Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Jogging With Roussel 22


There was a twelve yr old chlorlock version of Raymond Roussel sitting at the new Jules Verne Dreams of Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea memorial off the coast of, both Nantes, and the Isle of Guernsey, in the Gild Holm'Ur chair whose bi-location field allowed one to imagine whatever chimeric Cashmere while being set into the head of the giant stone squids which formed the chassis of the twin memorial. His visitor's badge allowed him two transferrals, so that he could visit Guernsey if he wished then venture back to his origin off the coast of Nantes. The tunnel out into and up onto the giant stone squid memorial was thick green glass and had a texture of fine grained patterns like the organic thoughtforms one imagined passed through a sand dollar on their way to an urchin. The boy was dressed in a dark blue velvet suit and a white linen shirt, and black shoes with large square brass buckles, and he listened to Erik Satie on inset earphones which were simply nubs he controlled with his mind, and disposable, like a dog's bark. In Guernsey he sat by a large pale blue cube of painted concrete writing in his journal:

Expedition to Vorrh: CXV

Vast and tangled tree-limbed orbs hover over the fragrant fangroves. Like Wisteria blossoms the natives' apartments or dwellings hang in sprays of lamp-like clam-like clusters, and sometimes the smell of cook smoke reaches one's nose. There is a small legged fish which the Vorrhunes prize, its fruiting joints and marbled symbiotic fungal exo-armor, and they eat it in quantities. Passing quietly beneath this phantasmagorical domain, Roussier, in his tiny sloop made his way back to the Les Ongle Mer to upload the day's scientific data...

Raymond closed the little journal, and watched some birds along the beach. After awhile a dark obsidian form arrived maybe a few hundred meters up in the air and out to sea, about the size of a personal vehicle. As it lowered itself closer to the ocean, it seemed he could see the bright red-headed hair and super-long beard of a man come out of a small window. Then it seemed as if thousands of tiny creatures were using his beard as a ladder to descend into the sea, and where they entered the sea, it began to boil. Raymond stood up to get a better view. Soon he saw a flotilla of what looked like 16th century Caravels pop up out of the water fully rigged manned by eloid sailors. Raymond sat back down. A chlorlock was giving his eloi an historical vacation. "Must be a Scotsman," Raymond mumbled under his breath as he trotted off to find the tunnel to Nantes.