Archives for the month of: October, 2015

It is given to few people to be there when mountains begin to rise.

And to fewer people, patience to watch the mountains as they grow, presenting their great heights to the sky.

Fewer people still are there at the end, when the mountains are fully risen.

It takes a kind of courage, and a true spirit of endurance, to venture into mountain country.

And to be the first to venture there, to watch the mountains as they form, not knowing how they will grow, how high they will soar, it is the gift of independence, and a kind of courage, too, will single these people out.

Later, perhaps, many will say: Oh, yes, we were there, at the beginning. We knew. We always knew…

Please enjoy:


Dustless | Volume 1 || Amazon US / Amazon UK

Re-post | Original post December 2014



And then came one of those moments – increasingly rare, it seemed to Zy – but astonishing when they occurred: a moment when Akzasosan appeared to slip out of the limits of himself, and rise up, unpredictably, towards an entirely different kind of life.

The Lord began to sing.

From the Emperors of Steel to Moin III,
one thing has kept this world pure,
and forged together sky and sea,
made to shine, made to endure:
in the sounds of hammers and the ring of swords,
in the chains of blood and in all our words,
from Moin III to the Emperors of Steel
one thing has bound us, wheel to wheel:
that thing is metal.

Metal daughter, metal son,
we are the Metallic ones:
metal son and metal daughter,
calm in peace, calm in slaughter,
cool, fluent, indestructible,
through our veins runs purest metal,
and – oh, my noble daughter,
oh, my faithful son,
therefore, we are the Metallic ones.

Well, the world it turns and the world it burns,
but always, the world must learn
who alone will rule beneath this lonely sun –
we will, the Metallic ones.

Sleep then, Baby, right through the night
like soft silver, glowing, bright,
sleep my Babe hard and sweet
until Evening and Morning stars meet:
sleep like a metal beyond all dust,
sleep like a metal, through all rust
pass, pure and straight,
through the dawn’s defenceless gates:
and when you rise, rise like a sun,
always a Metallic one.

Fall, my sweet, as light on a lake,
fall, my dear, like white snowflakes:
and when you wake, wake first, wake quick –
for you are my child,
and you, my child,
are Metallic.



The Lord’s singing voice was lighter and higher than his speaking voice: he raised it. The wind had died down, and his voice went up through the cold calmness that had descended on the Sea of Trees.

From the first moment and the first word, Zy felt intensified, alerted, almost painfully so: he stopped breathing. How strange it is, he thought, the difference between the voice that speaks and the same voice entering into song. There is a kind of leap. With the transition from his wry, rather drab speech of the past few minutes to the haunting, twilit melody of the song, the Lord appeared to jump from being one kind of person to another – he seemed expanded, loosened, set free.

And the song itself – was it a kind of lullaby? – had something magical twisted into it, a profound power that instantly called to Zy, and emphasised its own difference from the conditions of normal speech. This was no jahzig song: it had its own beauty, but it was not that of the sunburnt, drought-dazed, aching, empty horizons of peasant melodies – there was a frightening coolness to Akzasosan’s song, its refusal to be quite one thing or another. Its rhythm was irregular, its structure asymmetric. It refused its own order, disdained its own laws. It was warm, and tender, but it was icy, and detached as well. It was gentle, but it was violent. It was a lullaby, but it was a call to arms. And there, out on the wild track running through Ahamuji Forest, when Akzasosan sang into the freezing winter air, it was like lifting a lantern up, and showing it to the world.

Excerpt from Mask [ii], Volume 10 of Dustless

Re-post, with additional text | Original post, April 2015

So the boy slept. He woke again, and I will tell you of that in a moment. But let him sleep for a while now. He deserves a little peace, doesn’t he?

It will be obvious to you, I imagine, that I have some affection for the boy. I have followed him closely through this story, never letting him out of my sight for very long.

It will not always be like this. There are too many voices, and too many stories.

We are not set up to listen to one story alone, however much we may want to. But equally, we are not set up to hear every story.

We must choose, for the most part, which stories we attend to, and which stories we tell.

Only the damned, perhaps, have no choice in this matter.

And yet, as we turn away from this story, and listen to that – as we grow deaf to this story, and attentive to that – isn’t there a kind of betrayal going on?

I think so.

Only, even now, I am not sure who is betrayed.

Well, well – never mind. We are not set up for too many stories. Let us concentrate on the one in hand.

For after all, only a man of flames can live in a house of fire. Only a child can live in the house of children.

Listen, and I’ll tell you about it.

Excerpt from Fire House, Volume 6 of Dustless


Re-post | Original post December 2014

There was a soothing, very familiar atmosphere of sound and movement as they rode. The padding of the horses’ hooves on the snowstruck ground; an occasional clink of gear; the soft, heavy wrapped-up noises the riders themselves made as they changed position; even Akzasosan’s cough, painful as it sometimes sounded: all of these intimate, close-hung noises, belonging to the riders, were intensified in their intimacy a thousandfold by the sense of the surrounding emptiness of the great forest of the MerZirvora. The riders carried their sounds with them as a firefly carries its light, and in the immense, passive wilderness, the act of riding impressed Zy as being at once reassuringly humdrum, and yet also weird, spectacular – the small scale of people on this wild earth made their feelings at once very unimportant, and yet also precious, somehow, and essential.

