The Kylix

Ordinary thought is impossible in the baffling avalanche of the Kylix: sensations strike with such speed and force as to crowd out thoughts of a conscious mind, and upon returning from this manic dream no clear memories remain, only a flood of images and a delirium that can last for hours. As a result it is nearly impossible to describe this lamina, and quite dangerous to venture there, but recurring images provide some insight as to its properties.

Observations from the Kylix are not reliable, as they flower and unfold with related sensations. For instance when you observe a boy, you also observe a baby, a wailing, a grown man, memories of play, a mother, a tiger cub, a seedling, the taste of fruit, a dewdrop. When you perceive a chariot, you also perceive a horse, a wagon, the feeling of motion, a manor, a tree, a rustling, a carpenter, the smell of sawdust, a castle. Each observation leads to more observations and all are accompanied by powerful feelings and memories; it is impossible to get one’s bearing. Those two images, however, recur: a boy and a chariot, along with a third, that of a broad drinking vase—hence this lamina’s name: the Kylix. All who have ventured here return with thousands of images, but these three are always among them.

Through aperturesLocations where two realms are joined in such a way that you may slip between them. They appear as uncanny distortions through which passage can be disorienting and dangerous.Turn to chapter the Kylix appears to be a roiling storm of colors, and more than one unfortunate explorer has ventured there only to become incapacitated by its effect and fail to return.¹ The safest method, which this visitor undertook, belongs to a community of mystics who practice an ecstatic ritual during which the participant ventures alone into a sacred cave that contains an aperture to this lamina—though of course they do not understand it in these terms, and instead see the lengthy ceremony as preparing the mind for the reception of the hopes and inspiration of one’s descendants yet to be born, who they say reside in primordial form in this cave.² In preparation for this ritual, supplicants must repeat a particular series of actions every day for a month, a series of actions that, once committed to instinct, appear to guide a traveller safely into the Kylix and back despite the loss of conscious faculties.³ Even with this precaution, some members of the community have never returned from the cave, but this is not seen as a loss: they are presumed by their brethren to have joined the unborn Discarnate and as such will rejoin the community in future generations.

This visitor was determined to return from the Kylix with words to share, and so she added onto the customary ritual a final component: a lengthy monologue of free-association relating anything that she could bring to mind, with the hope that her companion could return in time from the mouth of the river to record these words. Though she had no memory of the process, this attempt was successful, resulting in the following ramblings presented here with equal parts reluctance and wonder:

No void. A fractured prism riverbed. A chariot. A waterfall up from the stone. A hedge of scales, a branching catacomb translucent rock. A cliff spire, a wind topped pedestal. A water drop. Lightning strike turns lake to ice. A snake looks out a hole, a whip, a belt, a rope. A sudden calm. A pit in the gut. A silent cut. A gem, a ring, a ringing. A gust of rosemary. An orchid leaps a life, a praying mantis. A flute lays white note eggs. A mountain coils and sings. A chariot rides its wave, foam, a labyrinth, a maze, a boy, an outstretched hand, a mission, a foe, a dialog, an image, a geyser, a trickle, sadness or joy, or a gate, or a library of colors, a frown, a smile. The color is noise, breathe. A warm welcome. Wine from a bowl, a starry night, a golden horse, wooden wind chimes, the smell of grass, what kind of color it is, an orchard. An orchard! Silent heavy snowfall, rustling leaves, freshly baked bread, full moon over an empty lake, an elephant lumbering overhead, a boy in an orchard, a plum bite, a big old house horses, father can’t look, sun setting, ripe apple cheek blood, a crowd, a flock of swallows, their wings. I’m standing barefoot a field of deep moss. A trickling stream, thick haze. An antelope stops turns its head. An owl perches. One room of dancers in red and white. A framed picture a silver thread. A book open gilded curls, illuminations, a door to black and white, one tulip in mirrors, the indigo sisters. Touch of soft leather. A glass ocean. You watching me. Look please you’re watching, reading, a gulf into water, your ankle,⁴ fear, he can’t look, three brothers on a row boat laughing, rope, one, Tristo—

And here fortunately this visitor fell silent, and remained so until regaining her faculties the following day.