their hands, and shift it about. They pick up dust, move it across a room, put it down, and pick up more dust.

But a strong spirit is Dustless.

Worldly suffering and failure, the battle against insurmountable odds, damage, wounds, battering, ridicule, derision, indifference, ignorance, you must go into them, head on, head up, head strong.

By maintaining your purity in a muddled and devious world, you will make the world bow to your spirit, even as it kills you.

Is this terrible advice? No, no. This is good advice.

All you have to consider now is this: Who gives the advice? And by giving it, do they mean to make you bow?

The first thing he remembered was the clouds. The clouds, and Zysashin’s voice. His sister, Zysashin, laughing.

Did the clouds come out of Zysashin’s voice?

That was strange…

The first thing he remembered was the two of them, together on the moor, running under the brief summer sky, racing clouds across the heather.

How did they run?

They hurdled, or scrambled over, the low, soft, round grey boulders that studded the hillside. Zysoshin, Zysashin: twins. They ran hard, lifting each other up if one stumbled, trying to reach the thorn tree near the edge of the track before the cloud’s shadow fell over their heads, ending the game. The wizened black thorn was the winning post…



Sai, SolMin

And how did the game begin? In those short summers, when the days were long?

Well, they would wait by the stream until a cloud appeared over the brow of the hill, and then, trying not to giggle, sprint towards the thorn.

They raced together – only then was the race real. Sometimes Zysoshin would race alone, without Zysa, and sometimes even beat the cloud to the thorn – but it didn’t matter. He knew it didn’t count without Zysa. Even if she watched him race the cloud, Zysa sitting on the Bug Stone in the sunlight, and he said: ‘“Watch me, Zysa – Zysa: watch”, and they both laughed and yelped when the tip of the great white cloud first appeared over the top of the hill, like the tentacle of some fairytale sea creature, and Zyso set off, splashing through the wet grass and over the peaty, black earth, in a kind of ecstasy – even then, if he managed to reach out and touch the trunk of the thorn before the shadow fell upon him, he knew he had not won very much really, it was only him alone, it didn’t mean anything.

No, only when they raced hand in hand was the race true. And though they were both slender, of similar build, long-limbed and agile, and though Zysa was hardly slower than Zyso, when they ran together, they always lost the race against the cloud – unless it was a very fat, old summer cloud, lazy and ambling, which didn’t count anyway: but at least when they lost together, the losing was real. To run alone (and Sasa could beat the cloud on her own, too) was not really to run at all.

Their home and their world was a high place of clouds and of winds. It belonged to them…

Excerpt from The Sentinels, Volume 1 of Dustless

Please embark…

Dustless | Volume 1

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Following an attack by a strange marine organism, Lord Naro enters a profound state of delirium.

Several nurses who had been instructed to sit with me during the critical phase of my delirium found the experience too harrowing, and asked to be relieved of this duty. Patients in nearby rooms were taken to other, more distant rooms. Faced with these unprecedented symptoms, even Woya was troubled out of reason: he later confessed to me that his mind wandered towards the impure and barbarian notions of possession by evil spirits. Certainly, he had never witnessed such torment. Only Virsodanva Veka proved strong enough to undertake long sessions of vigilance beside my bed.

When the doctor recounted to me the convulsions that had shaken me then, I pitied myself, though (at the time, while speaking with him) I could not recall anything at all of those intolerable hours. Often, I cried out: almost always, I seemed to be in great fear. One peculiar effect of my disorder, which many found most troubling, was that sometimes when I shouted out it would not be in my usual voice but, as it seemed, in the voices of others.

Woya-tsa himself, for all his professional and inherent calm, admitted that he found himself questioning the nature of the world itself on encountering this unsettling phenomenon. He said his reason could not bridge the gulf that opened up between his knowledge and what he saw and heard as I lay there crying out. For not only was my normal voice distorted by terrors the nature of which he could not see, and not only was it bent by agonies the cause of which he could not ascertain, often my voice would change, grow deeper, and seem to be emitted from a hitherto unguessed region of my being. And it wasn’t merely that, in my delirium, I was impersonating other people, pretending to be a child or woman: uxo, it was worse, because there were moments when the voice that came out of my mouth appeared not to belong to me at all.

Only when I seemed to have recuperated fully – a matter of several weeks after first recovering consciousness – did Doctor Woya give me some account of what he and others had heard at my bedside. Sometimes, he said, my voice was so deep, and so contorted, it sounded inhuman, though it spoke our MidImperial tongue. Sometimes – more disconcerting still – it seemed I was communicating in my normal voice, but in no language the staff in the hospital had ever heard. And yet it was definitely a language, Woya believed: there was a fluency and an articulacy about the sounds that convinced him this was not the gibberish of a completely unravelled mind. At other times, my voice issued odd clicks and grunts and hisses and whispers, something subhuman, Woya said, reminding him of the language of insects. Any of these manifestations would have troubled all sensible witnesses, but there was yet a further variation in my distress, one which actually caused nurses to flee the room; and even Woya himself, on one occasion, said he found it unbearable, and had to leave me in the sole hands of the redoubtable Virsodanva Veka.

For not only did my voice sometimes sound like that of another man, or other men, it changed eerily and grew more strange still: it slipped from the tenor of the masculine altogether, and grew light and female.

