Create something.

Attribute something to it.

Allow it to age.

This is one of the most powerful hyperstitional ways of creation. It must be noted that the most key aspect to this is allow it to age. This implies the double motion of hyperstition in relation to temporality. The further back in time the hyperstition recedes, the greater its potency. This is related to the epistemic situation concerning the created accretion. That is, if I create a stone monument in my garden and say that this is dedicated to Xoth who rules over granite and the star Deneb of the summer triangle. Let’s say I also write a work describing Xoth’s mythology in cryptic words to accompany the work. At the time of making, this project may be thought of as artistically and possibly magickally interesting (depending on whether I am treating this as serious or not), but little else. However as the circumstance around my creating the temple of Xoth retreats inversely the hyperstitional power potentially accretes. The withdrawal of the possibly banal way in which this accretion was formed automatically adds another pneuminous layer: the historical. The historical of course does not necessarily add anything mysterious to things. The historical can be banal, the context determines this. However, when the created entity hints otherworldliness then the historical immediately adds to it the possibility of its having greater mystery by the simple lack of attestation to the contrary. Even quite meticulous records that assert my rationality and even playful nature in creating the temple of Xoth can be withered away by the receding event of its creation.

There are two primary paths to aid this interpretation in this kind of case. One is to assert that the playful rationality attributed to me in fact concealed a true occult fascination. If it was known that I had read such texts then this is extra fuel to this aspect-perception (regardless of what I actually made of them). Xoth can then be reinterpreted as a warped version of some other spirit name. At this juncture the line does assuredly become blurred for of course in Lacanian way I may exactly have travelled the linguistic pneuminous paths to distort the name of a power that on some subconscious level did indeed tap me -though the tapping may have been only psychoanalytic.

This blurring points the way to the second path of reinterpretation of the event. Where the first suggests that I concealed with fiction my true intent by the accretions creation, the second suggests that I acted merely as conduit to a power that I foolishly believed was just a creation of my whim. In this instance the creation is postulated not as the rendering of mother to Xoth but of some other name, yet even further cloaked in time. This being -so the second path says- has commandeered my capacity to channel accretions -which belongs to all NARPs. I became unwitting host to this power and in repeating its ancient desires, forged a small worship place for it. As the sanity of NARPs presupposes that the neurotic accretion (self) is the one which retains control, it is not possible for the NARP to proceed as if it is controlled by an alien accretion. We are always of course negotiating the dominance of the neurotic accretion against many other powers that seek to exercise control over the regional processor (brands, foods etc), however these powers are not often ‘spirits’ exerting such levels of control [as to create them places of worship]. This is the second way of interpreting the event as paranormal intervention -control through the subsconscious by other powers.

The true marvel of the accretions of this nature is then their self fulfilling power -hyperstition. For any investigation into the temple of Xoth (once it has sufficiently retreated in time) will feed the accretion of mystery and generate events of pneuminous interference (synchronicity). The ambiguity of these events has been endlessly gone over herein and labelled ‘agnostic disjunction’. Yet with each interference, the accretions power grows as the circuit of the possibility of Xoth’s reality becomes stronger.

