Archives for posts with tag: Geography

Between two peaks, the night sky rests;
between two lovers, silence.

I sing a sad song.

Between two seasons, a wind blows;
between autumn and summer.

I sing a sad song.

Between two banks, a river flows;
between two lovers, silence.

I sing a sad song.

Between a bell’s chimes, no bell sounds;
between silences, tolls a bell.

I sing a sad song.

Between two moments, midnight comes;
between two lovers, silence.


Excerpt from Dustless | Volume 20 [in preparation],
The Lover in the Snow [v]

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Dustless | Volume 1

Dustless | Volume 1 is approximately 20 pp./a5

status | published 11 02 2013

Amazon Kindle Store:
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ASIN (Amazon Standard Identification Number) | B00BEZL4ZU


…Zy heard a song coming from an open air café, set among gardens on the edge of the SietTon.

…oh, do not leave me so soon,
but allow sleep to take you back again
into the morning, and let the sun rise alone.

When the world of dreams is so beautiful,
why struggle to wake?
For once the day’s long labour is over, after all,
you will only sleep again.

I do believe, the world itself, the planets and the stars
in their hearts all crave to sleep,
that sleep is the deep desire
of all things.

So rest, my love, here with me.
When all of life is just a wheel of dreams,
let us choose the dreams of sleep
and not of waking
to make ourselves complete…

It took Zy some time to work his way around the café…

Excerpt from Master Darkness [iv] | Volume 24 of Dustless

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India | Dustless | Volume 1

ASIN (Amazon Standard Identification Number) | B00BEZL4ZU

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Dustless | Volume 1

‘What is this dust, Akzasosan?’ Berensota asked, gazing up at his friend again, his voice open, almost pleading. ‘Why is there always dust? It is relentless. Once, I spent two months alone, without servants, in a villa belonging to the clan, in the high country of Ezu, among the Fu’unsi Alps, beyond the Gates of Deer. It is a small house. It is very quiet there, isolated from other villas and from villages. And the air is clear there – pure, as if it has just been made…’
12345Berensota tilted his head, and examined his sword hilt from another angle, his oily hair sliding across the side of his face, glittering slightly in the light from the lantern above him.
12345‘I was a ninth-chen lord, and wore the Gram of the Black of Eclipsed Suns – no, really!’ He made a brief, faintly embarrassed face, as if admitting it must be difficult to believe he had ever achieved such a high grade of purity. Then his memory claimed him again. ‘I was preparing for the days of deep meditation, in readiness to attempt illumination, and to achieve the blesséd Rank of the Subtle… You will understand how clarified I already felt: I had been training for years. I had memorised the entire Metal Books of War, and practised the style of zamen perfected by my ancestors, sometimes for ten or eleven hours a day… I felt very strong, Akzasosan.
12345Anyway, I retreated, temporarily, from public life. I read the sutras, and meditated, walked and sat, watching the day and watching the night. For that whole two months, I rarely saw another human being, and then only at distance, as they made their way along a mountain pass, or walked across the alpine meadows there. Supplies were brought to me, by arrangement, from the nearest village, but the villagers came and went without conversation, leaving packages by the door. The villagers understood the purpose of my retreat, and knew I was on holy business. I went into myself. Into the Building…
12345I was not attempting to achieve illumination then and there: for that, I wished to be among my cousins, and with my masters, instructors, my family, my Mark. Yet, I felt illumination was imminent. I felt the transcendent condition, like a seed, deep inside me. My movements were light and my thoughts occurred naturally, without division. Some traditions speak of illumination as the superstate: the state beyond states – and I sensed such an unthinkable condition as being close and possible for me. I would experience the death of the self. I would be illuminated. When I moved, the universe moved; and when I was still, the universe grew motionless. I didn’t seem to require any motive power to walk or stand: there was just a floating sensation. Among the RoMayZine, we say: Grammar grows obsolete; and we mean, that grammar, being dark, can no longer deal with the world as it is when illuminated. Even to speak of “I” is foolish. “I”, “it”, “this”, “that”… All foolish, all dark. But, for me then, I sensed grammar growing obsolete. I was entering the place where lightning is slow, and where brightness is black. I felt beautiful.
12345And then I noticed the dust.’

Excerpt from Dustless | Volume 13 | River Direction

Chen is a measure of spiritual purity. There are ten grades of chen, and each grade is denoted by a colour. Berensota wears the ninth-chen Gram of the Black of Eclipsed Suns. He is in training to reach the highest state of spiritual purity, which, if he achieves it, will permit him to wear the tenth-chen Gram of the White of Drifting Clouds. He will be considered illuminated, a person of visionary powers, and will be promoted from Fine to Subtle Rank.

Zamen is both the product and the state of meditation. People sit in zamen, and enter the Building – the Building Without Motion, the MarIsQuess – which is an enigmatic state, giving masters of the Building celestial powers.

