kAlts of Beulah: C1-C3

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C1

Antarctica Prime. Libertalia City. The Last City on Earth. Kallah Fatel stands motionless in the damp fizzing electric neon of the morgue. The destructed corpse of her friend; Jan Lee the First and Last Custodian of the New Jerusalem lay physically, spiritually, politically and symbolically dead. The smell of burnt flesh and tech, iron and wire. A brutal sacrifice had been perpetrated.

Instinct.

Kallah Fatel’s hand came to rest on her pistol, holstered on her left thigh. She leaned in bending down hovering over inspecting what was left of her friends head; inhaling the potent wash of disinfected frozen dead as she gently thumbed open the one remaining eyeball.

Ice blue frozen glass exploded black hole retina, terminus maximus; FIN. Consumption over. The thinnest rim of colour dancing time immemorial hidden within the unfathomable infinite abyss of the ineffable mirror.

“Poor sod” Kallah Fatel whispered to herself in the cold hard luminescent chrome nightclub of the dead. Expunged. Void. Redundant. Tragic divinity of lifeless flesh and bone. Elvis had well and truly left the building. Kallah eulogised.

Her nano-laced faux leather trench coat and Fedora hat dripped forming blue neon pools that grew like a moat around where she stood. Soaked through, even the nano tech struggled with the schizophrenic weather systems of Antarctica Prime.

Kallah stood permanently surrounded as all citizens of Antarctica Prime did, by the omnipresent technological hum of Urizen; the malevolent quantum super intelligence that ruled over what had once upon a time been declared the New Jerusalem, drenching all the kAlts of Beulah in a heavy shroud of dread and hope in the mysterious absence of humanities benevolent long lost liberator Albion.

“Calibration 3, 6, 7... Ready…OPEN”.  Kallah opens her hard pain laden eyes and stared deeper, pouring her gaze into the deconstructed disfigured tech enhanced skull of the Custodian; to her surprise she suddenly puked luminous green gunge into the remains of the dead man’s violently mangled face, shattered bone and leftover brain soup. The vomit slurped and oozed and tangled with the implanted nano fibres which laced and weaved throughout the lifeless cadaver; tracing the network of synthetic streams and rivers and tributaries of fibre and vein as the vomit flowed deeper into the meat, disappearing, absorbed, heading directly back to the source towards the thing that cannot be found. The empirical ghost, the elusive shadow.

Kallah felt better.

Post vomit euphoria.

Clarity.

***

C2

Not even the silky neon hot pink blood of Nanoglobin could wake this dead man’s sleeping heart, Kallah thought. NO bleeping machines. NO blinking lights of augmentation. NO grinding of bone and stainless steel. NO zipping bio electrical charge. NO lightning bolts from the Gods could reanimate this corpse.

Jan Lee The First and Last Custodian of the New Jerusalem was well and truly dead. The brain obliterated to such an extent there was no chance Urizen could reanimate the grey matter and retrieve the secrets the extinguished man took to his grave. Jan Lee’s son had called Kallah a few hours ago, he wanted Kallah to investigate, he needed to know if there was any chance his father could be reanimated in Beulah before the Voidz and Urizen got their hands on him.

The movement of skin and gritted teeth sucked tears back up reverse mourning ducts reunited with watery offspring; the only physical manifestations of weakness trauma buried deep in the battlefields of a life’s epic blood history. A raging fire of atomised existential loss burned so hard within her breast it brought crimson to her cheeks. Her hands trembled — Thomas Adès’ Arcadiana — ‘O Albion’ at the peak of cum.

She breathed in deep. Beckoning down Buddha, an existential stillness, that refused her command.

Her eyelids peeled wide searching not blinking. Only her head moved typewriter ding, scanning left right ding, for clues ding. “Too much mess,” she realised staring into the charred mangled remains of her extinct friend Jan Lee. Reanimation impossible, she noted to herself.

         ***

        C3

The tick tick tick of her pre-Albion watch artefact on her right wrist the accompanying soundtrack to the dead and the living. She glanced down to her left wrist the Syncoscope’s needle spinning wildly, erratically wobbling like possessed demented rainbow jelly.

Right there and then Kallah took an oath to honour and avenge Jan. Kallah promised that Jan death would not be in vain.  Kallah had found the red thread started pulling a long time ago. She had entered a labyrinth that most are replaced by out of an innate instinct for survival. Not Kallah she was one of the few that had the curiosity gene overriding the self preservation gene. She just never could look the other way. Kallah was incapable of pretending. Refused to be assimilated into the mass hallucination. Rejected all hierarchy. Her experience had shown her that even in the most niche or decentralised nodes a hierarchy will inevitably emerge; power coalesces, the story of the ‘Fall’ begins again, ad infinitum, entropy, the snake eating it’s own tail, the Tower of Babel rising.