“And where were you last night young lady?” Enquired my owlish father, peering over his poached eggs. I was not fooled by the calmness of the question, his eyes betrayed a simmering anger. “Last night?” I feigned surprise. “Yes Sophie, last night. The one in which you did not come home at all!” Outburst. “Well?” the calmness returned “I, I met someone” Apoplexy threatened “You did  what? A man?!” “Yes, no, sort of, I didn’t mean to.” The awful implications of my disappearance only now seemed to dawn upon me. “What man? Where is he? Did he touch you?” “No no, not at all, at least I don’t think so…” as these words came out I could see I had to be less vague “You don’t think so?!” “No, no father he didn’t!” “Then what were you, a 14 year old girl, doing with this man all night?” The horror of accounting for this dawned on me deeper and deeper, I began to tremble. “Nothing, he, said he knew a short cut home, across the downs back to here.” “Oh he did did he, and I suppose you stopped to pick flowers off the path too!” I looked at the breakfast table. “Sophie, have you any idea how dangerous that could have been?” I started to cry “Did he hurt you?” I sobbed onto the table cloth, “Did that bastard hurt you? Because if he did…” “He, he did’t h hurt me.” “Then what, you stopped to play tiddly winks? Sophie you were gone all night!” “No, we w walked ac cross the d downs, I didn’t know where we were.” “Then why did you go? What were you thinking?” “I d don’t know, I wasn’t scared, father it was… strange.” My father paused, something arrested the anger in him, some interest was piqued. I looked up from the table cloth. “I don’t know where I was.” I said through tears “And I don’t know how I appeared in bed this morning. He looked shocked. “Sophie, you haven’t been to bed! Between your mother and nanny and I someone has been waiting up for you all night!” “Father I don’t understand” Waves of distress overcame me, accounting for my actions had seemed like a problem, but now realising that I couldn’t  account for them. This was an anguish my mind could take. “Sophie…” calm but firm “Sophie, who was he?” “He, he said he was my uncle. He was like a frog.” the absurdity just came out “Your Uncle? But you know both your uncles. One lives in Newport and the other in London.” “He wasn’t either of those uncles father, he was a different uncle.” “What do you mean? What was his name?” “He said his name was Ambrose.” The word dropped like a stone into the room as if it were a pool. The ripples were visible. My father’s whole expression wavered, and trembled the recomposed slightly “Ambrose, you say?” “Yes…” I mirrored his waver “uncle Ambrose.” “Uncle Ambrose?” “Yes.” My father lost his composure and the colour drained out of him. Silence filled the room. “Father?” “Mm?” The replay came as if he returned from somewhere distant. “Do, do you know him?” “Who?” “Uncle Ambrose?” “Him, oh, yes, maybe. Sophie…” “Yes father.” “Sophie, maybe since you just came down from upstairs, maybe you you weren’t out all night, maybe you were there all along and we didn’t see you.” “But I remember him father, I remember being out in the hills in the dark, I remember the glowing stones in the twilight.” The fake composure tried to reassert itself “Sophie, Sophie, listen to yourself, glowing stones, dark hills, these are dreams not reality. No, you must have come back when we didn’t notice and you must have slept in a flat and inconspicuous way and we, we your worried guardians have been fools.” I was almost carried along with this narrative, if only because the ill formed images of the twilit path seemed more disturbing than this notion that I had been at home and dreamt it. The concealment however was too great for the vivid feeling that I had not dreamt it. “Who is uncle Ambrose?” He twitched slightly “I, I’m sure I should ask you the same, since it was your dream and not mine.” He tried to make this sound jovial, but his anxiety showed through “You said you something like you might know him father, what did you mean?” “That oh, I don’t know, I must have been thinking of someone else.” “Who?” “No one, nothing, nothing to do with this.” “Father your lying!” “Don’t! Don’t say that! Ambrose is a phantom, a fiend, a nothing!” The words erupted suddenly, his anxiety dissipated a fearful intensity gripped him and he stared at me with pointed eyes “A devil!” “But where do you…” “Sophie, I do not know if you dreamed him or saw him, it matters not a jot of difference. If you see him Sophie you must hide and run or both.” “But why? What do you mean? I am quite unharmed.” He calmed again as if accessed a place in which to talk of this was allowed “Things like Ambrose give clues, Sophie, the clue here is the name.” “I looked quizzically on.” “Think Sophie, think, his name is ‘uncle Ambrose’. U A are the initials. These stand for no less than ‘Utter’ ‘Abomination’. Do you see? This is what he is!” There was something persuasive in my fathers tone that rendered his decoding as quite sensible, even powerful. I began to feel frightened at this unmasking of his nature.

