14. ‘The Gorgon’

14. ‘[ Gorgon ]’

part 13: ‘[ Gorgon ]’ or ‘Commrade Woland!’

Etymology: “The word meaning for Gorgon… 
… comes from the Greek word ‘Gorgos’, 
… which roughly translates… 
… to terrible.”
Gorgon pilot. Recruited out of [Pegasus] a lot of the time, they are the Fleet’s starship pilots. I mean we get briefed on what the military is doing, or I should say the defense administration, but the Gorgon insignia means the Fleet, starfleet, ultimately, and the mythological creature attributed to it is a big iron bull or ox. Sometimes it’s a boar. Most of the time, a pilot will have a decal of the Medusa’s head on the side of his craft, a truer representitive of the mythological Gorgon, with the portrait of the monster-woman usually framed or bordered by snakes or a snake. Their enemies are stone-faces, flash-frozen in agony, right before the end…
 Potent venom for the enemy in image.
 Maybe in one of the Pegasus stories one of the character goes by a hangar run by Emeralds, by chance AL’s family, and running in on him oversee construction and the assemblage of planes… and other aircraft… for private citizens to own and operate, and a place for them to store and land them like horse-stables. 

 Frosty and prescience:
 Today’s images were more jarring than the previous ones had been. There are characters that I remember from past, images ive had, but now I see one is becoming clearer, I can see: they seem to have highlighted one: at first the imagery wasn’t quite clear, not really that detailed… But soon after, the representations were displaying for me a sort of violent display, frightening, and it was more like they were showing me someone’s soul than anything that had, or will have, happened. It was the spirit of the ages, I suspect, and they are sad, morbid, because it ‘is’ what it is, and they know there’s nothing they can change about that… I can only relay my notes to understand my experience: to myself. These are notes to my self, to survive the encounter with them, before memeory lapse… occurs… which seems to spring on me after every encounter… the only defense against this was journaling… and getting to writing, by disciplined force of habit, after every trance. 
 MarchingMen are always marching.Marching The boy with cat’s eyes watches men marching on his chessboard. Marching… the ants go marching one-by-one, hoorah, hoorah; the boy spins the board, he laughs while squadrons of men walk into one another, confused, and crashing. CrashingCrashing Men are always crash–in–g–looking to the Stars wondering, and hoping, despite the predictions planning for a brighter future. 
 The scene is quickly changing, and I cannot dwell on this any longer, so quickly: above the bottle, a gigantic Emerald melts, steadily streaming the liquefying contents into the crystal jar labeled “Absynth.” What does this mean? A full word… had never manifested… like that… in my visions before… Massive Vampiric Teeth: floating by in the abyssmal silence beneathing the ceiling but behind the walll… around him as well…
 FightingFighting Men are always fighting.Fighting The boy is coiled up, now, into a ball within the jail-cell… 
 All he can see from there are the stars. The stars have lost their beauty for him, though—he equates them inextricably with his confinement now. He just wanted out! Damn you, out!!! Tears streaming down his face form fissures upon his skin, what a horror it is to be alive, and what an unnatural punishment is dungeon confinement. 
 Wait, he wasn’t in any kind of jail cell… someone else’s memory? … a shared experience? … the way he was dressed, imagine one of your childhood doll’s, toys, action figures, starting to come to life–right before your eyes–creepy. Remember when you were a kid and that one night one of them moved–or maybe not–but you swear it, and now the memory is so old that you’re not sure if it did move, or had you just worked yourself into believing it, partially for the reaction it illiceted when you were telling it, to other young boys, as it has had it, maybe not so much in adult life, but back then those guys were really loving that kind of stuff, and ghost stories, and the more you pretended to believe it, maybe boy’s first instance of acting, the more you had established credibility with your ghost story. If you were naturally gifted in acting, and you really wanted to play a prak on everybody, the practical joke aspect of this is must be calculated into this… as this is a superiority complex win here, psychologically, and the dopamine spike could develop into a chemical-dependency.
 The image has shifted, disappearing particles rain down, like sand. 

