The House These Words Built

"The words you speak become the house you live in."

~ Hafiz

Someday in the distant future, it might be said that the books I wrote resemble a majestic mansion ensconced amidst bucolic pastures. Oh yes, educated folks will come from far and wide to gawk at the palatial splendour of this metaphoric estate. Don't believe me, do you?

Well, by all means, allow me to illustrate. I'm going to take you on a grand tour of these mesmeric grounds...

Look yonder and you'll see the barrow downs. Buried not deep amongst those rolling hillocks, lie the author's main influences. Their mounds are clearly marked because there's no desire to conceal them. Rather, they're proudly displayed for the sake of homage.

Then there's a dusty rustic road leading back to the house, that serves to remind the author of his humble beginnings. Nonetheless, the powdery dust itself is rich with allusion to a bygone bounty of pages.

Closer to home we find a country garden happily tended by a beauteous flesh and blood muse. She's a centaur, you dig? Anyhow, she now digs up fresh herbs and legumes, then proceeds to pick searing hot peppers for our evening repast. There's always more reading left to do even after writing is through (if you catch me adrift).

As one nears the palace lawn proper, the noonday sun highlights an elongated trellis covered in woodbines. Those same vines twine to scale the white plaster wall, three stories high. The brick and mortar of this place is founded upon several layers of semantic bedrock, supporting a semiotic architectural structure. Ideal, as opposed to real.

Yet make no mistake, the endless wonders you'll encounter across these thousand or so wise acres of our own private Xanadu—are no less substantial than say—time spent looking at my phone. Such supraliminal domains can be found within the neurologic strata that sizzle electric between Occam's razor and Plato's beard.

I've hunted those outlying regions my whole life, and brought the goods back home. Ascend the alabaster steps; inlaid with precious gemstones. Promenade along the balustrade and marvel at lustrous marble pillars, topped with illustrious bronze statues of the household deities.

Normally, I'd render obeisance unto them, but they themselves inform me that all relative terms for 'spirit' have been sullied by impious people and hence, must be reworked. Linguistic guile from forked tongues has taken its toll over millennia and made the infinite seem finite when seen merely through minted eyes.

No matter. What you're about to behold should help rectify any destitute worldview. Step into the vestibule and please permit me to divest you of that frumpy overcoat. You won't need it inside. Moving past this antechamber, we enter the trophy galleria. It's gauche to brag, but on display here are items of inestimable value.

Glass cases contain artifacts from major confrontations 'twixt heroes and villains. For instance, this is Garuda's Feather, the sword with which an upstart Ashura prince once overthrew the kingly Devatas.

Um—

Excuse me sir or miss, but that door is off limits. There's nothing behind it except a filing cabinet full of disheartening rejection slips. A tawdry concern, for us of quick wits. Come everybody, let's move on to greater quips!

Further inward the corridor opens to a rotunda, ridged by a mezzanine. Around the circumference hang paintings depicting various of the author's favorite scenes. Though I cannot take complete credit, since every depiction was created on commission. And without doubt, each work of art stretched my material means.

Anyway, you may return to this area and peruse it at your leisure. Please accompany me to the following foyer. You'll notice it's lined with portraits and profiles, but these were indeed drawn by the writer's five frenzied fingers. After four score or perhaps a few more of those, we come to an ornate double door.

What's behind it? I'm so glad that you ask. As I push both sides open wide, you witness a dress rehearsal rag underway upon a stage. However, it's no simple recital. There are multiple troupes in play, comprising all types of troubadour & trouvère.

While it's true that their coordinated cacophony keeps Yours Truly awake at night, I can't complain because I'm also the playwright responsible for this melodious shivaree. I agree, it's almost too much to bear even for me. We'd probably do well to leave them be, at least until they're properly ready.

Instead, we'll continue onto the second floor via the nearest spiral staircase. Here's not a single but a series of banquet halls—each has its resident staff of hostesses, servers, and out-of-sight chefs. Although the latter are given away by the appetizing aroma of verbal gumbo gourmet. Grammaton bakers are busy baking layer cakes; Latinate librettos and metaphysical folios for tonight's festive buffet.

There's not a lot else on this level, other than crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling above every section. Of course they symbolize crystallized ideas. Now we ought to vamoose to the top floor. I've got one last thing to show you before you go off and explore. Let's board this vintage lift, operated by an attendant from days of yore.

Welcome to the stellar observatory, where later we'll view the night sky quite starry. Pardon the pitch blackness, but it's intended to impress. I'll just pull this lever and ply apart the overhead dome. No, not too many folks have one of these in their home.

Et voilà! La pièce de résistance:

The incomprehensible and unpronounceable, ItzQuauhtli.

This immense sculpture of an Obsidian Eagle is composed purely of dark energy and as you can tell, it absorbs the sun's setting rays. Its wings stir the Mælstrom of noetic space. It's an abyssal creature that pierces the depths of one's soul with its pitiless gaze. It concurrently precedes and succeeds me. And although it might be the case usually, for once, I'm not speaking metaphorically.

I've written under this pen name for over ten years, and used to think that I'd imagined this whole concept. Then to my utter amazement, archaeologists excavated a real one beneath Mexico City earlier this year. Consider this excerpt from Smithsonian Magazine:

The golden eagle, which is also known as itzcuauhtli (obsidian eagle) in the Indigenous Nahuatl language, is rife with symbolism. Per the statement, the Codex Borgia—a 16th-century painted manuscript featuring calendars that purported to predict the success of marriages, military campaigns and other endeavors—contains a similar image of a golden eagle whose sharp-edged feathers mimic the knives used in ritual sacrifices.

“The eagle was a sacred creature in Aztec thought, believed to have been present at the birth of the sun (hence, the blackened ‘singed’ wing tips) and was the symbol of one of the elite warrior orders in Aztec culture,” Pennock explains to Live Science.

Little did I realize that for so long, my Toltec ancestors had been appealing subconsciously. My true home is in that Mælstrom where I originally hail from. Still, I'm not due to reascend until my written tasks are complete. Delusions of grandeur, you say?

Nay.

Dilutions of splendour, if you would fairly judge, our fine feathered feat!