‘The Kingdom of the moon’. I pondered the phrase as I walked. It seemed to me it had a fantastic sound to it. It beckoned at once being upon the moon and being bathed in its light. It conjured a land of moon beings ordered by some alien monarchy. In this reverie the luna folk were nearly visible, yet not quite so. An amalgam of a the concepts of pallid light and humanoid form just out of view. In the inchoate scene they lingered outside a cratered clearing bathed also in silver light.

The image faded and I returned to the stony luminescent world continuing up the path. Ambrose now was sometimes but a moving shape up ahead and sometimes he would disappear entirely. This disappearance though was not his having moved out of sight but rather simply his having stopped moving at all. The poverty of light and his unutterable stillness rendered him seemingly impossible to spot. Only when I got within feet of him would he start walking again. I walked on after him until a moonlit twilight became a moonlit dusk. The stones grew bigger and more dominating until at last they took over the whole of the landscape. Imposing boulders and monoliths rose around me out of the darkness. The path was less of a path than a series of rocky slabs that picked their way between the higher stones. I scrambled on as Ambrose danced nimbly like a goat from rock to rock. Only the moonlight saved me from serious injury. This incredible lithic scape went on also for an age such that I began to feel tired again. Ahead Ambrose paused again. This time he waited until I had fully gained him. “My dear…” he began “…we have nearly reached our destination though there is one last path. It begins just yards from here as we go between two great stones, there all will be dark and if I lose you in this place, I shall never find you again. From this point onwards you must here take my hand and hold it tight no matter what happens. If you manage this all will be well.” Instinctively, with the same insane trust that had carried me this far, I took his hand. It was warm to the touch and firm in its grip. “Now you must walk at my speed.” he said in his jovial tone and with no warning, he set off again across the rocky landscape near dragging me as he went. I don’t know how I kept up, every footstep was a guess, a dice roll, yet somehow I always landed correctly. I was just beginning to feel a confidence in walking at this speed when the two vast rocks loomed towards us. For the purpose of illumination though their separation was practically artificial. That is, such was their size that as the path went between them, it was just as Ambrose said and the moonlight failed the chasm entirely. I held his hand tighter in trepidation and blundered into the black passage.

Apart from the darkness what was different about the black path was that underfoot there was no longer rock, instead the ground felt what could be best described as a peculiar sand, at any rate it was soft. From now on this strange sandy floor, Ambrose’s hand, and the occasional brush with the rocky side was all my reality consisted of, all else was blackness. My sense initially was that we would walk between the rocks and emerge quickly; it soon became clear that this would not happen. The sandy floored blackness continued relentlessly. Though now even through the eerie calm that had carried me along I began to become more and more frightened. A wind began to blow through the passage and though it was blacker than pitch it seemed I could often see a mist that blew past me. As time went on the misty forms grew more common, swirling in eddies by me as they went. I tried not to look for I began to feel there were faces that looked out from it with hollow gossamer eyes. Averting my gaze downwards though was no comfort, for it seemed that as I looked I could see a void of space beneath me, filled with a million stars. I felt the sandy floor continue against my feet, yet I could not reconcile this with the vast emptiness below. A nausea gripped me and  I tried to look forward to avoid these hideous images. This seemed the best option, for here was a literal nothing. A plunging darkness into which I plunged, yet staring into this emptiness was better than the vast cosmos beneath me or the baleful shapes of fog that seemed to drift so close either side.

The interminable passage went on and on. Yet it seemed now as if the mist like forces were not content to occupy the periphery.  I could feel and see that they encroached further into the void before me, whispering things as they did so. At one point another hand took my other hand and began to lead me to one side. I felt so lost that I could not at first remember which hand Ambrose held onto and which hand was newly grasped. It was only with a small remainder of consciousness that I managed to remember that Ambrose’s hand was warm and that this other hand was cold. I tried to let it go but it made no odds. Cold fingernails bit tightly into my hand and it tried to guide me to its way with more force. I responded with resistance and determination not to release the warm grip of Ambrose’s hand. The hand pulled me fiercely now and I began to feel it less as a hand at all and more as a suction as if my arm were stuck in some vertical quagmire. I tried to pull it back only to discover to my horror I could not feel my arm at all! There was the sensation of having the awareness of an arm but no corporeality that I could exercise against the dragging force that pulled me towards it. I gripped Ambrose hand with every ounce of strength in my remaining arm and lurched on through whatever void my legs moved in. The wind whistled, the misty eddies rustled, the power dragged at my non-arm and I screamed at the absolute desolation of my senses.

