Hallow
Junior Member
Some concerns have been expressed about the purpose of observing test subject 001, Morose Ibis Anodyne. Her circumstances are as follows: placed in the containment chamber after extraction from the evil that befell the host family (she was never meant for the outside world), given a catalog of furniture, decorations, treats, and guests to earn in exchange for her cooperation; whenever she thinks of something she knows exists she begins to take possession of it, our hypothesis is that her influence recedes because she does not identify with objects that are brought too near to her — she was the first individual who came under the suspicion of being God. Why, you (either a concerned stockholder, a filthy, spying government bureaucrat, or a member of another “company” that holds a respected but fundamentally flawed yet emergent view of God) may ask? Here at No Corp we believe that, as our mission statement goes: “Our God is a bored God.”
Addressing first the ludicrous assertion of the impossibility of God taking up in an interlude amidst the play of eternal boredom a female form: first, I will admit there was a mistake in the building process which followed imprinting, the head attendant, Cassandra Fry, insisted on she and hers as the pronouns used to refer to Morose on the basis that, and I am quoting with a right I have won in mortal combat, “My mother made an unspeakable sacrifice, so that I may have a name and choice of expression, instead of a number and uniform. That one had yearning; she brought me along as well” — second, although I, Norman Orland the “company” secretary, recognize it as a mistake that doesn’t mean I think that such disobedience would be so now (or later, if you are not any of the parties previously mentioned, one otherwise determined by God to receive a prophecy of utter irrelevance to you and yours), as management has evolved to a more modern incarnation, and most importantly, Morose now 19 years old has not come to prefer other forms of identification. The popular account is that God created the universe in seven days, and on the seventh day rested (included within our ever expanding world are the people who hope to reveal themselves to be similarly confounding); No Corp does not officially hold this outdated view of the Origin, what we do take from this and stories like this is that it is proper to take as finished the work of someone who was formerly hard put to their former occupation, accordingly as much can be said about our dear Morose. We were especially zealous in our effort to establish some new sense of order, if she is female, we thought, then she must like, and be like, the things our prior surveys and studies correlated with femininity. People over things, sugar and spice; games about family over war, gentle and affectionate; unconditional positive regard over judgment based on favors given, open and understanding. They also like to drink tea.
On the subject of tea, it has come to my attention that someone has had a birthday recently. I know because I received the invitation. I noted that it was an invitation then put it in the trash bin. If you are that person, then you should know I was enthusiastic about our date, this feeling persisted for the social gatherings of which I knew you were to attend, yet infiltrating my place of employment to try to understand what went wrong will be unfruitful. I do not know what went wrong. I did not remember your name. I will not respond to your messages.
We also celebrated Morose's birthday with a tea party each year. She made special friends due to the occasion. None are of note, though, until she reached the appropriate age of the mischievous third graders of eight years old.
Ballora came that day from a commune of sorts, put together by a refusal of urban life that No Corp respects, but does not corroborate, because of divine responsibilities. She was brought to the city to demonstrate the qualities of congestion and surveillance; she had looked at it’s form as recorded on the tapes in her VCR retrofitted with an Autonomous Reality Camera or ARC (which records the mental experience of the subject watching the movie). Each time she watched a program, she was judged on her perception of it. This practice, as I understand it, is based on the revelations by Douglas Firs, the inventor of the ARC and a resident of a town called Marathon that none outside it knew about prior to his documentation on the internet, a service which will surely connect us all if possible in general. Shortly after he uploaded it’s existence Douglas noticed that what his new “friends” called seasons began to take place; in his video essays the doubt expressed wasn’t that this cycle had precedence, in fact many an old fool liked to make a show about waves coming from the sky, but he had trouble accepting they came exactly as described coincidentally. From these new voices united it seemed there a great wind called Weather, and eyes became spirited as well. News spread in Marathon about their apparent obscurity - this was news strangely enough, because the local tourism bureau had encouraged its residents to tell visitors that it was a distinctive place you have to see again. It is now evident that such visitors, without so much as turning around to get their bearings to figure out why they did, became residents, otherwise they continued on, and only at the date of the event did they see again. People left, people came; however, the population of a place that has recently become public record like this is a precious relic of people like me (if you want to know where it is, don't expect that information here, you will definitely incur my wrath), who believe there is still a kind of cool and dangerous they don’t know about and haven’t been invited to yet, so it is a wonder it has stayed the same. We all hope to be surprised by what we watch.
