Cthullu in the Breeze
I had been doing some transcribing of my manuscript to computer. This had been boring and tedious work until the other night, just before the good rains came; I had discovered buried in the scribbled texts a coded passage that revealed itself to be a map.
This is totally unbelievable to me as I put no such passage into my manuscript and the only thing coded, or rather thinly veiled, are passages which display an understandable disdain for my errant father and Waffle House waitresses. So you all can imagine my utter surprise to not only have discovered this “map”, but to see that it was written in blood. Not mine or anyone I know. Apparently it was there in the notebooks before, but I, so wrapped up in the good flow of novel writing, had failed to notice that the new notebook I had started was bound in tanned flesh and written in human ink, which is to say blood. Cool, right?
After I fully translated the text, written in script far older than whatever pussy god you worship and that no human has ever gazed upon, it turned out to be a map leading to Cumming’s, my hometown (Central High Bulldogs rule!), Central Park, built not too long ago and is by far younger than the very gods themselves, and erected on ground no more sacred than whatever mundane thing I can think of to relate this to, probably something commonly discarded in trash bins. The Indians were run off in the Trail of Tears and Cumming doesn’t have any hippies so all the land’s value is strictly monetary. What I’m getting at is the destination on the blood map is ridiculously arbitrary, but eerily convenient. So I go, because I was going to anyway. I get a lot of thinking done walking the paved trail that surrounds the park. But mind you were it not for the blood map I would have gone a little later.
The good rains hadn’t come yet, so it was a pretty day; a little hot, a little too humid, but it’s Georgia ‘the fuck you gonna do? There was a ball game going on at every diamond in the park, and a youth soccer game at the two soccer fields. Concessions were being bought, eaten, and wrappers discarded… like so much acreage in Forsyth County. See what I did?
I threw on my mp3 player and listened to some early nineties hip-hop, such as “Ditty” by Paper-boy. So I’m bobbing my head and looking at the clouds, and lo do I spot a cluster that looks remarkably like that masked killer in Scream. Squinting harder, and wanting to see something a little cooler than that openly hackneyed and completely overrated slasher, I see, I shit you not, Cthullu. Or at least what I think Cthullu looks like which is basically some weird human/squid face with fangs and tentacles that come out the sides of the face. Cool, right?
For those of you who know not Cthullu he is a big scary demon monster created by the turn of the century horror writer H.P. Lovecraft.
What I noticed, and this is totally effed up, was that throughout that day, after that crazy obscure, and totally subject to my imagination, vision on each playing field of the park teams were losing; while their enemies, their advisaries scored points a plenty and rose up victorious of them. It gets weirder. Some of the precious children, after spending many hours in the hot sun and were tired of and from playing were crying to their mommies and daddies that they wanted very badly to go home. And I knew. I knew it in my bones. All these people, you and myself included, are one day going to die. It is written. I assume. Not in that blood text I found while transcribing my manuscript. That was just a list of directions to the park, or rather a list of directions to that spot from the very spot I was transcribing, apparently written, like, forever ago.
But the really weird thing is. I mean the absolute strangest part of this story, is that I still listen to early nineties rap. What’s that all about? Who knows, friends? Who knows?
This is totally unbelievable to me as I put no such passage into my manuscript and the only thing coded, or rather thinly veiled, are passages which display an understandable disdain for my errant father and Waffle House waitresses. So you all can imagine my utter surprise to not only have discovered this “map”, but to see that it was written in blood. Not mine or anyone I know. Apparently it was there in the notebooks before, but I, so wrapped up in the good flow of novel writing, had failed to notice that the new notebook I had started was bound in tanned flesh and written in human ink, which is to say blood. Cool, right?
After I fully translated the text, written in script far older than whatever pussy god you worship and that no human has ever gazed upon, it turned out to be a map leading to Cumming’s, my hometown (Central High Bulldogs rule!), Central Park, built not too long ago and is by far younger than the very gods themselves, and erected on ground no more sacred than whatever mundane thing I can think of to relate this to, probably something commonly discarded in trash bins. The Indians were run off in the Trail of Tears and Cumming doesn’t have any hippies so all the land’s value is strictly monetary. What I’m getting at is the destination on the blood map is ridiculously arbitrary, but eerily convenient. So I go, because I was going to anyway. I get a lot of thinking done walking the paved trail that surrounds the park. But mind you were it not for the blood map I would have gone a little later.
The good rains hadn’t come yet, so it was a pretty day; a little hot, a little too humid, but it’s Georgia ‘the fuck you gonna do? There was a ball game going on at every diamond in the park, and a youth soccer game at the two soccer fields. Concessions were being bought, eaten, and wrappers discarded… like so much acreage in Forsyth County. See what I did?
I threw on my mp3 player and listened to some early nineties hip-hop, such as “Ditty” by Paper-boy. So I’m bobbing my head and looking at the clouds, and lo do I spot a cluster that looks remarkably like that masked killer in Scream. Squinting harder, and wanting to see something a little cooler than that openly hackneyed and completely overrated slasher, I see, I shit you not, Cthullu. Or at least what I think Cthullu looks like which is basically some weird human/squid face with fangs and tentacles that come out the sides of the face. Cool, right?
For those of you who know not Cthullu he is a big scary demon monster created by the turn of the century horror writer H.P. Lovecraft.
What I noticed, and this is totally effed up, was that throughout that day, after that crazy obscure, and totally subject to my imagination, vision on each playing field of the park teams were losing; while their enemies, their advisaries scored points a plenty and rose up victorious of them. It gets weirder. Some of the precious children, after spending many hours in the hot sun and were tired of and from playing were crying to their mommies and daddies that they wanted very badly to go home. And I knew. I knew it in my bones. All these people, you and myself included, are one day going to die. It is written. I assume. Not in that blood text I found while transcribing my manuscript. That was just a list of directions to the park, or rather a list of directions to that spot from the very spot I was transcribing, apparently written, like, forever ago.
But the really weird thing is. I mean the absolute strangest part of this story, is that I still listen to early nineties rap. What’s that all about? Who knows, friends? Who knows?
posted by pacoblue at 2:02 PM
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