“I’ll whistle across the merry land, 

I’ll whistle from afar,

I’ll whistle with the gentleman, 

Who leaves the door ajar.”

Such were the words that drifted into my wakening state, to a tune I fancied I knew from somewhere. I noted dimly that some kind of pipe was dissonantly set against the melody of the voice, though much quieter. I suddenly came to with a start, recalling where I was. “Uncle Ambrose!” I called, fearing my solitude in this strange place. “Yes” came the familiar voice “Are you ready now? Are you rested?” I sat up and looked around. The light had changed vastly since earlier and I could only hazard the time. The dimmest edge of twilight felt visible, though the it was still clearly day. “What time is it?” I managed to say through an intangible panic. “It is time my dear, for us to leave! Your feet must be a healed a thousand times over by the slumber you’ve had.” I wanted again to ask where we were going, but it was clear that we were not going back to the house, not going back to mother and father or nanny. I wanted to feel anxious, terrified of their worry and wrath, fearful for my own safety, but instead all I had was a numb disquiet accompanied by increasing sense of marvel. “The path leads on through twisted bower, which is the thorn and which the flower?” He gestured from  the other side of the pool that I should follow. Rising from where my shape pressed in the grass still and quickly putting my shoes back on, I picked my way more purposefully than before, towards the path and Ambrose who waited where the trees resumed. The light dappled in a completely different way now and the slightest hint of cooler air drifted through the trees. The trees seemed more comforting now, more welcoming. I felt their susurration as a voice of calm. The copse proceeded not much longer and the path emerged into a second rockier  terrain. The sun no longer beat upon us, it was low in the sky and the larger rocks cast ominous dark shadows across a scene of heather and grass. Curiously, though from the top of the previous down it had looked like the path should have continued downwards after the copse, when  in fact this new path led up a steady incline into an ever stonier place. Ambrose danced on, skipping his way up the path, turning adroitly once in a while to check I was still there. He needn’t have -if indeed there were anything more than show to his checking- for I followed now without reticence. Onwards went the grey path, and as it did so did the vividness of the emerging twilight. The rocks especially seemed to begin to glow with a faint indigo. As we went I noticed now that though there was much light in the sky, the moon, near full, rose from behind us -where the lake was. Ambrose did not turn round but at the moment I saw her rising he intoned “Nigh encroaches oh so soon, the joyful kingdom of the moon.”