Ballora reports: “The first thing I, uh, noticed, was not being noticed. I saw the cameras, yes, but, um, they don’t ‘see,’ you know. Or, if they did - I was young and kept stepping on shoes - it was so slight I didn’t dare register it. Like, ‘who you are looking at? 'is a question I know now I’m not supposed to answer. Each person - and don’t let anyone tell you my parents’ dissidence makes me an improper person here - has a way they prefer being addressed, the names and appearances put before them.”
She was just six then, and already refusing so many things (I admit I find Ballora charming in that, there is so much that objectively sets us apart - the least of which, that I am being self-conscious about the appearance of this memo - but perhaps from our distant origins we have converged in life’s pathway).The crazy thing is to reject the path Morose has shown.
Report continues: “Travelling with family can be alienating, when I found myself among a crowd of people and desperately wished to keep track of them, I wanted to go back home. The trip was a drive in a pick-up, being squished in the subway, and crashing into Geno’s pizzeria with the rental car. It was frightening, all that distance. Before, I could tell from how far the truck had gone how many steps it would be, and it could have been a lot of steps. I have good legs.”
I do recognize this was a flirtation. She was wearing ripped shorts, resurrected from Dead Giveaway, a thrift store for the damned who claw at life beneath deadlines and depression (there will be more advertising, in case you were wondering). Now is as good a time as any to state that I am 23 years old.
“What else was there? Oh, definitely smells. I asked several people why they smelled. My parents told me that was an inappropriate question. I realize that people outside the commune deodorize to not smell like themselves, but it is confusing that they do not conversely odorize proudly like beautiful things. I recognize one smell from a smoking ritual, there is a quest the party of teens has to complete before the drumming starts: an Elder has a ‘vision’, the adventurers have to find the hidden time capsule using clues or they have to convince someone on the fence to join the ‘flock’, and that’s how I discovered my favorite food is an ice cream sundae with a cherry on top. He should be proud. But anyway, I have a question for you, if you don’t mind. Um… What’s your favorite food?”
Ballora typically has her eyes concealed by bangs, she brushed them away along with my uneasiness. I could then tell that she actually had hazel eyes, and I became conscious of the fact that the interview was taking place in a large suite much too extravagant for the occasion. I told her I like grilled meat. We interrupted it to set a date for the whole gang to have Korean barbecue, she will probably have tofu yet she will smell like meat, afterwards we will have ice cream.
“Lastly, you want to know about ‘it,’ right? I was weird enough being out here with my handcrafted onesie. Although I am glad I felt worse, there was a comfortability at home which would have surely stunted my growth had I left later. There is always the Future; there is always the Past; there is always the Present. One often has to look from where they are over the horizon to see the Future. And when I had arrived over innumerable seas of development I only found worries - I know I am a girl and you recognize this, I treasure that; my reason to explore the world is to better understand myself - I worry that what I think I am will cease to be what you think I am, I know you will never intend such deception although you also didn’t intend to come here just like me. You have other problems as well. All I did was ask a man for a joke, humor can bring groups together for or against the teller. I was right in picking him. The joke: ‘Why did Jesus die a virgin?’ I answered, ‘Because he couldn’t be tempted,’ I respected the historical figure at least. His official response, which has been corroborated by the internet, is, ‘Every single ‘wound’ he touched closed up.’ I looked to my dad, who was on the path to becoming a storytelling Elder, and then to my mom, who thought about leaving more times than I care to count. They were cross, like he was one of those hedonists who wanted to ‘chill’ without participating in the shared story. The smell I mentioned earlier was not from him. He was trying to impress many different women that day.
