NOW WE HAVE THOUGHT
That battle had been fought with more or less luck but in the end, it's not luck that matters, not even the battle: all that counting of the dead in a field too known where the larvae of the eternal stirs. And again, looking into Maynard's eyes, I thought of Franz Akuva. How primitive can a register be? What is that they understood by registering? In that era, where the collision was barely perceived through delicate instruments, patiently constructed following the instructions from the Voynich Manuscript by a handful of lunatics that, operating such instruments, from their countless asylums in Europe, the Americas, Antarctica, Africa, Oceania and Australia delivered meaning. No one in Asia cared about it, as if the Near East´s deserts were muted, as if those hordes that would later conquered Rome remained in lethargy among the silver sand lakes and the architectural hallucinations of Dubai. And beyond that, it was stretched a sonic mantra. Franz Akuva profoundly questioned the irrefutable character of the world. And he registered the world. If the Earth is conceived as a vegetal machine, similar to those proposed by the Voynich Manuscript, one begins to breathe a diffuse logic that does not admit closed structures, to which even the term structure is inadequate, rather the concept of ectoplasm is required and rescued from among the positivism´s rubbish.
All the linkages that relates the animal body and the gestural body are exposed and dissected under a painful sun, the sun of the Salpetrière, where it was seen, I know, something essential. There, inside that endless greenhouse, which connects Zürau with Mazorra, Arkham with the Devil's Kitchen, the lobotomy’s silent cellars with Samuel Johnston. What has come to us except that succession of names that announced the collision? And who was the first to feel that his body was the object of an actively disintegrating geology? Like wearing a suit that overlaps our internal organs with the Mariana Trench, where the head of the Vampiroteutis Infernalis -that bestial octopus- lies, in the exact place where we previously had the certainty that our lungs breathed the air. Substitution. Very few. Very few persons understood the urgency of the matter. In that great laboratory that preceded the collision, the experiment of existence was practiced every day: its ultimate expression was realism. AND REALISM MEANS LANGUAGE. Maynard watched me in silence and waved the spoon inside an oily substance that I imagined and described to myself as black tea. I know we both thought the same: Franz Akuva. He was not a talented guy, but he knew how the Hollow Earth Society worked, that's more than many people can say. And I had an agenda that was too shocking to describe it here: it involved expanding and facilitating the collision. Maynard handed me one of Akuva´s frames.
- Perhaps what annoys most, is its complete uselessness. There is something that fails in the nucleus, but that failure is fundamental because it expresses the entry point of the collision. Those dogs that pulls Amundsen. That meticulous iteration does not work, because precisely CANNOT be functional. It is a double traction’s movement: the bullet that broke the Archduke of Austria-Hungary´s skull is the same bullet shot by the cowboy of The Great Train Robbery. This is the real thing. Assume it. You superimpose those two frames that are a historical-histrionic gesture. You manipulate them and express something that goes against the expression itself ... of course in this issues Failure is inevitable. But think more carefully, without affecting your digestion, do you think he cared about the aesthetic field? Seriously? The only thing that matters here is the theological fear. I said.
He spat and scratched his nose. It was difficult for him to speak at this hour, there: stirring within the Perceptron, Maynard's ectoplasm rippled and drank again the oily substance. In the background, the arboreal-shaped ruins of a city. What city? I would never know, since Maynard was extremely discreet in revealing his locations. Located in death, in disintegration, in the euphoria of idiotic stars, Maynard reads my mind without difficulty, uses my words and disables any hint of civilized conversation. I must admit that I miss him. At this time, in this continuum, our last excuse is to return again and again to Franz Akuva.