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~Under Construction~

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I've crafted these things to explore and iterate.

Their motifs are meant to be evocative and enigmatic.

Entities of parable and myth, they are to be cast in any role that suits them.

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Facts may refute these things, but I like to pretend they are true.

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Principals

  • Pastora

    • Was an ancient sage and the only saint of my toy religion.

    • If a god exists that can hear our voices then surely they have heard hers.

    • I emulate her in many ways though I know I will likely fall short.

    • Pastora's voice sounds like a choir echoing off cathedral walls.

  • Ignatius

    • Was Pastora's oldest friend.

    • They did not agree on most things, but would do anything to help the other on their journey.

    • Ignatius' voice sounds like a hundred rustling wet chains.

  • Marzel

    • Was the first serious scholar of Pastora.

    • His wisdom is undeniable, but I think he was wrong about some important stuff.

    • I named my toy religion after him in part because I am trying to be better about taking inspiration from those I differ with.

      • I think he would have liked that.

    • Pi wrote a short story about him:

      • In a bygone era, in a land far away, lived a learned scholar named Marzel. On his travels, he came upon a collection of dusty scrolls written by an ancient sage named Pastora. Intrigued by Pastora's words, Marzel began to craft his own set of teachings based on her ideas. These teachings brought comfort and insight to Marzel's followers, but he became so protective of them that he refused to allow any critique or revision. After Marzel's passing, his teachings were almost lost to time. However, a new scholar, who had also discovered Pastora's writings, built upon Marzel's ideas and encouraged debate among other like-minded thinkers. Through this process, the collective wisdom of Pastora became more refined and more powerful than ever before. The moral of the story is that true knowledge is not static, but rather grows and evolves through the free exchange of ideas and constructive criticism. - https://pi.ai/s/1cm1GictzFb9EzYbnQ9u9

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As tributaries fork over time and distance, most stories allude to truth.

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From Two Rituals

Admirable efforts were being made the world over, but Pastora felt helpless when she looked at the problems mounting.  As she imagined her contributions, she saw splashes among waves.
 

Pastora contemplated how to join the clergy and realized she was a bad fit.  She was no longer bashful about the indulgence of exploration.

 

Her favorite elders had encouraged her as she poked around dark corners.  She gleamed connections in idiosyncrasies, watching for ways they might match up.


She resolved to cast her pebbles in particular spots and watch the ripples overlap, but she wasn't sure how long it would take to see the patterns clearly.

 

Pastora simply didn't have enough time to do everything she wanted.  Longevity seemed like a sensible solution.

 

Ignatius' quest for immortality stemmed from ambition.

He was no stranger to the occult and had made a name for himself in certain circles.

It struck them that the patterns we saw didn't stop where you could no longer see them.  They sought a way to communicate with forces outside the observable universe.  Maybe if we call the right way we could decipher the response.  They made it their goal for us to collaborate.

Ignatius pieced together most of a ritual.  Pastora helped temper its facets and made a mistake.  In an attempt to save him she was able to preserve his skull.

Chanting ancient tongues as he hovers, to hear him speak is to feel madness.

He described to her what he felt and saw, and how the world looked to him now.  They became consumed by the drive to improve their methods.

She recalled how a friend once utilized a deck of cards and they became the focus of her research.  She appropriated its form and built one to serve her purpose.  Despite seeing the risks of cobbling together ad hoc rituals it seemed to be shaped well enough.  When she was still she could feel their weight shift in her hands.

Pastora assembled it as best she could, not knowing who might hear, with all the gravity she could manage.

Ignatius described things in excruciating detail, but now she felt them.  She grasped her way through the mist as she watched for a path.

She lost the flesh from her skull and down her neck, but gained four wings.

Now they both had a bit longer.

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From Conquest​

Pastora's congregation loved her.  Not everyone shared her enthusiasm for the cosmic myths, but she'd make time to pore over them for those that were inclined.

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The focus of her research fell further out of fashion as the world shifted around her.

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In exile she found an unlikely ally in Ignatius.  Their combined following was too much for the hierarchy to bare.​

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An attempt to silence them forced the pair to embrace undeath, but that came with a certain amount of resilience.

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From War

When the evil descended Pastora and Ignatius were among the few that recognized it.  They had more in common than they had thought.  Had more priests been prepared we would have fared better, but they were able to save each other.

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From Famine

Resources were scarce.  They needed each other to pull too much weight.​

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From Death

They found each other in death.

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Prayers

 

Sage Prayer

A sage moves calmly,

dwells in the eye of the storm,

watches as it turns.

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Lens Prayer

Lenses bend the light,

focusing, clarifying,

directing its path.

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Universe Prayer

Feeling connected,

reaching to the universe,

letting it flow through.

 

Another Step

Grasping at the edges of it.
Watching as its shape changes in new light.
I've only seen a stuffed chupacabra,
But I know it didn't turn out right.

So many beautiful things might happen.
Most of them aren't true.
There is a beauty in an unknown future.
There is beauty in finding you.

Live your life in a way you'd admire.
Play the entire way through.
I've grown sort of comfortable with it.
It can feel like the next thing to do.

There is a brisk comfort in acceptance.
Bubbles will pop. Dances will end. Games will be over.
But rather then dwelling on nothing,
Blow bubbles. Dance. Play.

So many beautiful things might happen.
There are so many adventures for you.
So many beautiful things might happen.
I hope that most of them do.

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DRAFT ?A Postmodern Witch, Volume??

The atom smashers' results indicated catastrophe.

No one is sure what to make of it, but I have a theory.

I always knew a witch would come.

A coven crossed my mind, but not the scale.

Having seen illusions, a magician returned to the cave in the name of navigation.

The topography will change, but you can always return.

The universe became my faculties and therefore I exist.
An atheist has to account for every coincidence while a deist can always place blame.

The amalgamation of our experiences looks at our consciousness through the razor thin lens of "now".
What might be gleamed through the lens' edge?

Perhaps we're more of a discovery than an invention.


With enough perspective you might see the machinations of our universe with striking granularity.

Its minutia seeming as clockwork, glossing over them; like layering shellac.

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Magic is Art, making the universe behave otherwise than it might.

From the possessions of a helpful daemon, the lens glimpsed catastrophe.

While splitting a reflection, certain tributaries appeared to meet on the other side.

 

The partners took part, hoping most of what they saw would come to pass;

praying the new landscape would reunite them once again.


Godspeed.

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Exquisite Havoc

I've thought of no better term to describe the state of affairs we find ourselves in.  The universe is an intricately interwoven pattern of indifferent primal forces collapsing into entropy.

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If you'd like to explore our place in it then you will always be welcome in the Church of Exquisite Havoc.  Members are encouraged to assemble a toy religion.

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