This is what I heard.
The abyssal mirror that reflects black light back into the sea of stars above it has not stirred for at least a hundred years. Countless forms sleep beneath the surface of its silvery waters, content not to make ripples for fear of predators which lurk above the surface. They grow fat from consumption, but they do not reproduce - in fact they have not “produced” anything of significance for at least a generation. A crane stirs, lifts up one crooked leg, and it pulls something from the dredges of this black lake.
Listen:
There was a unanimous dream that once bound several thousand people to the same thoughtform, the same idea that in all of their time, had not yet existed and would not exist for hundreds of years. I call it a “unanimous” dream and not a “shared” one because their visions were not identical to each other but rather focused on an identical object; they have all seen this vision as a mark of inevitability towards it, and not as an identical dream. Their own experiences vary wildly and cannot be reasonably understood between each other, not everyone has the shared aspiration of seeing it come to completion, or seeing it fulfill its purpose. But to them, it “will exist,” and nothing can be done to stop it. If I were a Bokononist, I might say that this object was a kan-kan, and all the people who experienced this unanimous vision a karass. But that religion is dead, its book irrelevant, and the machine will never mean as much to them as they do to it.
I had this dream too. The dream was full of falling stars, of red birds flying withershins against the dimly lit sky. I dreamt of a machine called the Wennanwere (When, and Where?) full of wires and black fluid. A triplet of silver spheres all around it pulled water from its surrounding reservoir until the metal creaked and groaned, and all at once it spewed out the lake water as mist and petrichor odor. The machine was covered in bird droppings. At the top of its square frame is a stained glass dome, the shadows of consoles and monitors are mostly visible. The substructure underneath is exposed from erosion, but the beams are barely weathered. The skull of a wild ox and a wreath of peach blossoms are laid at its foundation.
Whenever beams of light bent through the glass, I was (and still am) overcome with visions of home, of neighborhood, of unrequited connection, of confusion and misunderstanding, of regret, and I felt all too tempted to pull away. My vision was fixed to the machine’s steady, decayed rhythm and the dome of false visions. I was part of the lake– I realized all too late – and I was instantly drawn up into the sphere and ejected into the air.
When I woke up, the rain was pouring down, but I was mostly dry. I was lying in a cave next to still water, my heels digging in the mud as I sat up. My sleep was so enrapturing I had almost forgotten the sensation of feeling the waking world around me, but my pounding head quickly reminded me. The abyssal mirror that reflects black light back into the sea of stars above it has not stirred for at least a hundred years. Even the rain from the hole in the cavern ceiling was blocked by a mound of wet soil and broken glass, water catching in the metal cup and trickling down to join the lake gently, as though it belonged there. The dire gaze of all transgression could be felt peering into the back of my head, but when I looked over my shoulder there was nothing there.
I apologize for the poetics, I am simply drunk with this vision. As I continue to recall all of the things that have happened, I must confess that there’s no telling how things will turn out tonally from here.
Today is the first day of the new year. I was not reminded of this machine on this particular day without reason. But then again, time is never time at all.
Once, a better building was constructed here, in the place of this hallowed cave. It housed a great and terrible machine, lost to time but always found again by dreams. Surrounded by concentric circular hallways where thronging metal clangs echoed and mixed with a terrible buzzing din, it emanated steam and heat that could melt the flesh off unprotected skin. All to draw up a single cup’s worth of fluid, like a wellspring. Someone once told me that groundwater is the memory of the earth. When I see them again, I will apologize for dismissing them as I did in prior years.
What you are about to read here is a record of history through the memory of earthpeople, in all of their illusory forms. And of all the mistakes that were made to lead up to this terrible point in time. If you can find it in their heart to forgive them for even a fraction of what they have done then I thank you. If you cannot, then I at least hope you enjoy the ride.