“That happened on the train. It’s a singular phrase; train of thought. There is no ship, car, or plane of thought - well, I guess there is a plane of thought. You get the point. A train travels on tracks, unlike other vehicles that have the road or the sea or the fricking sky, and I stayed on it in the rental car. I didn’t tell them where I intended to go; I didn’t know. I remember looking into his eyes, as he must have been gauging how the joke was received, and I assessed that. In me he saw the Future; I saw the Future in him. Sitting in the car then I felt I was being driven around to placate me, so I would be hidden from my eventual worries. Felt like I was being driven off the edge of the world.
“You know what I remember next. Coming out of the elevator into a room not unlike this one - looking back, no one followed me, I must have seemed relieved - I was unlike myself for a while until Morose saw me.”
This testimony I present as exhibit A as part of the argument for the recognition of Morose as the Bored God.
Next up, Natalie Martinez. She is the sole survivor of an invisible attack. This was not a real life instance of those locked-room mysteries or a murder-suicide; it was a transgression on the part of subject 259, favored by Laughing Matters Inc, Leon Oceanus Galowicz. They believe the rightful name of the supreme being is the Laughing God: legend has it that he was born laughing instead of screaming to draw air into the lungs, he remained in a constant state of invisibility until that risky time in every person’s life when they hold their breath to see what will happen. And, for the good of all, he might have suffocated to be seen, Dire Publicity would like you to know that people should risk life and limb for the chance to be in the hearts of the masses, if they want to be anyone that is; therefore, Galowicz reversing his decision after witnessing pedestrians flee to oncoming traffic from, among many things, the sight of his boring, black eyes - shrieking like the bastard son of a psychiatrist whose plunder of uncanny minds has surely cost us all, that he is - makes him a mistaken child to this day. Frankly, this whole invisibility racket has turned out to be far worse for homeowners than the Invisible-Man made it seem, you would think from the popular concept that objects of enduring size and shape like a door (really, most things are a door when the unknown is in front of them) should recognize the trespass of what used to be a human sized corporeal being and push back the invader, but I know that God only knows what all that is indescribable comes to form as when there is no fear of being told how disgusting it is, and Galowicz slips past people and through the tiniest apertures alike.
It is because of her harrowing experience that she was chosen as the spokesperson for Renegade Mind Psionics, a brand of psychic conditioning designed to build defense against probing by an unofficially out of control yet legal surveillance apparatus under the purview of an international organization I may or may not mention in an unrelated matter, and those among us who erode our sense of self in an unbelieving world. She came to the interview dressed in her usual and disheveled: a cotton shirt, blazer, dress pants, flats, and a pair of misplaced eyes wondering what exactly she had missed; her green contacts had been left in, she removed them after seeing herself, washing up. She began.
“There are trees and ‘trees’ and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All trees have their ornaments, except perhaps the legalistic ones when a man falls into a ‘bitch’ and the contrition between them as an unstoppable force on an unmovable object. There is the small ‘cute’ baby, the one who will be called Morose, that appreciates with smiles, nestled in the manger of the nativity scene near our favorite grove of firs. There is the whole tree that gives you the adolescents-are-crazy look and smells piney and beams and hangs on your arm and is very obstinate you take care of her when you can. She isn't afraid the world is going to end and has that goddamned point and you want to harm her except you are glad you found out about the point before you invested too many schemes and stories and tears on her. Because the point will always be there, a hazard that never wears out and is as deadly as the crusader’s blade or the follower’s cliff. There is the bright and willing star of the tree who doesn’t mind what he swears as long as he doesn’t have to think or where he goes as long as it is the Blue Castle and there is an easy campaign. There is the problematic card which will be a relic and describes the probable conflict yet promises holiday cheer and attention to ritual and establishes the whole tree, and makes it bend over itself. There is the uncertain, dark angel of the tree with mania of some non-fatal but incurable type. He is very experienced in loss and very fatherly and he speaks defensively out of nowhere but you can’t support him because in the first place there was your biological father and in the second he can be found lying to lonely numbers or Juliet in the original, the witch at the edge of the village or the people close to him, or himself about his ability to love. He adores minds and when the Most Interesting Person in The World is spacing he can tell when the last six sensations came on strong. I -- you -- suppose all angels can. For this, idols of them. And lastly there is the gregarious daddy’s girl who will outgo three ‘special’ sisters and then carry a couple curses at a curse a head and end up with a memorial plaque at Homer Park, an afterlife position at the Cave of Talking Heads, and a chance of advancement to the Society of Pure Being, all of which will remain a wonder as your absent-mindedness of affection in a cruel world.”
