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Jun. 21st, 2008 03:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goldenmeanLet this be the epitaph for my heart. Cupid put too much poison in the dart. This is the epitaph for my heart because it's gone, gone, gone
Dear universe:
The next time you decide to make it ten bajillion degrees out at one AM, could you please not also detonate a skunk outside my door? Please?
Actually, I think I should elaborate on that, in some vain attempt to actually capture the almost transcendent terror of this event. First off, let me note that I don't generally mind the way skunks smell. I will go a step further and admit that I sort of like it at a distance. Not in an "I wonder if I could get that in a facial scrub?" sort of way, but more in a "Well, that's something you don't smell every day, neat." sort of way. So when I say that I do not enjoy this smell, you need to understand that this is not a statement that deserves a "Well duh" in response.
Allow me to try to convey the additives in this nightmare potpourri, the flavor crystals of this olfactory experience. Above and beyond baseline skunk smell, add whatever herbal smell you like the least. Personally, I am not a fan of anise. Alternately, if it is within the realms of your imagination, add your favorite herbal smell, gone horribly, horribly wrong. I'm not going to do all the work here. If you really want to understand this smell, you're going to have to meet me half way. It exists in subjective reality. It molds itself around the weak parts of those who experience it.
But I get ahead of myself. At this point perhaps you are envisioning a skunk that has rolled in an herb garden. Perhaps you are harboring fond memories of Flower from Bambi. You poor fool. Have you not been paying any attention? No, if Flower this be, it is Flower perforated with buckshot, aspirating blood and finally expiring in a cursed field long hallowed by blood sacrifice. In that field grows the flower of pain, its root systems hungry for neural tissue.
And now in time-lapse photography, like A Zed And Two Noughts reshot as a zombie movie, we see the flower claim its host, tendrils thrust through the eye sockets, desiring only the sweet taste of myelin, flensing the corpse of all that was once beautiful, leaving only pain that passes beyond the supposed release of death and a burning desire to feast on all that have known happiness. Now, the parasitic union complete, it lurches into jerky motion, necrotized flesh wound through with rotting creepers coated with rusty leaf blight, under a sky lit only by cold and distant stars, the moon having mercifully fled behind the trees, unable to face this abnegation of the natural order.
Can you see it? Can you sense its hatred of you? Do you begin to grasp the terror that lurks within its rotted scent glands? Do you feel the weight of its regard as its still faintly glowing cybernetic eye scans over you, the lidar messages bouncing back informing it that you are too close to flee. Far too close, and so terribly mortal.
But what's that you say? "Cybernetic?" Of course. Of course. Did you really think that smell of oil and chemical out spill could possibly come from anything natural, or even supernatural? No, when the mustelid harbinger of the end days finds you, you must know that it could not possibly exist without the hubris of man, its first, and most terrible creator.
Thankfully though it is not the beast itself I face, but only its chemical spoor, the monster itself apparently having combusted in some unholy ignescent end. No purifying fire this though, not the purgatorial annihilation of cremation, or even the baconlike crackle of melting fat at a witch burning. No, this is the coal fire that burns beneath your town for decades, venting poisonous gas and ever hungry for fuel in any form. This is everything that should never burn. Chemical seas candescing pale blue and green. The harsh carcinogizing sunlight of a world at the end of time. This is fire that scoffs at mere oxygen. It has more rarified tastes. It hungers for Ytterbium, for Meitnerium, for the shattered glass eyeball of your first teddy bear, for joy itself.
And this smell is not centralized. How could it possibly be that easy? No, this burning, fetid, necrotic, chemical smell is not truly of our world, or even our dimension. It impinges on all space and time. It will not fade because it has always been and always will be. It lies in wait, awaiting an undefended moment, when you think you know peace. It is there in the ambergris of your lovers perfume. It will be in the fresh and clean scent of your first child, reminding you that contentedness is ever fleeting. And it shall wait for you at the end of your days. And beyond? Perhaps. It has brought atheists strong with faith in their faithlessness to their knees in supplicating prayer in the past and shall again. It pursues you ever around the wheel of karma, clings to the pearly gates, suffuses the flowers of Jannah. It surpasses eschatology.
Or maybe I'm exaggerating. But not by very much.
I was going to give you some sort of real update, or at least a media review, but I don't see how it could possibly compare at this point, so I'm signing off now.
