Light a candle. Draw the required sigils. Now, raise your arms above your head and slowly, gently, exhale your soul. You won’t need it here. This is Audioccult, and it’s time to get low. Illustration: SHALTMIRA
As I live, I shall never forget my ascent of that black and terrible mountain. The villagers who guided me there called me a fool to ascend it; fool that I am, I payed them no heed though my judgement decreed no alternative. I soon discovered my error, yet nothing could turn me away from my goal. Each step, each grasp was torture. The obsidian glass scattered about its crevices, sharper than any knife, embedded itself beneath the flesh of my hands. My knees shed red tears behind me, sliced ragged by countless stumbles while the pounding of my pulse beat in time to the litany of prayers and curses pouring from my mouth. Below me lay soot-drenched clouds, desolation and the bodies of my companions, long given over to whatever wretched fauna infests this land. “I did the best I could,” I whispered into the wind, “I did the best I could”, but it soothed neither they nor I.
Craning my neck I saw above me the blessed peak: relief, rest. The months spent searching, struggling, the countless tears and frustrations had all come to this moment. Ignoring my own agony, I pushed ahead closer, so close. Finally I reached the top, yet even then my trial was not complete. Heedless of the need for rest and water, I found the marking cairn of pitted rock and dried animal skins ,and slowly I began to dig. Time was meaningless, pain a distant memory. Finally, when I felt I could dig no more my hands brushed against metal. In my haste I pushed aside the mounds of earth and rock as though they were mere dust. Nestled there in the black stone-pitted mud was an ancient iron box. With trembling hands I opened it, unmindful of my seeping cuts and shattered fingernails, and beheld the holiest of holies — all the Roseannes.
Many people are afflicted with depression, but I was never one of those. Despite all the Whitehouse records in my bathroom (tubtime partydance, why don’t you try it some time if you think you’re a cool enough dude) I’m a pretty happy guy, but within the last year I’ve been hanging in the dumps with trash-level IRL emoticons. For months I poured over countless tomes while ingesting unwise amounts of narcotics. I tried going out with my hat turned around until it was backwards, experimenting with the ‘bad ass’ lifememe in ways I’d prefer not to expound on. I examined the bizarre ASMR community, where you may watch people talk about their makeup or chew hamburgers in order to ease your tension. I even went out into the sun, and boy is my face red. Beachgoth is a lie.
Then I heard them call out to me, from high above the cities and religions and humanity. The boner episode. The weed episode. Becky cuts the cheese. Jackie’s mouth agape, her arms pinwheeling frantically. Every episode waiting for me, offering light and hope. As I stood atop the vast and shattered mountain peaks, gazing down at this holiest of grails, I became aware of a violent ejaculation, bestial and passionate. Whether it was screaming or laughter I knew not, the words themselves barely discernible, barely human…”what… kill us… making us stronger”….but as my fingers lightly stroked the First Season DVD case (full extras and blooper reels included) I realize the sound was coming from my own lips…
That was but a few days and several unpleasant customs hassles ago. Now, sitting here in the calming embrace of my study with a slowly-warming cognac in my hand, a smile comes to my lips. The prize I sought rests nestled in furs in the middle of the room, near enough to the crackling fireplace to take the unholy chill of the mountain from its iron hinges yet far enough not to singe its precious contents. As I queue up every episode where David and Darlene are happy together, a laugh bubbles in my throat, expanding until it fills the room. I have my salvation, yet it was greater than I ever imagined. For though all else is intact, the case which contains Season Nine never made it off that mountain. Mayhap it burned to ashes upon my arrival at the monastery which cared for me until my strength returned; or perhaps it fell into one of the endless pits crating the slopes of that vile stone edifice from whence it came. Whatever the answer, I pray God it never surfaces. ~
The Mother awakens. Dormition She sleeps…She sleeps and rules in her starry bodied glory. The Mother sleeps. The Mother loves.
I say there is no death
We have lived before and shall live again.
To those who say there is no hope
I say liars.
– Excerpts from “Dormition and Dominion” by Current 93
Published June 20, 2013. Words by Daniel Jones.