A Mark is a grouping of noble clans. Clans gather under certain Marks – the Shepherd Mark, for example, or the Empty Barrel Mark. Clans of mutual affinity assemble in order to develop their own culture and to trade and support each other.

The RoMayZine is a tradition. Clans who follow the RoMayZine are warrior clans, who place special emphasis on studying and embodying the ancient wisdom of the sutras of the RoMayZuthZine, the Metal Books of War.

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ASIN (Amazon Standard Identification Number) | B00BEZL4ZU

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Dustless | Volume 1

…Those alien, dedicated men, who walked in Starless Darkness, had no place, really, out here. This was the world of the tanzo, and of nature. They were like the figures in one of Zy’s recent dreams – giants at one moment, dwarfs the next. Out here, they were tiny. Zy understood that they were violent men, ruthless, intent on hurt. And they were powerful, and revered. But what kind of power could dent that astonishing sky? And how could men hurt this land, which stretched on in all directions, absorbing time and space, absorbing light, and darkness, and all the energies and activities of men… Their dreams, their wishes, their conflicts and their needs…

Excerpt | Dustless Volume 13 | River direction

Imagine a beginning…

To a journey greater than any other…


Dustless | Volume 1


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

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]

…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

Yes, how quickly worlds melted away, and melted into being. The stuffy, oppressive grandeur of FerZon, although it was only an hour back behind the riders, now felt particularly dreamlike. For this was Ahamuji, the MerZirvora – the Sea of Trees. The forest was the law here: the forest was real, and the forest would endure. FerZon, it seemed to Zy, for all its venerable history, was an anomaly, an error, even – and for all the massivity of its buildings, its civic weight, it now appeared to the boy to be a kind of fragile bubble of stone, one that, within a few centuries, perhaps, the forest would pop, closing in on it, and crushing it back out of being.

Excerpt from Mask [i], Volume 9 of Dustless

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Dustless | Volume 9

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.

Pages: 1 2 3

I walked through the fields of rye,
down by the river where the willows and the clouds
move and are still in the flowing waters – move and are still.
I think you know the place I mean.
And there I first heard my lover’s voice
as he strolled through the daylight as if he owned it.
You know, the land is very flat on RezIsimgria,
and the fields are wide.
And there, by the river, I first heard my lover’s voice,
singing under the empty skies
which burn above the fields of rye.

Rye, rye – the fields of rye.

He saw me and he came over to me – to me! –
who have nothing, and am no one.
He smiled as he spoke to me, there by the river’s side
where the willows and the clouds and the watermint
gather the sunlight when it is day, and when it is night
gather the moonlight.
I think you know the place I mean.
And I, a foolish one, smiled back at him, and he took my smile
as if he owned it.
I lost my smile to him on that first day
as I walked with him under the empty skies
which burn above the fields of rye.

Rye, rye – the fields of rye.

On that first day I lost my smile,
when first I heard my lover speak
on the lonely path through the fields
in summer, when the rye was tall.
And I was frightened there may be no other days
when I would hear him speak or sing.
But he said, if I would kiss him there, upon his lips –
I think you know the place I mean –
then he would meet me another day,
there where the river moves and is still,
and we would kiss again beneath the empty skies
which burnish the fields of rye

Rye, rye – the fields of rye.

On that first day, I lost my smile,
and my first kiss, too, he took
as if he owned it.
It was late summer, and the rye was tall
and hid us like a golden wall where we lay down
among the old willows, on the field’s edge.
He said if I would give him my soul
there upon the hardened soil –
I think you know the place I mean –
then he would meet with me on other days
and he would be the empty skies
and I would be the fields of rye.

Rye, rye – the fields of rye

On that first day, I lost my smile;
I lost my kiss, and my soul, too.
I don’t regret it, none of this: smile, kiss and soul were his,
he owned them, I only gave them back to him.
And when he sang as he walked away,
leaving me beside the river, and the river changed,
though the river was still –
I think you know the place I mean –
I knew there would be no other days
when we would meet, and that my soul
was lost on a smile and on a kiss, forever,
because I was his.
Now I am alone, but not alone, and I
am left tearless among the fields of rye

Rye, rye – the fields of rye

And autumn came, he did not return.
He was a grey-eyed one, and they do not return.
And autumn came, and the scythes began to make a fall
of the golden walls of the fields of rye.
Still I walked there, where the river bends away,
like a sickle moon, westwards towards SanShoNar –
perhaps you know the place I mean? –
under the willows where the earth was burnt
to make ready for the cruel plough
under the empty, endless skies
where I lay down among the fields of rye.

Rye, rye – the fields of rye
I lie down among the rye

*     *     *     *     *

N  O  T  E  S

RezIsimgria | The LateAncient term (see Language) for the vast plains to the east and north of the Land of O (see Geography | and Maps). “Rez” = plains; “Isimgria” = without limit, or without end. In the modern tongue, the region of RezIsimgria is known as “the Endless Plains”

Re-post | Originally posted December 2013