But now it's come to distances and both of us must try. Your eyes are soft with sorrow. Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
Dear universe:
The next time you decide to make it ten bajillion degrees out at one AM, could you please not also detonate a skunk outside my door? Please?
Actually, I think I should elaborate on that, in some vain attempt to actually capture the almost transcendent terror of this event. First off, let me note that I don't generally mind the way skunks smell. I will go a step further and admit that I sort of like it at a distance. Not in an "I wonder if I could get that in a facial scrub?" sort of way, but more in a "Well, that's something you don't smell every day, neat." sort of way. So when I say that I do not enjoy this smell, you need to understand that this is not a statement that deserves a "Well duh" in response.
Allow me to try to convey the additives in this nightmare potpourri, the flavor crystals of this olfactory experience. Above and beyond baseline skunk smell, add whatever herbal smell you like the least. Personally, I am not a fan of anise. Alternately, if it is within the realms of your imagination, add your favorite herbal smell, gone horribly, horribly wrong. I'm not going to do all the work here. If you really want to understand this smell, you're going to have to meet me half way. It exists in subjective reality. It molds itself around the weak parts of those who experience it.
But I get ahead of myself. At this point perhaps you are envisioning a skunk that has rolled in an herb garden. Perhaps you are harboring fond memories of Flower from Bambi. You poor fool. Have you not been paying any attention? No, if Flower this be, it is Flower perforated with buckshot, aspirating blood and finally expiring in a cursed field long hallowed by blood sacrifice. In that field grows the flower of pain, its root systems hungry for neural tissue.
And now in time-lapse photography, like A Zed And Two Noughts reshot as a zombie movie, we see the flower claim its host, tendrils thrust through the eye sockets, desiring only the sweet taste of myelin, flensing the corpse of all that was once beautiful, leaving only pain that passes beyond the supposed release of death and a burning desire to feast on all that have known happiness. Now, the parasitic union complete, it lurches into jerky motion, necrotized flesh wound through with rotting creepers coated with rusty leaf blight, under a sky lit only by cold and distant stars, the moon having mercifully fled behind the trees, unable to face this abnegation of the natural order.
Can you see it? Can you sense its hatred of you? Do you begin to grasp the terror that lurks within its rotted scent glands? Do you feel the weight of its regard as its still faintly glowing cybernetic eye scans over you, the lidar messages bouncing back informing it that you are too close to flee. Far too close, and so terribly mortal.
But what's that you say? "Cybernetic?" Of course. Of course. Did you really think that smell of oil and chemical out spill could possibly come from anything natural, or even supernatural? No, when the mustelid harbinger of the end days finds you, you must know that it could not possibly exist without the hubris of man, its first, and most terrible creator.
Thankfully though it is not the beast itself I face, but only its chemical spoor, the monster itself apparently having combusted in some unholy ignescent end. No purifying fire this though, not the purgatorial annihilation of cremation, or even the baconlike crackle of melting fat at a witch burning. No, this is the coal fire that burns beneath your town for decades, venting poisonous gas and ever hungry for fuel in any form. This is everything that should never burn. Chemical seas candescing pale blue and green. The harsh carcinogizing sunlight of a world at the end of time. This is fire that scoffs at mere oxygen. It has more rarified tastes. It hungers for Ytterbium, for Meitnerium, for the shattered glass eyeball of your first teddy bear, for joy itself.
And this smell is not centralized. How could it possibly be that easy? No, this burning, fetid, necrotic, chemical smell is not truly of our world, or even our dimension. It impinges on all space and time. It will not fade because it has always been and always will be. It lies in wait, awaiting an undefended moment, when you think you know peace. It is there in the ambergris of your lovers perfume. It will be in the fresh and clean scent of your first child, reminding you that contentedness is ever fleeting. And it shall wait for you at the end of your days. And beyond? Perhaps. It has brought atheists strong with faith in their faithlessness to their knees in supplicating prayer in the past and shall again. It pursues you ever around the wheel of karma, clings to the pearly gates, suffuses the flowers of Jannah. It surpasses eschatology.
Or maybe I'm exaggerating. But not by very much.
I was going to give you some sort of real update, or at least a media review, but I don't see how it could possibly compare at this point, so I'm signing off now.
But now it's come to distances and both of us must try. Your eyes are soft with sorrow. Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