 The particles recongeal into forms, and the flamboyant child has returned, but now he is in that horrible black, living-tar-like substance, again. He throws a spear in the direction our men, those who are marching, posing in a perfect portrait like some Ancient Greek sculpture or engraving on a vase, his musculature defined by the toxic black suit, it was puffing air as if breathing, and towers are crashing all around this black and starry place… the castles in the air… About which, for awhile now, we’ve listened to you talking… His sister, and the boy with blond hair, a friend, sit at their thrones; the little girl’s is bejeweled, all of theirs are, blue, red, green… and the blond haired boy’s throne is crafted from wood, woven beautifully, and there’s something, yellow, a crystal glowing yellow… Aleon stands at his own throne, which is composed of metals, melted into an unidentifiable husk, ugly, but perplexing, … green, the throne was green, it was an Emerald, and the three children seem to be privledged by the dreamer, the vision quest, elevated to where…

He throws the Javelin right at us. It was a massive black spear, with, wings, bat wings, spread out horizontally like a cross right at the tip of it, made of some kind of silver, or platinum or something… He seems pleased, self-confident, that it will reach it’s target. An eight-story building is impailed by the weapon. It caves into itself, the javelin hit at incredible speed! A bottle is being filled… within the abyss… behind the javelin thrower… a genie in the smoke, being sucked back into a bottle, in the background. After fading the image replacing it is a very strange, and perhaps inappropriate, call me old fashioned, of a satyr, from Greek mythology, that has a gigantic penis… this is what the vision brought before, I’m not bragging and I’m being honest, it was a penis laid down upon a scale. Okay? Alright. And on the other side of the scale there was a pile of gold.
 The inscription in Latin read: “Worth it’s weight in gold.” 
 Now, has the Stratego of Earth really produced all of this, with ‘his’ own mind, if he’s never been to Italy? He saw the imagery in Latin, but he knew exactly what it read… he read it in English in his head… as if the understanding were provided to him… The look of shock, or bewilderment, one wipes sweat beading from one’s forehead deciphering it all… As the black-gunk, around the boy from the Asteroid, throws his bat-winged Javelin at us, I can see it piercing the Moon, now. The chessboards below us have men in blue and gray suits, like soldiers from the American Civil War, a cat knocks the table over, all of them are falling over each other, slipping around in the blood streaming down from the Moon’s punctured hole, the cat is bigger than the moon now, a black tomcat, and he’s smoking a cigar, laughing down at Earth, wearing a top hat and a monocle…
 There are flames behind him now. The black tomcat. He stands with a wand held into the air. 
 JusticeJustice Are men not perpetually seeking Justice?Justice! If not justice, we should call it Adjustment, rather, and instead make a balance of contrasts, and make note of it, in-keeping with Nature’s tune, and our own. Uncompromising honesty and objectivity, it’s impossible, and the people from the stars have learned a wisdom we as men secretly yearn for, which is that this act of Justice, or this self-righteousness, is what we are ‘really’ seek, it’s pure, and isnt it just simpler? This young man is the harbinger of the oncoming Aeon; the ‘adjustment;’ the embodiment of… In my gathering, he is drunk with power. He’s yearning to exercise some magnitudes more of it. I had never seen the boy’s face clearly before. It was strange, knowing–and yet alien. Was he coming for us? He had pursed black lips, chubby cheeks, in many ways there is a look of affluence to him. He has deeply knowing eyes. 

The vision was longer this time and when the travelers got to the part with the chessboards, and the violence, the boy seems to be wearing some white powder make up, and the pale complexion made his features standout more, and in an unsettling way—in a nightmare kind of way… And the room had shifted in its atmosphere. The mist was more prominent, there was a shift in the energy, a frequency in the room had changed, and the visual images had stopped. 

 Tick tock, of my clock. I was back in my room again. It was black all around, as usual once the visuals had ceased he was back late at night inside his room. These creatures, perhaps the lost citizens of Utopiaoid, perhaps… it seemed to return to their ambiguous observations of me. Was it people who had abducted me? He asks, not referring to the Amazon, and the ransom, but the hallucinogenic experiences, where he had had the experience of an abduction, and vision-memories, they were real, whether produced in the brain, or an actual material phenomena, or otherwise, science and forensics will fail to tell you, but they happened and regardless of the ultimate explanation for the causes of them, it could be some bad pastrami he had earlier in the week, but …


The Legendary Armor of Aleonitus

-Airship Factory hangar b#H29, Emerald Industrial sector-

Sparks from welders working steel—beam menageries explode all around them… and they are immersed in demands of time and attention. Stoically, his workmen are fusing steel and…

Some men favor working with the blueprints themselves. Some men like to reconfigure molten steel with fire and levers.