Addressing first the ludicrous assertion of the impossibility of God taking up in an interlude amidst the play of eternal boredom a female form: first, I will admit there was a mistake in the building process which followed imprinting, the head attendant, Cassandra Fry, insisted on she and hers as the pronouns used to refer to Morose on the basis that, and I am quoting with a right I have won in mortal combat, “My mother made an unspeakable sacrifice, so that I may have a name and choice of expression, instead of a number and uniform. That one had yearning; she brought me along as well” — second, although I, Norman Orland the “company” secretary, recognize it as a mistake that doesn’t mean I think that such disobedience would be so now (or later, if you are not any of the parties previously mentioned, one otherwise determined by God to receive a prophecy of utter irrelevance to you and yours), as management has evolved to a more modern incarnation, and most importantly, Morose now 19 years old has not come to prefer other forms of identification. The popular account is that God created the universe in seven days, and on the seventh day rested (included within our ever expanding world are the people who hope to reveal themselves to be similarly confounding); No Corp does not officially hold this outdated view of the Origin, what we do take from this and stories like this is that it is proper to take as finished the work of someone who was formerly hard put to their former occupation, accordingly as much can be said about our dear Morose. We were especially zealous in our effort to establish some new sense of order, if she is female, we thought, then she must like, and be like, the things our prior surveys and studies correlated with femininity. People over things, sugar and spice; games about family over war, gentle and affectionate; unconditional positive regard over judgment based on favors given, open and understanding. They also like to drink tea.
On the subject of tea, it has come to my attention that someone has had a birthday recently. I know because I received the invitation. I noted that it was an invitation then put it in the trash bin. If you are that person, then you should know I was enthusiastic about our date, this feeling persisted for the social gatherings of which I knew you were to attend, yet infiltrating my place of employment to try to understand what went wrong will be unfruitful. I do not know what went wrong. I did not remember your name. I will not respond to your messages.
We also celebrated Morose's birthday with a tea party each year. She made special friends due to the occasion. None are of note, though, until she reached the appropriate age of the mischievous third graders of eight years old.
Ballora came that day from a commune of sorts, put together by a refusal of urban life that No Corp respects, but does not corroborate, because of divine responsibilities. She was brought to the city to demonstrate the qualities of congestion and surveillance; she had looked at it’s form as recorded on the tapes in her VCR retrofitted with an Autonomous Reality Camera or ARC (which records the mental experience of the subject watching the movie). Each time she watched a program, she was judged on her perception of it. This practice, as I understand it, is based on the revelations by Douglas Firs, the inventor of the ARC and a resident of a town called Marathon that none outside it knew about prior to his documentation on the internet, a service which will surely connect us all if possible in general. Shortly after he uploaded it’s existence Douglas noticed that what his new “friends” called seasons began to take place; in his video essays the doubt expressed wasn’t that this cycle had precedence, in fact many an old fool liked to make a show about waves coming from the sky, but he had trouble accepting they came exactly as described coincidentally. From these new voices united it seemed there a great wind called Weather, and eyes became spirited as well. News spread in Marathon about their apparent obscurity - this was news strangely enough, because the local tourism bureau had encouraged its residents to tell visitors that it was a distinctive place you have to see again. It is now evident that such visitors, without so much as turning around to get their bearings to figure out why they did, became residents, otherwise they continued on, and only at the date of the event did they see again. People left, people came; however, the population of a place that has recently become public record like this is a precious relic of people like me (if you want to know where it is, don't expect that information here, you will definitely incur my wrath), who believe there is still a kind of cool and dangerous they don’t know about and haven’t been invited to yet, so it is a wonder it has stayed the same. We all hope to be surprised by what we watch.