“Upwards and yonder, amongst the grey ones of ancient times.” He spoke with an exultation, before turning to me with an intense glint in his eye to say “Who may bewitch the unwary with their ancient rhymes.” No soon had he turned than he had turned back and was striding upward through the rocky ponderous landscape. “Come on Clara, the downs beckon, the rocks reckon!” I followed as fast as I was able, but the day was warm and my shoes seemed quite inadequate to the rocky path. I was thirsty and my feet hurt and I didn’t know where I was going and I didn’t know who this man was. “Uncle Ambrose, uncle Ambrose!” I shouted suddenly “Where are we going?” He whirled round so fast his coat tails shot out “Going? Why we’re going back to nanny aren’t we? Or at least something very similar. But oh, my child, I see your feet hurt and you are thirsty. Fear not, just over the rise is a stream. There you may stop, drink and rest your feet.” and this was all I got. So I followed. I followed through the stony green land, that became more stony and less green as we went. I followed through the heat and past the now occasional windswept hawthorn that conjured images of iniquitous fey. I followed till we gained the stony mound summit -still green in places, for the downs are not high- and looked down the descending path. In truth there were two. The major path bent round to the left whereas there was a small divaricating path  that can came off it to the right. The view of the rolling lush and stony downs stretching for us was beautiful. “The stream my dear Clara is down there.” and he gestured with his cane down the right hand path. My sense of direction was poor but I knew enough that one must bear left to head back towards the village and told him so. “Yes, of course this is true, but you require cool water do you not? There is no stream that way, only the dry stones in the heat of the day. No my dear Clarabel, there can be no doubt that this is the way.” It was true that one could see a stream that ran down the slope further round to the right that looked like it would intersect the path at a copse of trees further down. I looked round and Ambrose was already off down the path, half leaping from stone to stone in way that made me think there was something amphibian about him. Sighing and trusting that either the path bent round or that he intended to reascend the rise I gingerly followed him down grey sandy-stone path. This side was a steeper descent than the other and twice I nearly lost my footing. Ambrose would not have noticed if I had as he was far ahead and having nearly gained the copse. When he did reach it he stopped and turned back towards me making a beckoning gesture and I thought of his rhyme from earlier. The copse grew on a flatter part of the hill and close up one could see it was not simply hawthorn but also mountain ash and blackthorn. The entrance was guarded by two rowans that framed the slim smart figure perfectly upon my approach. He beamed and he gestured as if immensely proud of himself. Indeed he waited for me the whole while so that I could enter the wood before him. Stepping inside had an otherworldly feel. The trees were not close or high and the light flickered intangibly throughout. The gurgle of the stream was immediately audible, presumably the sound captured amongst the leafy enclosure. I stepped on with Ambrose at my heels. “On on! ” he ushered me as I stared about “Don’t let’s keep your mouth and feet waiting!” The copse was fairly small yet large enough that just round a bend in the path the trees parted in a tiny glade in the centre of which lay a small pool, obviously fed by the same stream. Sunlight struck the pool and it seemed to glisten iridescent, nestling, as it did amongst the trees and rocks. Insects flew about, rendered more visible by the fractured sunbeams that shone in part through the trees. At the pool’s periphery grew meadowsweet, edging the water with is foliage, its creamy flowers tinting the air medicinal. I needed no further instruction but rushed towards the pool and cupped my hands to scoop the water to my lips “And it rippled like lips, as if a nymph rose from the water to kiss me” spoke Ambrose from somewhere. I shuddered inside at these words, which seemed so familiar to me, but as there seemed nothing other than this alien familiarity to the sensation I gave nothing away. “Rest Clarabel, rest, and when you are rested we shall press on to Narnia.” or at least so I thought he said at first, though I realised  quickly he must have said nanny. “When you are ready to go I shall reappear.” And he was gone. I took my shoes off and sat down in the glade by the pool. It was so lovely there and the water so refreshed and calmed me that I thought I would lie down. As I did, I lay my head so it could look across the water’s ripples and darting insects in the light. I felt sleepy in the warm grass and remembered last listening to the croaking of a frog, whom I dimly believed I could spy on a rock just under the hanging meadowsweet leaves.