… in the background, the tradesman work their art on the reality of the solid material that they clutch with their own two hands.

Getting things done, pushing the envelope of time… AL was… making extravagant proposals and in madness pursuing every claim his mouth had in-errantly proposed. It was a posture of confidence which he needed to abandon. The thing is… he often ‘can’ accomplish what feats he’s taken on, but it’s hard when he had to do it on command, by… others. A fire drives the boy that’s like a warp-drive, sometimes it can be an in black well gravity well, dense, made of the gravity that defies comprehension and sometimes the hypothesis of mathematics man can even muster.

The attendants demanding his attention… in private, fearing all signs of death and decay… he was like Howard Hughes…
… an obsessive compulsive disorder developing… or strange rituals were sometimes seemingly required, and to help in coping with the strenuous cognitive demands, strange effluences actualized.

Marching they go, up the steel stairs and platforms of the Ruby-owned warehouse with “industrial Emerald pace”; a hurried Aleon is trailed by these several Emerald attendants, all of them desperately seeking his attention for various aims that he has undertaken: “I want those blueprints for the air shuttle!” My God, he really ‘was’ like Howard Hughes. Attendant: “We need more time, no one can find the ones you’re looking for. The deadline for the steel casings is completely unrealistic here…” Aleon, hair wet with sweat and grease, his black curls straightening under the hyper productive strain: “Well whoever’s looking for those blue prints–please aid them!” Attendant 2: “I gotta know what material you want to use for the control console?” What was this, ‘The Aviator’? “Did you still want to use the leather trim around the throttle control?”
Attendant 3: “Sir, a simulation designer is here to see you, says he’s here for a job interview…” Aleon: “Tell him to wait a little longer. I’ll be with him in a few moments.” Attendant 1: “Look, the Ruby airship fleet is going to be faster this season unless we get a ‘cruise-liner’ class airship for Emerald out this week! before they do somethin’ better; it’s got to be today I get these details done, or it’s never!”

AL: “They are limited to one factory per process, and as we are we’re booked out. Out of credit by them. So there’s no reason why–“

A pipe with steam burst, and several mechanical engineers ran over to attempt to deal with it.

Then, Aleon, nearly blowing a gasket himself with all the strain he likes to heap upon himself…

… again in the flowering fractal darkness behind his eye lids spins while he shut them for infrequent enough rest. Go, go, go; do more, do more, do more… what was it Democritus said, “If you seek Tranquility do less…” Hah, the ‘laughing philosopher’.

He saw sleep itself as a kind of death. Democritus should try having been a golden-ticket winner.

Death. Destruction. A ‘Wunderkind,’ He saw a beautiful landscape in front of him but also Death and the necessity for hard lessons felt to him like it was stacking up. Building armaments from which one day to siege him, all at once… right when he put his guard down… There’s so much left to do here. The clock is always ticking.

AL makes his money from Pegasus. The denizens of Pegasus are the base source of his wealth. Having overseen the construction of fleets of airships, of many kind, even the floating palatial airship his father half of the time now lives on, even as an extremely young age because he had simply been around it and the industry so much, as a baby, and of growing up around it all that it was natural to him to help in operations of the business and so AL learned the names of the equipment, and the instruments, and he knew the guys who operated the machinery and he asked them a bunch of questions, and he knew the heads of industry and designers who were manufacturing fleets of aircraft…
… he was surprised they brought him in for help with just …

… when he had spent the conjoining chapters of his short life assembling aircraft en masse.

His life outside of school recently in time was in construction, and flying, and of organizing storage, and of elaborate airships, massive slow-moving platforms, for the wealthiest of the famous and the elite in order to flaunt their riches and participate in group airship activities like parades for the public viewing pleasure. When they weren’t on parade they could be found at high altitudes, assembled together socializing. Honking horns, making silly light shows and performances with smoke machines for each other, always displaying novelty and humor for one another to get a laugh. It was a kick to see the bubble machines or the whacky fireworks displays coming out of the old men’s airships up above everyone.