While it was technically possible for a male voice-box to produce these different effects, the doctors agreed, not Yamgo of the Five Stars, nor Samisama, not the most brilliant actor of the Kunobun Ventriloquists’ Theatre could have commanded such an amazing range of voices. Male, female: they all sounded utterly real, as if they belonged to some individual. If you had turned your back, you would have thought a third person had entered the hospital room, and was speaking while I lay unconscious on the bed.

Woya said it was difficult to comprehend: when I was speaking as a female, there was no question that the words were coming from my mouth, but there was also no question that the voice was that of a woman, and not a man; and Woya could not put the two certainties together to form a rational whole. But most extraordinary and moving of all, he told me, were the moments when the timbre and intonation of my voice seemed to shed years, and I spoke not as a grown man, nor as a mature woman, but as a child.

This was too disturbing, Woya said. Most of the voices that spoke out of me were bearers of distress: some were angry and hostile, some were in pain, some fleeing pain; some were uttering bizarre orders; some were panicking, some grieving. Sometimes, at the height of the hallucinatory stage of my illness, different voices would chase one another out of my throat, and I would seem to be speaking in quick succession almost as if a line of beings queued inside me, wishing to communicate, and even squabbling among themselves. Then, abruptly, I would speak in my own voice, or in another voice, and utter something completely banal, a comment about the weather or the expression of a desire for a particular food for lunch, and it was precisely the ordinariness of these remarks which, juxtaposed against the chorus of other voices, highlighted the eeriness of my condition.

When the child, spoke, though, it always cried for help, and Woya found this nearly unbearable. He recounted how the child was a young boy – and to Woya, this boy was real, it seemed to me, even though the child spoke out of my mouth, and from some unaccountable region – and how the call for help was deeply affecting. Of course, there was no possibility of help being given, and so Woya felt both frightened, and concerned, and completely helpless. He said he definitely wanted to be able to give the child some reassurance, to soothe and calm it, because the fear in the child’s voice was palpable, and there is surely nothing quite as poignant as a child looking out for help. Woya-tsa felt torn and so disorientated that, as he told me, he began to worry not only about my sanity, but his own; indeed, he began to grow worried that, after his experiences by my bedside, the very notion of sanity itself was being thrown down before him, and he was entering a domain in which he was poorly equipped to survive.

Woya-tsa also told me that he had even tried to speak to the child, to call out to him. Woya-tsa attempted to learn the child’s name, but there seemed no real contact possible. Woya-tsa was unembarrassed and unashamed of his actions, even though some of his colleagues thought his behaviour eccentric: nevertheless, no other doctors called in to assist on the case remained unshaken by what they found. Most stated their opinion that what I was undergoing was a state of profound hallucination, and that the voices speaking out of me were fragments of memory or illusion, which had been chameleonised in my distress, taking on the properties of people and episodes I’d witnessed during my life. However, most also accepted that such a diagnosis was very limited, and that the case had a certain freakish fascination.

Woya-tsa described the child’s voice as not panicked, exactly, but possessing a kind of calm fear. The tone was plaintive, somehow rather distant, as if speaking out of another element, or through a distorting device. Not only was the child concerned for his own safety, but he also seemed very intent on passing on some information, or a warning.

Of all the voices that spoke out of me during those awful days, the child’s voice was, by common consent, the most alarming. “Help me,” he would say: “they are coming. They are coming. Please – help me. Why don’t you help me?”

Few of the doctors invited to give their opinion on my case believed I would ever recover. The general prognosis was that, even if something like consciousness returned to me, my wits would have been cast to the dusts, and I would never really be Lord Sokosozuin Naro again.

In this, I believe the doctors were right. And yet, finally, one evening I opened my one remaining eye, and looked out of it.

The day before, the jelly-like secretion had abruptly dried, and could be brushed off my face in a kind of powder.

The first words I said – although I don’t recall them myself – were: “They are coming. They are coming. They are coming.”


Woya | Family name of the physician responsible for Lord Naro

Virsodanva Veka | The name of the captain of Lord Naro’s bodyguard

Uxo | “No”

tsa | Honorific, given to doctors and other members of a certain class

Names in Dustless | Naro, is the family name | Sokosozuin = Soko-so-zuin, Soko, son of Zuin

From Comb | Volume 8 of Dustless

Be great first…


Life is a matter of moments. Sometimes, we do not feel them: they bond together in easy succession, and whole years can pass without our really sensing the fragility of our own composition, which is momentary. The common people say “life slips by”, and they are right in their idiom. We grow negligent of the basis of our own being, and our vigilance becomes diluted.

But what could be more vulnerable than a moment? What more nude and exposed, incapable of defending itself? A moment happens, and is gone. Their little towers are being endlessly invaded, and thrown down; and with them, our lives.

Only when an unusual moment occurs do we sense the profoundly momentary nature of our being. Then, the moment surges into prominence: what had seemed so stable and secure – our life – is instantly revealed to hang upon a moment. There is a moment in our heart; our thoughts are moments; and if we kiss, our kisses are stained with moments. Only at moments of excitation or violence, of rupture, or of extreme boredom, does the moment announce itself vividly inside us. And then our life is thrown open for the dust or vision to enter us. It only takes a moment to live; and only a moment to die.

From Comb | Volume 8 of Dustless

Be great first…