“Who are you?” I finally managed you say as the trance of shock lifted. I had turned round fully expecting to find him close by, on the stone, but the man was back on the bank, seated with his legs outstetched slightly wide before him and his hands extending behind as props. He was smiling broadly in an infectious way. I tried my best to maintain the sense of shock “Who are you?!” I emptily shouted. The man looked at me and in an instantaneous movement leapt to his feet “Good day young lady, I am your uncle Ambrose from near and far.” “But what are you doing? What did you do? What happened?” “What happened?” he began as if taken aback “You incompetently went to charm the fish. I could not stand the sight of this doggerel of a spell and was of a mind to fix it, which I did, did I not?” “Yes.. you did but. ” I stumbled over the mounting incomprehensions “Uncle Ambrose? Spell? What are you talking about?” “Heavens child, it’s not too challenging is it?” he half snapped, half smiled “Uncle appears, summons fish, bingo.” “But I don’t have an Uncle Ambrose…” the words trailed away in their unworldly setting; suddenly he was there in front of me close “You do now.” he grinned, and his teeth brilliantly flashed in the sun. “And now you must tell me your name, no no in fact you needn’t, for I shall have it in a trice, you are…” his eyes rolled and he made a gesture with his hand before levelling a finger at me “…Clara!” my name was not Clara but something in his way made me not want to contradict him. I said nothing. “So Clara, now we are introduced. What shall we do?” “I don’t think sir, I should be doing anything with yourself, besides which I will need to get back soon, nanny will be looking for me.” “I see I see” he said, sounding serious “Then we must get you back to nanny soon mustn’t we. I should not like to get a reputation as a bad uncle. I will escort you of course, for it might not be safe for a young girl to walk back alone on a bright morning in the full light of the day.” There was something of the sardonic to this comment though it faded fast from him. Indeed ‘uncle’ Ambrose was now upright and tapping his stick impatiently. “Might I suggest across the downs? It will be quicker by far.” In fairness to him I didn’t know if he were right or wrong. But equally when I thought about it I had no idea how he knew where I was going or even if he knew where I was going at all. There was however something undeniably hypnotic about his expectation and direction which disabled my rational sense of safe-guarding. “Why yes, uncle” I found myself saying “The route through the downs does seem the best option.” “Excellent!” he said with sharp precision “Onward!” And with this he set off along a path that followed the side of the lake to the north.

The path was much like the area where I had been sat moments before, rocks towards the lake edge of various sizes and vegetation to the left. This in turn began to alter as the path pulled away from the lake to the left. It led up through the low greenery and entered sparse hawthorn woodland where the ground inclined slowly. Ambrose talked as he walked though it was not always clear it was me he was talking to. Sometimes I thought I could see a fine mist that trailed off him but when I looked again it was not there. Ambrose said that the downs were one of his favourite places in the world and that he always relished the opportunity of walking through them. I was still gripped by the nagging worry that this was not good idea, in fact whenever I thought the matter through it was extremely obviously the case. Yet the still his babbling voice and purposeful stride somehow kept me following.

We emerged from the woodland over a style which laid before us a stony path of a greater incline. Tufted grass grew either side of the path, in places penetrating it, whilst the hillside was dotted with grey rocks that littered the place like slumbering beasts. Ambrose seemed enthralled.

I didn’t say the year did I? Do you think it matters? I told you the year in which I was born and left the detail of the moment hanging, like the drooping willow branches in that lake. Truthfully I don’t know. If I was born in 1892, then that day, the day I’m trying to tell you about must have been in the next century. You see I’m getting ahead of myself. I did know about the causeway to the rear of the guesthouse, but I didn’t know yet. Not whilst I tossed the flowers and waited for fish -it sounds much less poetic when phrased that way. I was sat on a stony outcrop staring emptily into the lake surface and its flotilla of inflorescences when a voice pipes up out of nowhere. “Young lady! Young lady! What do think you are doing?” I was startled out of my state and looked about. Coming towards me, up along the path by which I had come, was a man. He had what you might call a foppish attire, or would you call him a dandy? He looked smart anyway, slightly too smart, as if the smartness were an affectation. His jacket was scarlet and his breeches black, he wore a patterned shirt and a blue cravat at an unusual angle. His hair bounced slightly over his face and he waved his stick towards me. “Young lady, young lady.” he lost his urgency as he drew nearer, he was youngish, in his twenties and not unattractive. My quizzical expression yielded no words for him. “Young lady, you are doing it all wrong!” He finally managed when he reached me. I looked confused, “What am I doing wrong?” so taken aback I did not even think to enquire who he was. “You seek to charm the fish do you not? You beseech them with a gift of flowers.” I looked on dumbfounded. “You are doing it incorrectly on two accounts. One, the flowers you chose are not suitable, and two you are not addressing them correctly.” I still did not know what to say, so unusual was the encounter. In honesty the gentleman gave a me something of a sense of dread, yet my silence beckoned him to fill it. “If one would charm the fish one must not use such herbs.” he pointed with disdain at the still bobbing plant heads “Yet fear not, for nearby is in fact a much more appropriate plant, and no, one will not need to get wet to retrieve it.” He glanced around near the vegetation of the bank before the outcrop “Aha, here we are.” he reached down and picked some small blue white flowers. “These will suffice for now” and with an extraordinary bound he suddenly made appeared on the outcrop next to me. “Stand girl! Stand!” he ordered and with an arm he practically lifted me upright. The arm did not let go and I began to become frightened. He was right behind gripping the upper arm that he had lifted me with, now his other arm circled me with the blooms and forced them into my grip. Calmly but forcefully he said “Now repeat after me ‘piscus piscus liw xole, if you please’ then scatter the speedwells below. I wanted to scream, but the strange ambiguity of threat and calm instruction settled on the latter side and I found myself looking out to the water, his grip fading away and the words drifting from my mouth “Piscus piscus liw, xole”.

