What, you thought I was giving you such an interesting ‘what if’ scenario, in its entirety, out of nowhere? Now that’d be wholly inane, and if there’s one thing I am not, it’s inane. Now, allow me to pick up the story where I left off. I believe I had just dozed off in Your Mother’s comfy chair after sampling her cream puffs.
- So, the next thing I know I am waking up in the woods. I think you prefer to use the term ‘forest’ over here. You know, those places with lots of trees, not a soul for miles. The kind of place rednecks love to take their bow and arrows because killing animals with sticks is manly as fuck am I right? Anyway, so I am walking under these fucking trees. They’re tall as all hell as if they get taller every second. Someone told me you can measure trees by how many rings they have, but I think that guy was talking out of his ring. But I digress.
These trees are like conifers, all bark as high as you can reach then spouting out weird excuses for leaves blocking out most the sunlight. Of course sunlight still reaches, or my corneas wouldn’t be registering a thing, and I’d be telling you about the time I sat in the woods in pitch black with my thumb up my arse. -
- Where was I.
Ah, yes. -
- It’s dusk, so the light filters through the trees like a dim oil lamp. I’m traversing the terrain, which varies in from as I move. Sometimes densely coated in those little conifer leaves/needles/whatever you want to call them, other times just a dusty mud floor. As I walk I have to keep my eyes out for pitfalls, there are badger sets and fox dens all over the shop just waiting for me to break my ankle in their mouths.
Of course, being a nimble cat (did I mention, I like to pretend I’m a cat when I am in the wilderness? The benefits are threefold; more agile, faster, and able to catch small rodents in my mouth when I’m hungry), I simply bomb over the terrain like it’s not there. Bounding over hole after hole I’m feeling pretty bouse and I must look like one too. I imagine this is how Peter Gilmour feels when he enters a room and hears that trickling sound as all the women present start to leak lady juices on the floor. But I digress again. -
- The point of this tale is this; I made acquaintance with a beast whose presence was previously thought to be just myth. No, I don’t mean the physical embodiment of a JTC match win, don’t be absurd. No, what I refer to is the creature known to most as Bigfoot, though by dent of the location I met him in, I must refer to him as Sasquatch.
I was just coming to a clearing, you see. And the heavens opened! Your protagonist was wetter than one of Gilmour’s – oh, wait I already covered my Gilmour quotient. Err, drier than one of Barney Green’s...ah no that doesn’t work. Damn it. Still, at least you get the gist here. I stand with Gilmour in the great war! -
Fuck it, another digression.
- It’s basically wetter than an otter’s pocket. The pregnant sky’s waters have broken, and God’s placenta is raining all over me. And other such stupid metaphors. In other words I am fucking wet. Wetter than – GOD DAMN IT! Even I am getting sick of my inane tangents. This is real ‘pot calling the bowl stoned’ territory now. Focus, Nero! Focus!
...
So I am approaching this clearing, in the rain, and I find myself standing at the foot of a great river, which meanders for several hundred meters, to a point, where it meets a cascading waterfall. Immediately I can’t help noticing the leaping school of salmon making their way up the torrent, and I can’t help but start anthropomorphizing at this point. I imagine each of those little salmon is an XWF superstar. Some make it to the top, but that boring ‘reaching the zenith blah blah’ metaphor isn’t what I’m enjoying. I am chuckling away watching the stragglers. The sad fish that somehow manage to jump out of the river, or who smash themselves to mush on outcrops of craggy rock. -
- One fish flops helplessly on a slab of rock, slowly suffocating. It’s death gibber reminds me of watching Mark Flynn’s career after I relinquished him of the European title. Another fish literally smacks its face on the jagged edge of a rock, immediately bludgeoning itself to death. This self immolation reminds me of any John Madison promo while he was ‘King’ and trying to sound credible. Another fish just keeps jumping, and failing, jumping, and failing. I equate this to the progressively less credible evolutions of Satty.
At this point I look into the water and stare a fright, for the reflection looking back at me is not my own, rather, it is the reflection of a man who I have no recollection of, literally, this time. His face is certainly not my own, but in the moment I literally cannot even remember what I look like. This is pretty far out. The reflection is thrusting his hips, and I don’t even realise I’m doing it too until I’ve been watching for at least 30 seconds. -
- I stop and he follows suit, with a wink. My gaze returns to the river, and I notice a small cave nary a stone’s throw away from where I’m stood. Oh, and the rain stops. Did I mention it'd stopped? I figured it was obvious since I could see my reflection so clearly in the river, but I just remembered how slow some viewers are.
The First House. In Malkuth thou dost reside.
- And there the eyes. Yolky yellow and almond centred, gazing in my direction with audible apathy. Such is the malaise in them that I almost feel guilty when my eyes lock with them. For these eyes seem to hide some sad truth, and their bearer seems to be woven entirely of disillusion. I walk towards these eyes, knowing not why. And, as I approach, a multitude of whispers cascade through me, a million vibrations in each millisecond, bombarding me with frequencies I cannot fathom. The noise is deafening, and I sink to one knee, clasping my hands over my ears and squeezing tight, yet this seems to have no effect.
The noise ceases in an instant. In the same instant, I find that the cave I was walking towards, now houses me entirely; and the figure I was approaching now stares me directly in the face. Dim light illuminates the side of his face, hairy and ape-like. Once again I am struck with the same primal, confusing sensation I felt when I encountered Your Mother. I raise my hand to touch this sasquatchian beast, and as I touch his cheek, I feel the brush of my own hand against my face. –
And open, sweetie.
- I open my eyes, and I am back in Your Mother’s room, in her comfy chair. I’m slightly slouched, and a porcelain teacup rests in my palm. I remember, now, what’s truly occurring here. Your Mother has prepared and made me imbibe a dose of ayahuasca; a powerful Amazonian brew that shamans use to help people perform ‘work’ upon themselves. This can be in the form of recall, of seeing your life through objectionate eyes, completely neutral. In the realm of ayahuasca you may also encounter spiritual beings, though this could just be part of the hallucination.
I scan my experience for clues; a tall forest. A primal creature. My face transmogrified. What could it all mean? I feel as though all the pieces of the puzzle are right before me, or rather were right before me, moments ago. But nothing makes sense. Your Mother smiles sweetly, holding my shoulder. –
It can be overwhelming, the first time.
- She squeezes my shoulder a little.
But of all the things we have, honey, time is the most abundant. Now, sweetie, perhaps I can help you make sense of it all. Tell Your Mother everything.
Of course, of course. Allow me to adumbrate...
I feel this a pertinent moment to cut the chord on this storytelling. Perhaps I leave you sour in doing so, perhaps not. But I live in hope.Good day, audience.
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