Frosty again.They seemed quite alien to me. I couldn’t really see them (the people who left on Utopiaoid) having really changed quite this much! It was like an entirely separate species. I reasoned that this could also be a sort of occult representative of the Asteroid, and perhaps this was some secret society working as a research team, or something, upon the Earth for some…reason. Everything is quite unclear to me. I have a feeling in my gut. I’ve learned to trust my gut—in fact I have listened to its every word—even fed it, to make it grow up big and strong—well, big, that is. My gut hardly fails me, and it says something very bad is about to happen. Something tells me that these are not humans at all, that they are travelers from another solar system, extra-terrestrial travelers, perhaps here to observe a pivotal moment in Earth’s history. However, I also find it strange that beings which have the capacity to traverse the stars would be worshipping relics in such a way that is so similar to human beings in more archaic times of civilizations. It is not inconceivable that these images, smells, chants, etc. would not be utilized by another form of sentience, however, and it is only when you consider the whole star-travel capability thing does the wrench get thrown into it…no offense to anyone who may read this, but these things seem a bit, primitive, for an intelligence which has the ability to travel between stars. However, mind ‘is’ mind, and although in the past I’ve perhaps limited my own perspective, I am quickly coming to the conclusion that the world, or universe, is very much not what I thought it is. I hadn’t really pondered the idea of extra terrestrial contact very seriously…now I seem to be Earth’s unwitting Ambassador. On the topic of other’s potentially reading this one day…I hope this isn’t going to be my last words, and I want to say that (other than the slightly frustrating ambiguity), my stay here has been quite comfortable. I detect no hostility by my hosts, or ill intentions. I would like to return home, yes, of course, but I also wouldn’t mind staying here awhile. I mean, the implications are astounding, I would love to know more. This experience is the most fascinating thing I’m likely to experience in my life, and I’d like to get some mileage out of it. Why communicate in this roundabout way, surely they have a language? And for that matter, why me? There are certainly more powerful, influential people that they could have approached…why Richard Frosty, recently demoted Stratego? The visions continue, now much calmer: A baby boy plummets into blue pool water. It awkwardly flails its limbs attempting to swim. The baby has never before been submerged in water during its short life, yet it knows inherently to make the motions of swimming. Pushing water down to force its own mass up, the baby does not panic. It looks as if it plays. The throat has built-in physiological mechanisms (I read scientific magazines at work occasionally) to seal off the muscles of the throat, so that the infant does not take-in water. Now why would that be? The infant is not scared of drowning because it has no concept of drowning. It has no concept, yet, of life or death. The mother lifts the baby out of the water. The background is a chilled, reflective marble, pure-black, far off in the distance. The offsetting sleekness makes the room appear vast, yet altogether calming, and almost sacred. The baby looks around the pool, perhaps mimicking consciousness, perhaps wondering if this is what life is. Is there more to see? Will he one day ask: “who am I?” or “what is consciousness?” And once he knows what our answers for these questions are, will he then ask “why?” some more? “Why do I live?” will he ask “why is there life at all?” and then will he ask: “why is there evil in the world?” And then will he care to be good? When he doesn’t get an answer, what then? The shining black looms in the distance. The monolithic face of strength manifested in this black marble, there is a likeness of Atlas engraved on one of the walls of the pool hall, but it was too far away to see clearly from here. I felt like this scene was grimly alluding to a new life of dark necessities. “Aleon.” Words, spoken by a character, perhaps the first word I have heard yet. I started trying to recall if I had heard any real sounds at all, other than ambient noises, more for mood than anything. This was another reason I suspected these traveling observers to be extra-terrestrial. It was their lack of dependence upon sound. It made sense, then, that they never tried to speak to me with words. It reminds me of the notion that there are no sounds in space, and if these creatures can travel between the stars, then they probably have endured eons of silence. Gigantic, slender hands wrap around the baby’s body. The light from the skin of these motherly arms fills the room. Gently, his mother pulls him up and out of the water. Aleon. The boy kicks with excitement. The woman makes direct eye contact with her child, and it looks back into hers and smiles. It stares back into her eyes with a dumb smile and a look of astonishment. It is as if the child knows that she is communicating with it. Perhaps it is frustrated that it does not know how to communicate back. All the mysteries of the Universe will be open to you, the boy Aleon—an imagination will run rampant within you! So…his name is Aleon…

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