Once upon a time an Author had too many memories…
Revisiting the chaotic big bang of the cuilverse from my perspective: The Black Tree series. It is not the actual beginning of the universes within the cuilverse, it was simply my entry/departure from the norm point.
The series that started it all.
It is a formless mass, with inflation racing to build space nearly as fast as the ink met the pages.
It is surreal and raw and innocent and insulting. Trapped within the tattooed wood are my literal memories, the secrets of the horrific life I survived at that time seeped in as deeply as the blood in my veins.
It is that initial point of trauma, the shards of fractured fractal features kaleidoscoping ‘cross all of time and space, queering the corners of the box set to chop off my “extra” dimensions – snick snack shook!
It’s language is hardly coherent, its style maddening, its yearnings unrealized.
It is not easy to read; it never has been.
They talk too much.
The continuity is inconsistent.
You can’t put yourself in the story!
Why bastardize the English language?
There are too many characters!
This is absurd.
In these drops of poison my soul encapsulated, spinning or not spinning as you observe – or are you even looking?
And as zero hour approaches, as alternates give way to angry and disguised goddes and eventually give way to total loss…the tone gains weight…
The tangles straighten.
The death comes.
Once upon a time I could not hold the memories. I locked them away for safekeeping, casting spells upon the page with my Sinister hand.
Eventually, as the cuilverse is wont to do, the liminal grew critical and overflowed.
The Black Tree stretched it’s roots and branches through the cuilverse, cracking it open like lightning through air and rubbing electrons against its skin.
I sink in among the bubbled memories, and realize…
There’s room now. This memory can go on this shelf, this one can wander around this house, this one can skip across lakes, and this one can build stars.
Many of the memories have been permanently lost, unrecoverable, as several books were lost or stolen. My soul is split for the loss, grief crying out for something that no longer exists.
The wave washes over me and floats me toward…toward what?
The End of the Beginning? Apocalypse.