“I’m such a fucking fool” she condemned herself and considered the complications of the vertebrate. A spine connected to integrity, honesty and independent thought comes at a great evolutionary cost to the individual. Kallah’s thought train moved up through the gears, moving faster and further away from the calm she so desperately sought. She clenched her fist. Apparently for most there comes a time in so-called polite or civilised society, where you simply just give a knowing wink and a nod and carry on sailing la de da down the river; cocktails and Qabalah hand in hand, head first into the eternal gnashing teeth of Armageddon.

Kallah relaxed her fist. Her fogging breath vanishing to the four corners. Her mind exploring all possible realities, co-existing, until her next choice, her next action.

The cosy familiar sound of her own angry voice in her head ran unchecked. Buddha had abandoned her as she replayed all the decision and conversations and mistakes and sacrifices that she had made and deemed worthy at the time but now questioned; with all that she had lost and regret haunted her like a shadow she could not shake.  If she had just kept her mouth shut. She had read the room but still did not comply. Still continued to persist in wondering out loud at the staggering cognitive dissonance experienced as we all bear witness in real time to the cataclysmic decaying facade of the televisual show Reality.

With behaviour like this you soon enough, inevitably find yourself liberated to the lunatic fringe, haunting mosaic stained glass lead-lined narratives that nobody cares for. Kallah shuddered under the rapidly growing doom of an approaching conflict as the silent malevolent winds of maladministration stalked the thriving tombstone planet Earth.

***

C4

Jan’s body. Tick. Demented jelly wobble.

Kallah’s took a bump, sniffing up a pinch of the silver dust, Ix Chel aka Moon dust. Her eyes glazed over in her quest searching for clarity, the Moon dust never failed to help reforge her strength. Her mind wondered  into the cosmic fields of faded scents, the unsolvable mystery of the ancients of ancients who with out doubt sniffed the immanence of our looming destruction and rebirth, the planets unalterable schedule of time and matter; smiling in union with the universe.

  CUT TO:

A machine. Breeding hysterical fear of a nebulous nothing. A purposely cruel architecture which dictates and fertilises hate of the other, disenfranchisement, greed and idiocy. Historical manipulation, accompanied and enhanced with regular pruning.

Trees ripped from roots. Flowers starved of water and sol. Sickness festers in the air. Ignorance suffocates, buried alive. Nihilistic loop of doom terror fear. Nothing was private for long in Antarctica Prime.The news of the Custodian’s death would hit soon.

As Kallah’s eyes closed tighter, a colourful spangle on the inside of her eyelids in her minds eye flourished. Searching her inner realm with the flitting beam of a flashlight torch in the dark and dusty cobwebbed attic of her soul.

Many initiates seek Kether, she thought, the Great Initiation, the Lesser Divine Union. Many disappear lost far far away never to return drifting out to sea on ill-made rafts circling the drain. The willing initiate follows the threads embedded within the externalisation of our collective expressions of Lux Occulta, a decalcomania of this, us. Magnifying the exotic DNA of our literature, art, music; a detailed mapping of essence, nature, soul signposts surviving the filtering processes of Empires. Symbols that could not be eradicated or erased by authoritarian totalitarian censorship, inquisitions, crusades and digital censorship. Carve it into stone she thought, it WILL last longer. She found what she was looking for.

Stone. Kallah became stone. Strong. Timeless. Unpenetrable.

Kallah had excepted a long time ago that she was alone. She had demanded to take the less untrodden path that leads oneself further away from the herd that are content to graze on contaminated land. She recognised she was one of the foolish brave that willingly choose to venturing into unknown territory, pushing on when others repent and return to the flock. Kallah understood like many initiates, radicals and revolutionaries that the rewards for selfhood cannot be compromised. Death or Glory. The negative veil of existence awaits. The primordial point calling. A lighthouse that pulls you towards the rocks. Siren. Holy Grail.

Albion.

The corner of Kallah's lip rose to meet the 24/7 fluorescent neon white blue Sun of the morgue; the hint of a smile that vanished, leaving the impression to any lurking remote viewer of a gentle ripple generated cause and effect by a submarine’s periscope appearing from below a calm surface. Goethe's rainbow. The Albatross. Infinite oceans; before the smile slips back down into the depths from whence it came, back beneath into viscera. Returned to stasis. Kallah settled. Buddha was back. Waited. Listening.