Ballora reports: “The first thing I, uh, noticed, was not being noticed. I saw the cameras, yes, but, um, they don’t ‘see,’ you know. Or, if they did - I was young and kept stepping on shoes - it was so slight I didn’t dare register it. Like, ‘who you are looking at? 'is a question I know now I’m not supposed to answer. Each person - and don’t let anyone tell you my parents’ dissidence makes me an improper person here - has a way they prefer being addressed, the names and appearances put before them.”
She was just six then, and already refusing so many things (I admit I find Ballora charming in that, there is so much that objectively sets us apart - the least of which, that I am being self-conscious about the appearance of this memo - but perhaps from our distant origins we have converged in life’s pathway).The crazy thing is to reject the path Morose has shown.
Report continues: “Travelling with family can be alienating, when I found myself among a crowd of people and desperately wished to keep track of them, I wanted to go back home. The trip was a drive in a pick-up, being squished in the subway, and crashing into Geno’s pizzeria with the rental car. It was frightening, all that distance. Before, I could tell from how far the truck had gone how many steps it would be, and it could have been a lot of steps. I have good legs.”
I do recognize this was a flirtation. She was wearing ripped shorts, resurrected from Dead Giveaway, a thrift store for the damned who claw at life beneath deadlines and depression (there will be more advertising, in case you were wondering). Now is as good a time as any to state that I am 23 years old.
“What else was there? Oh, definitely smells. I asked several people why they smelled. My parents told me that was an inappropriate question. I realize that people outside the commune deodorize to not smell like themselves, but it is confusing that they do not conversely odorize proudly like beautiful things. I recognize one smell from a smoking ritual, there is a quest the party of teens has to complete before the drumming starts: an Elder has a ‘vision’, the adventurers have to find the hidden time capsule using clues or they have to convince someone on the fence to join the ‘flock’, and that’s how I discovered my favorite food is an ice cream sundae with a cherry on top. He should be proud. But anyway, I have a question for you, if you don’t mind. Um… What’s your favorite food?”
Ballora typically has her eyes concealed by bangs, she brushed them away along with my uneasiness. I could then tell that she actually had hazel eyes, and I became conscious of the fact that the interview was taking place in a large suite much too extravagant for the occasion. I told her I like grilled meat. We interrupted it to set a date for the whole gang to have Korean barbecue, she will probably have tofu yet she will smell like meat, afterwards we will have ice cream.
“Lastly, you want to know about ‘it,’ right? I was weird enough being out here with my handcrafted onesie. Although I am glad I felt worse, there was a comfortability at home which would have surely stunted my growth had I left later. There is always the Future; there is always the Past; there is always the Present. One often has to look from where they are over the horizon to see the Future. And when I had arrived over innumerable seas of development I only found worries - I know I am a girl and you recognize this, I treasure that; my reason to explore the world is to better understand myself - I worry that what I think I am will cease to be what you think I am, I know you will never intend such deception although you also didn’t intend to come here just like me. You have other problems as well. All I did was ask a man for a joke, humor can bring groups together for or against the teller. I was right in picking him. The joke: ‘Why did Jesus die a virgin?’ I answered, ‘Because he couldn’t be tempted,’ I respected the historical figure at least. His official response, which has been corroborated by the internet, is, ‘Every single ‘wound’ he touched closed up.’ I looked to my dad, who was on the path to becoming a storytelling Elder, and then to my mom, who thought about leaving more times than I care to count. They were cross, like he was one of those hedonists who wanted to ‘chill’ without participating in the shared story. The smell I mentioned earlier was not from him. He was trying to impress many different women that day.
“That happened on the train. It’s a singular phrase; train of thought. There is no ship, car, or plane of thought - well, I guess there is a plane of thought. You get the point. A train travels on tracks, unlike other vehicles that have the road or the sea or the fricking sky, and I stayed on it in the rental car. I didn’t tell them where I intended to go; I didn’t know. I remember looking into his eyes, as he must have been gauging how the joke was received, and I assessed that. In me he saw the Future; I saw the Future in him. Sitting in the car then I felt I was being driven around to placate me, so I would be hidden from my eventual worries. Felt like I was being driven off the edge of the world.
