“Tell me an old story?” Parçigal asks.
“Aye”, says Æ.
Æ am The Sy
Everyone is you, as you were also they.
You are æ.
Collectively, Ewe and Æ have seen everything that there is to see.
This story happens in the year that never happened.
The unending, innumerable yær between B.c. and a.D.
Waïse rose early as he had always done. He covered his body and walked to the river where he filled two buckets with its water. He carried them strung on a pole braced across his shoulders, back to his homestead where he emptied the contents into the deeply cavernous rock basin he chipped and sculpted. He hand~spoons the water onto himself, rubbing vigorously. A ritual of removing yesterday in offering to the promise of a fresh day.
He had slept. He had dreamt. He had awoken in the same place as where he had fallen asleep. He had died and reincarnated. Nothing that was outside of his own flesh could be assumed to have remained the same as he recalled it. Everything within his flesh had strangely continued, even if in an æ~linear fashion.
His methods of perception could still be applied to everything outside of his skin.
His father taught him this lesson; whilst afterwards, in private, his mother cautioned him: one day you will bear witness to the falling disappearance of every star in the night sky. It will be terrific. Horrific. You will trust no prior truth inside or outside your flesh when this occurs.
This had not occurred. Waïse used to fret that perhaps the stars had fallen while he slept at night. His mother saw her son suffering the intolerable lucidity of insomnia.
What if I missed it and go on trusting in vain? Should I not try to always be awake just in case?
You wilt do whatever you do, but such hypervigilance will only hasten that which you hope will not happen. Remember, you will bear witness to it. If you have not seen it then it did not occur and you have nothing to fear.
Waïse thinks these memories back into his inner life, waiting for his wet body to air~dry. It is cold out; he is not.
He sits, waiting, with crossed~legs, focusing his vision and sloughing off his waking sluggishness. A half~hour passes; he rises up and dresses once again.
He walks to the door, pausing to orient his vision.
Waïse focuses his eyes on a stone, the same stone his father looked at everyday. Aligning the rock with two peripheral rocks, he begins to imagine lines connecting the three; he then triangulated himself, with three stones, to create an area. A means and way to perceive what is outside his skin. Using that area, he creates a vertical grid as a complimentary plane to the horizon lines. These two planes drape over all and everything like imagined satin on skin. The grids shift as he shifts his position relative to them. That is his third axis of perception.
He spent so many years imagining this with his father, that his eyes now fed it to his mind automatic~ally. It had taken years of observing the land to have amassed such a detailed ability. It had taken even longer to have reimagined, dreamt, and meditated on this knowledge so sufficiently to have your own eyes learnt by memory.
Seeing the land with red and blue lines, indicating depression and elevation, as a plane’s face with perfectly rationed grid lines. Pragmatic prior to mystical. This method enabled him to feed himself with ease. To procure those natural materials.
So Waïse carried out this life and knowledge of one Tao, that his family possessed, the same way his people always had.
Under the blazon of a web of a feather.
“Part one,” Æ supposes, seeing Parçigal has fallen under sleep again.