The small blue flowers fell from the rocky edge into the shaded water below. They were lighter than the heavy heads that I had clumsily thrown in before and would not travel far from the edge. The lake water lapped at the stone and quickly pushed some of them under. I continued to stare, quite bewitched, at the water below.

Just short moments passed before they came. At first just a barely perceivable glass eyed face, then more. I did not know what kinds they were but clearly they were many. They emerged around the rock edge in a flurry, or a shoal rather, if one may use that term for many different fish together. Some pointy faced and swift, some dark in colour with wide heads, some tiny and some long. Close to the edge was just a mass of shaded silver and dead eye whereas where the shadow’s power faded, the water was a coruscating vision of piscine undulation from which I could not unfix. “You see!” he said suddenly with a tone of genuine joy “It is all a matter of know how!” Returning slightly, I noticed that his grip had gone and that in fact he was no longer in any kind of tactile proximity to me. “Thank them and tell them to go.” Continuing my gaze I managed to say “Thank you, you may go now.” upon which the fish retreated back into the recesses of the lake.

I am older than her though she is bigger than I, bigger and more respected. I do not seek respect and I do not seek size. Of course many people would argue about what I deserve. This is not for me to say. ‘Deserving is only what your mother serves you.’ as I think Freud once said, or one of them. Not Adler though, never Adler.

My sister lives in guesthouse, you may know her. Many do, many have done. Do I sound bitter? I’m not bitter. Maybe envious, but not bitter. All those men, all those women. Would I trade it? I hardly think so. Though you may have heard my voice crack as I said that. It sounds like a betrayal. Would I betray her? Maybe. But this is off topic, I meant of course that it sounded like I would trade it. I wouldn’t trade it, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t things attractive about what she has. There’s no escaping this kind of web. The admission sounds like desire, it is desire but it doesn’t remove contentment. The idea  of contentment then looks like a foil. Paranoia has leaked into the system. It’s all too late. We need to go back to make any sense out of this.

I was brought up just before the turn of the century, 1892 I was born, that’s the same year as Tennyson, did you know that? I was walking sideways, as I often did, or at least back then, when I was young. I was walking down towards the lake. The day was peaceful. I thought I would throw flowers upon the lake and watch them float away, watch in case the fish would come up to see what was happening. The lake was framed by large old willow trees, the mouth of it anyway. It widened beyond these hanging tendrils and disappeared into an almost perpetual mist. In the mist, which rose off the lake was a kind of bridge over the lake, and in the centre of the bridge was the guest house. A thin peninsula extended from the other side of the lake, upon which there was rough path by which one could reach the residence. My sister didn’t live there then. She wasn’t born until much later.