“You know what I remember next. Coming out of the elevator into a room not unlike this one - looking back, no one followed me, I must have seemed relieved - I was unlike myself for a while until Morose saw me.”
This testimony I present as exhibit A as part of the argument for the recognition of Morose as the Bored God.
Next up, Natalie Martinez. She is the sole survivor of an invisible attack. This was not a real life instance of those locked-room mysteries or a murder-suicide; it was a transgression on the part of subject 259, favored by Laughing Matters Inc, Leon Oceanus Galowicz. They believe the rightful name of the supreme being is the Laughing God: legend has it that he was born laughing instead of screaming to draw air into the lungs, he remained in a constant state of invisibility until that risky time in every person’s life when they hold their breath to see what will happen. And, for the good of all, he might have suffocated to be seen, Dire Publicity would like you to know that people should risk life and limb for the chance to be in the hearts of the masses, if they want to be anyone that is; therefore, Galowicz reversing his decision after witnessing pedestrians flee to oncoming traffic from, among many things, the sight of his boring, black eyes - shrieking like the bastard son of a psychiatrist whose plunder of uncanny minds has surely cost us all, that he is - makes him a mistaken child to this day. Frankly, this whole invisibility racket has turned out to be far worse for homeowners than the Invisible-Man made it seem, you would think from the popular concept that objects of enduring size and shape like a door (really, most things are a door when the unknown is in front of them) should recognize the trespass of what used to be a human sized corporeal being and push back the invader, but I know that God only knows what all that is indescribable comes to form as when there is no fear of being told how disgusting it is, and Galowicz slips past people and through the tiniest apertures alike.
It is because of her harrowing experience that she was chosen as the spokesperson for Renegade Mind Psionics, a brand of psychic conditioning designed to build defense against probing by an unofficially out of control yet legal surveillance apparatus under the purview of an international organization I may or may not mention in an unrelated matter, and those among us who erode our sense of self in an unbelieving world. She came to the interview dressed in her usual and disheveled: a cotton shirt, blazer, dress pants, flats, and a pair of misplaced eyes wondering what exactly she had missed; her green contacts had been left in, she removed them after seeing herself, washing up. She began.
“There are trees and ‘trees’ and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All trees have their ornaments, except perhaps the legalistic ones when a man falls into a ‘bitch’ and the contrition between them as an unstoppable force on an unmovable object. There is the small ‘cute’ baby, the one who will be called Morose, that appreciates with smiles, nestled in the manger of the nativity scene near our favorite grove of firs. There is the whole tree that gives you the adolescents-are-crazy look and smells piney and beams and hangs on your arm and is very obstinate you take care of her when you can. She isn't afraid the world is going to end and has that goddamned point and you want to harm her except you are glad you found out about the point before you invested too many schemes and stories and tears on her. Because the point will always be there, a hazard that never wears out and is as deadly as the crusader’s blade or the follower’s cliff. There is the bright and willing star of the tree who doesn’t mind what he swears as long as he doesn’t have to think or where he goes as long as it is the Blue Castle and there is an easy campaign. There is the problematic card which will be a relic and describes the probable conflict yet promises holiday cheer and attention to ritual and establishes the whole tree, and makes it bend over itself. There is the uncertain, dark angel of the tree with mania of some non-fatal but incurable type. He is very experienced in loss and very fatherly and he speaks defensively out of nowhere but you can’t support him because in the first place there was your biological father and in the second he can be found lying to lonely numbers or Juliet in the original, the witch at the edge of the village or the people close to him, or himself about his ability to love. He adores minds and when the Most Interesting Person in The World is spacing he can tell when the last six sensations came on strong. I -- you -- suppose all angels can. For this, idols of them. And lastly there is the gregarious daddy’s girl who will outgo three ‘special’ sisters and then carry a couple curses at a curse a head and end up with a memorial plaque at Homer Park, an afterlife position at the Cave of Talking Heads, and a chance of advancement to the Society of Pure Being, all of which will remain a wonder as your absent-mindedness of affection in a cruel world.”