Occam's Mirror

Because sometimes the most obvious answer is a distorted reflection of truth.

Tuesday, 8 December 2009


Two days
I’m afraid. Can’t really put a finger on why. The book is nearly fully translated and the dreams are more vivid. I’ve been working solidly for over a week now. Ate again today. Sandwiches, two, brown bread and peanut butter. All I can keep down. Lots of carbs to keep me awake. The mixture is nearly ready. I sweat a lot at night. Prefer not to sleep.

Fourteen days
Was approached today by the most singular of fellows, a peculiar chap whose hygiene was easily as dubious as his questionable sense of fashion. He and I remonstrated for a time upon the subjects of ancient philosophy, the decline of the classical literature and the rise of the new science. Then, to both my wonder, and if I am truly honest, delight, he brought forth a tome most archaic in its nature. Upon questioning the texts significance, I was informed that it is written in the “tongue of angels”, and that I would be paid most handsomely for its translation. I agreed, and have returned to study the book.

Nine days
Found a book today. Usual trolling through bookshops turned up interesting find. Large, unjacketed. Smells very old and seems to be written entirely pictographically. None Egyptian origin. Some pictograms suggest Hermetic origins. Fell asleep after writing today’s entry. Dreams were disturbing and vivid. Several pictograms seem to have triggered a subconscious response. Bears further study.

Ten days
The text is truly amazing. The script uses neither Greek nor Roman characters, instead relying upon the interpretation of a variety of strange pictorial images, similar to those of great antiquity being uncovered as we speak in the interior of Egypt. However, the symbols in the text seem formed by a significantly more advanced culture, almost certainly linked to these quiet isles. Repetition of several motifs can be seen, as I will lay out below. Figure a. shows the sun, moon and a third heavenly body forming a perfect triangle as seen from the earth. Figure b. shows a man being scalped, in the manner of the American savage, with water overflowing his skull. Several smaller figures catch the water in strange vessels and drink. Figure c. shows the same man as in fig. b with rainbows emanating from the palms of his hands.

Three days
I woke up at around three this morning, terrified and in the shower. I don’t remember getting in the shower, but I presume I hadn’t been there long, because whatever power my subconscious mind has, it obviously doesn’t have the ability to pull the cord that turns on the hot water. The mixture is bubbling away on the stove as I write this, which I’m doing in the kitchen because the entire flat is freezing cold. I should talk to the landlord about the damp. I dreamt last night again, a new feature to the usual sequence. In this dream I was down in the dark, looking out into a valley, where I could see dinosaurs. It was beautiful, but terrifying at the same time. I haven’t liked dinosaurs since Jurassic Park came out, not with that spitting one. But then I was walking away from the valley and into something straight out of some weird post-industrial nightmare. Then I met a man with no mouth who gave me the last piece of the puzzle – a word that I won’t write down, purely for academic safety. I asked him what he wanted from me in return but he just touched his forehead to my own, like Ellen used to do. I almost miss her. Once this is done with, I’ll take her out somewhere nice. It’s written down now, so I have to do it.

Six days
Nightmares last night featured several pictograms. Am reaching basic understanding of the books text. Prof. Elgin worried by my “apparent lack of interest in academic studies.” Idiot. Powerful archetypal imagery in play throughout text. Told Ellen to leave earlier. Distracting me from work. Believe I have stumbled across a major find. First line reads “[with]Proper preparation/ ritual, boundarie[s] / gateway[s] [are] softer than first seen.” Bracketed words surmisation. Sleep unwelcome. Coffee and pro plus needed.

Eight days
Dear God, I have it. This tongue of angels is no more than a simple cipher based upon an analytical and instinctual interpretation of each page of pictograms as a whole. This can then be translated, although I hesitate to use such an inelegant term for the artistic process behind the system, into the modern English. The first page, as I can tell it, reads thusly. “The door, once opened may not be securely fastened. I the book, I presume am the guardian, entrusted until the heavens are forgotten, to secure within my frame the venom of knowledge that it may never be forgotten to rise once more in the summer of Man.” I shudder to think of the blasphemous content of this ancient tome, that such ominous words should preclude it. My dreams swim with terrible iconography.

Four days
Yesterday spent preparing ritual elements detailed in main body of text. Have not eaten since day before yesterday. Nightmares now v. bad. Ellen hasn’t returned. Smoking lots. Book may be two texts. First useless – almost untranslatable. Second references ritual preparation for classic “spirit walk”. Interesting in several ways. Patterns and sounds. Drugs. Chanting. Usual elements. Other elements strange. Muscle tensing. Bodily components in mixture. Have decided to attempt replication. Possible dissertation subject. Screw Elgin. Threatening to kick me from course. Screw him.

Final Day
The man has returned for his book. He awaits me downstairs as I write, a terrible dilemma hanging above me like Damocles’ ever present sword. The text is complete, an interpretation into English of the most horrendous rituals and methodologies. With it, a man might open the door to God, but there are those things that Man, poor frail and mortal Man were never meant to look upon. Can I damn a soul to that eternal hell? Can I consign to the fire a work so powerful that to read it allows us closer union with our creator. My pistols lie upon the writing desk at which I stand. One for the poor unfortunate below, the other for the poor unfortunate whose words you peruse. My secret I shall carry to the grave. Away, I can write no more. Adieu.

Minus One Day
Awoke. All is light and beauty. Air is pure. Breath is a form of truest art. I have seen what is and is not. And it is…glorious.

1 comment:

  1. Amazing writing! Hooked me in from the first or second line and kept me going to the end. Really enjoyed that.

    My writing has hit a brick wall. Glad to see there are those who can keep on going.