The accretive theory in its strong form (agnostic disjunction: magick-obtains side) would give us a notion of art in which a) there exists the incoherent art-accretion and b) that the vector that is interpreted as art is imbued literally with the pneuma that the creator (artist) pours into the vector. There is a sense in here that the spiritual sense that Hegel speaks of regarding the Greek experience of the sculpture as spiritual can be reconstituted by this theory. Not in an identical sense but in a sense that seems related. That is, if the pneuminous world can be thought of as plugging into a restraining umbratic (as mediated by the vector field) and if we concede (owing to the magickal interpretation here understood as the ability of the pneuma to affect the umbra -the application of a concept to a vector that would not ordinarily take it) then the pneuminous form shimmers with a literal life of its own. The sculpture of the God is absolutely the God, we perceive the accretion directly.

Art putatively devoid of this characteristic may seem representational, in a sense it is so (there is an assimilation-accretion of representation) however if the accretive theory is held to, then many forms of life can be easily viewed as living spirit (pneuma). The representational image is literally attached to that which it represents -like an inadvertent piece of sympathetic magick. From umbratic restraint, to vector, to pneuma, the connection (in this manifestation) is not illusory but absolutely necessary and potentially potent. We see the accretion directly, the image is the accretion which through fine threads of pneuma is tied back to some distant vector, imprinted in turn by the Narp who engendered it (the artist). Such a theory does of course entail not necessarily that there is a correct interpretation of the work but there is the artist’s interpretation and it does dwell on in the work as a force, a central element of the accretive structure.

What of art of the imagination? Art of the imagination is the pure pneuminous form dragged to umbratic restraint. Vectors assembled and imprinted with pneuminous power. The work as forged in the Narp’s pure pneuminous manipulations, once set down is the accretion bound. This binding is also it’s escape into a wider field. For whilst any accretion may float freely of a particular Narp, when they do they warp and shift as they go, never landing the same twice. Once the work is restrained, other Narps may see it and thus it accretes to their accretions and from their interpretations. In this way the accretion proliferates, exists in the different Narp-fields as that art work, with that name, free to manifest in idle thought, dream and beyond.

Yet of course this is true of everything. All simple things: tables, pens, tupperware pots and cups, are pneuminous forms imprinted upon suitable vectors. They too are alive with pneuma. The difference is precisely in the way the pneuma is seen. The mundanity of the thing is too an pneuminous structure. If we are told this was once a wizard’s pen, maybe we would look upon it differently, we might accrete this wizard to the pen and treat the item quite differently (if it were true the wizard’s imprint would be on the pen whether we liked it or not).

This specialness is true of art. Art is interpreted as art. A creation with an excess well beyond any financial or practical aspect. Art needs engaging with as art. I say ‘this is my art’ and you look at it thusly. Many forms of it are easily perceivable as such. The vectors take the art accretion. Yet since the last century it has been noticed that one may apply the art accretion to a vector that would not ordinarily take it (Duchamp, found objects etc). As if a spell was cast (which it was) the artist says ‘and now this is art’ and by this action the art accretion is attached to it, and thus it is art, for the accretion is literally now in it. But art is not magick as such. This is the difference. Magick intends to affect the vector/umbra. Art, using restraint, arranges the pneuma in such a way that whilst restrained, the restraint fades away, it emphasises the pureness of the pneuminous accretion.

And it seems from here it must possible -as has been noted- that we might take this escaped art accretion and attach as and when we will to whatever we wish. Taking Hegelian spiritual succour from all manner of arrangements of things on our travels. Such a final dissemination of the accretion represents in a sense a true end of art whereby the perception of anything with the correct aspect flip plugs into the art accretion and renders it as this pure image like spectacle, suddenly lifted from its actual home. Art becomes a category of perception.

Whilst it is possible that the work of the best artist in this sense is forced to compete with the creations of the world around us, what is still also true is that the artist themselves as a kind of Narp, will persist. Some Narps are vectors that we aptly apply the concept artist to and some Narps may try to summon the concept of artist to themselves by magick (though it suits them not).