Photo by Judith Browne on Unsplash
By Apuleius Charlton
Special guest blogger
Tathagata said he had many names and none of them meant anything. It isn’t time to talk of the atman yet, so I will talk about the worthlessness of names.
Tonight I have meditated upon the Hapsburg eagle, the sigil sent to me by the Illuminated Bobby Campbell, Illuminator in the tradition of the monks, artists, and wastrels of Old. Appropriate it is then, that he would send me a symbol of an old and illustrious house to contemplate. One side of the perfectly folded paper is printed in computer ink and sealed in raised sigil of Only Maybe, the other seems to be done in lead. What had led the piece to be here in my house at this point?
Not that long ago, on the Maybe Logic forum that fruited in the summer of 2012, another disappointing Apocalypse, I met Bobby, asking if he was the illustrator of the excellent New Falcon editions of The Historical Illuminatus! Chronicles. I never expected to make his acquaintance years later at a small sci-fi convention with the redoubtable publisher Tom Jackson. Yet, I did; and now the paper is in my hand.
An ancient symbol of an infinitely powerful family, gifted with Freud’s divine prosthesis, and the value of the object in the lead lines on the back, tracing the precisely laid ink surer and more craftily than genealogies. There is effort and consequence, personal meaning. Lead has been considered the lowest element, here it is as holy and poisonous as cancerous quicksilver. The smears of poison rock are more meaningful than precision.
Paper comes from China, printing from Germany, or so the common knowledge goes. My hands are formed of silly men and women who frolicked, fucked and fought across God’s green earth for hundreds of years. One body of naked apes accrued enough power to fuck themselves into jacked-up-jawed oblivion. Their sigil is in my hand and it represents an order of fiction about another incestuous family, the Merovingians. Bobby Cambpell is perhaps the cleverest and best of RAW’s keepers.
Inside the folded slip is a business card/theological debate and a faux tarot card for Eris. Like the lightning, the moment comes and goes, but one wonders truly...where did all this Chaos come from? A piece of paper rests in my hands. An infinity of slack-jawed power can’t be summarized in a doodle. But ideas can. What good does mealy mouthed prophecy do?