Excerpt from Dustless, Volume 10, Mask [ii]

Zy didn’t know quite why he felt so moved. But there was something about the juxtaposition of the lonely tower in the moonlight, high up there, above them, the small fire burning on the summit, and the bareness of the landscape in the frozen winter quiet, which caused a glowing shift in his understanding of the world. Through the long days and nights of the ride, plunged into distances, his eye had grown practised in measuring space, and he could gauge that the tower was about half an hour away, up the undemanding slope. There was a great stillness about everything at that moment: the night sky was still, the snowy terrain was still, and the air, and the moon, and the tower. Only the riders were moving – the riders, and the fire, burning, glimmering, beckoning to them.

Excerpt from Fire House, Volume 6 of Dustless

Please remain vigilant…


Re-post | Original post December 2014

When truth is in doubt, people wear masks.

The road becomes roads. The journey grows more complex. Travellers begin to lose their way. The longer they live, the more they learn: childhood begins to retreat, and the world, like a great forest, stretches on and on around them, and within them, a wilderness.

In such a world, there are many strangers. Are they truthful? Do the faces they show mirror their hearts? Or do they wear masks?

In such a world of dust, it is hard to become Dustless. In a world of strangers, wearing masks of lies.

Go deeper still into the wilderness: become truly lost. Then look to your comrades: look to the ones you know and love.

They, like you, are creatures of dust. Do even your friends wear masks?

And if so, who are they?

And you?

Soon to be published, and offering truth…

Dustless | Volume 9

Dustless, Volume 9 | Mask [i]

…He was aware that here and there, in Zereb or Silbo, in this or that tower, things had been said that seemed to open up new horizons on the Shion – and much of Zy’s thought concerned the Shion – and contributed to creating the hazy outline of a life.

It was this life that Zy worked over, his mind running backwards and forwards, but endlessly slipping, like a beetle in a bowl, not ever quite managing to get outside the object and to arrive at a clear view of its structure. And that was what Zy wanted to do: to build a house of thought, a place that was fine and translucent, and stable, which didn’t keep melting and flowing away all the time, a sanctuary to which he could bring his ideas and place them in store, so that they would remain there intact, enabling him to go back to them when he wanted, and find his ideas unchanged, the information locked in order and sound.

The letters, for instance: he had wanted to know about the letters…

Excerpt from Dustless, Volume 6 | Fire House


Datagram | Shion: “Shion” is the title, “Lord”. It is composed of two Gonfi – two characters from the LateAncient language – “Shi” and “On“, meaning, literally “great one”. Although pronunciation differs across regions, it is generally pronounced “Shee-on”

Datagram | Zereb and Silbo are villages in the eastern Desolate Cantons

Re-post | Originally posted December 2014

‘There are some expressions which, when heard, convince you instantly that their author is a man or woman of great subtlety, that their illumination is intense and pure. This expression of Rygansogun’s is one such: Only a man of flames can live in a house of fire. Of course, knowing Master Rygansogun was a RoMayZine philosopher, one can see that this epigram may be applied to war – that, surely, is one sense of the “house of fire”. Anyone who has fought with the Forbidden Army would feel this: unless a man becomes a thing of flame himself, he cannot live in the house of fire, he must burn, and perish. I have walked there, in the house of fire, and I know something of burning. And yet’ the young Lord went on, lifting his pale blue eyes to look at Zysoshin, and apparently blithely unconcerned that he was addressing his thoughts on complex philosophy to an eight-year-old boy, ‘perhaps the house of fire is not just the house of war, but the house of life itself. Certainly, this is the inflection placed upon the epigram by a much later philosopher, the genial and gracious Serensobel et:denu, a man of Fine Rank, of the Bullrush Mark and the dominant figure of the Ploughing Oxen Era, a master of synthesis, who did so much to try and draw the main traditions of pure philosophy together. Serensobel wrote: Only a man of flames can live in a house of fire. Only a child can live in the house of children.

Excerpt from Fire House, Volume 6 of Dustless

Please explore this house of fire…


Re-post | Originally posted December 2014


I hate the silence, because in silence I sleep, and in sleep, I dream – and I dream of them.

Rising slowly like mountains, passed over quickly like rain…

But the mountains endure, and wait for the next rainfall, and the next, and the next…

As you enter the book, so the book enters you.

And reading becomes the book, the moment where there are not two things, but one.

Become original.

Become greater.

Become Dustless.

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Dustless | Volume 8: Comb || Amazon UK  || Amazon US

Published September 2015

Please enjoy…

Dustless | Volume 1 || Amazon US / Amazon UK

Dustless | Volume 2 || Amazon US / Amazon UK

Dustless | Volume 3 || Amazon US / Amazon UK

Dustless | Volume 4 || Amazon US / Amazon UK

In the Sounding Horn Era, a philosopher of silence, who rose to become the Master of the Chrysanthemum School, Dijirsozin on:zaka, a man of Subtle Rank and of the Sun Mark, was reported as saying: It would take longer to fully record a life than to live one, for words do not move as quickly as things.

That is a beauty of words. That is a beauty of things.

Of course, much later, Zasojen asked: Is not a word a thing too? Why do we insist on setting words left, and life right, as if words did not take place in life, and life did not take place in words?

Excerpt from The Dwellings [ii], Volume 5 of Dustless


Re-post | Original post December 2014