Monday, August 19, 2013

"Eru" a myth

Further Myths regarding the Four-faced Goddess Ama, who is Ovath, Lux, Eru, and Lissidy, Father, Mother, Son, and Daughter. This on pertains to the son, Eru.



Eru strode the air on power chords, his flight was the sound of the electric guitar in form, and in fact all his movements were a musical dance, so that upon the clouds and singing he appeared a youth of exuberant bravado, kicking stars like dust and thrusting lightning in waves in his raves of ecstatic laughter and proud eyed innocence. Not only was he god of tempos, but of writing, and carried in his pocket Semanta, the gift pen, given as it was from his mother, and imbued with such magic as that what he wrote was a self-fulfilling prophesy, something in his actions would intentionally or unintentionally fulfill his words. By it he structured a heaven for himself, and many other places, for the pen, ordinary and mundane in itself, was in idea the pen of fate, and wrote code of programming into SIStem herself, or the goddess of technology, into the computer of the universe.

One day Eru felt sick of heart, wasn't on fire, heart on fire, to dance through the clouds and incite love and envy in all the men and women of earth, but had sunk into a personal funk, felt sick at heart, and dark as an empty moon. At this point, Ovath, his father, sent Lissidy, his sister, to comfort the young god.

She reflected his manner back to him, adopted the posture and the half-hearted tone of voice, and spoke at length with him in his agony -- spoke at length, though much of what she said was silence, and waiting, and the echoing of silence, and his waiting, for it was enough, she felt, that she were there, a living presence; and she also left when he seemed sullen at heart, so that when he cried out, "I feel like death!" then she said, "I will leave you to your sleep then."

But finally she prevailed on him to remember his pen and his writing, and to explore his own heart with his work, and since all his prophesies were self-fulfilling, to find a way to map out the labyrinth of his sickened heart and discover what sore need spoke therefrom. Having given this advice, and seen that he would really take it, she left Eru in peace.

Eru indeed took to writing out his grief, and through the philosophy of the thoughts and feelings, he was able to do more than cross out his cross mood, but to in fact make use of it and build from it, as if his dark mood were a dark ink whereby stronger words and magic and prophesy were made. And with this, the ink of Semanta was thickened and made severe, by the severe moods of Eru, which came and ebbed like the moon or the seasons, leaving Eru to his rockstar performances, but coming again, at times, to remind him to constrict and edit away the mistakes he had made. In this Eru learned balance.


At another time the ink of Semanta grew spotty and he felt dried up and spent and without a thought in his head. His very blood seemed congealed nor could he give love to Rozhiar. In his impatience, he buried the pen, and forgot about it.

He was at the mirror meditating when a profound thought startled his brow, and suddenly he wish quick as silver, and in his mercurial flight, found the perfect ink to further compound Lissidy. But alas! the pen was buried, and he knew not where. He scoured the earth and unearthed every likely spot, but the gift pen was missing, and he felt like a well that was so pressured to speak it could turn full fountain -- full geyser!

Finally, he found the place he had buried the pen, but underneath the rock opened a stairways that had not been there before. Bolding forward, he found himself in a great labyrinth of books, an underground library, lit by torches and candles, immaculate, yet with winding hallways. He tried various books and saw that they had all been written in his ink, but by another hand, had picked up his tropes, his ideas, and took them in different directions. Yet whoever built this place was not at hand.

                He followed the halls, and at the center there grew a coffee plant, and in its soil was mixed the pen and its ink: it had been used up and destroyed. Outraged, Eru called for his foe to show himself, but was left with echoes. Leaving the dreamy mists of the place, he grabbed the coffee fruits, which had absorbed the seeds of his pen, the spermatic word of his ideas, and he returned the surface.

In the privacy of his study, Eru made coffee from the plants, and after careful preparation, drank. The seeds, which had been taken from his pen, cut from his body, now permeated him from the inside, so that no longer was it the pen that prophesied, but his whole body was a pen, and the world was a parchment, and whether he wrote with this pen or that, or with his bare finger, or whatever he might do, he was writing history into the memory of the universe. Thus did the young God gain his exultation and become not a writer, but Writing itself.


\ ~@M@~ /


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