Little Vehicle for Election to the Unholy Moleccult
I recently felt like I was being watched by large animals. The first was a giant owl on a faraway building (which could have been a stain), followed by giant chipmunk (perhaps simultaneously a log).
Shortly afterwards I was called to the smallworld by the example of the incomparable diotropic composed achromatic microscopes of the unholy Achille Brachet: the eccentric 19th century enthusiast of miniature worlds, who gathered together in his search for a certain SURACHROMATISM, a congress of all the microscopes he could lay his hands on, at no small expense. A herd of microscopes. What is this superior form of seeing the miniscule that drove his wits well off the edge of the deepest petri dish? And, moreover, how does one become indoctrinated in the preparation of perfect microscopic TEST-OBJECTS, those ideal objects of admiration for the little eye? Doraemon, have you got one in your pocket?
Surachromatic lifecycles. Superior microvisions. I recall a persistent childhood fantasy of imaginative selfreduction into a grasslawn jungle. The transformation in scale of a blade of grass to the height of a tree, like in Honey I Shrunk the Kids. I try to recapture this immoderate form of daydreaming by stealing opportunities to sit around outside for extended periods of time staring obsessively at the small things around me.
There are landscapes and monsters, and so many little brown orbs. There are wings and winglike things. Shards are the meaning of the small. Certain configurations evoke an immodest desire for severe reductions in life. A strict ethics. Morality of lofi underevil. On each speck of asphalt it’s so simple to dream up pandemonium.
A certain small patch of useless park (reserved usually by drug addicts) is suddenly converted by the city into a trendy outdoor drinking spot. The kind of very particular and petty moral outrage this sort of thing can evoke is so easily transubstantiated into a real alchemical misanthropy. I could certainly torch it. Sometimes such small bourgeois hubs of casual self-satisfaction irritate me well beyond the tastelessness of a large but dumb cathedral. The bigger they feel the quicker they burn. Real fire most welcome, little fellow of the flames.
It’s important not to be too funny in the smallworld. It’s easy to become the little wiseguy, and it’s a great thing to be if you want to tell it like it is to big fat humanity. But that keeps us in the company of big people, and we don’t want always want to spend our time entertaining hugehearted giants. We want to infect them, and colonize their happy immune systems from the inside with black seriousness, small and cold.
I see a woodchip and set it up in a little grass altar. I notice in the camera that it is actually an eye on that little dark woodchip. Something untoward has found its way into reality, no big deal.
Sunlight is actually pretty small, when paired with various overlarge but insubstantial shadows. A very reduced green patch of moss, blown up in size, reminds me of a model infantry clanrat’s fake grass base. In the army of toys and figurines which we empower to succeed us one day there is a frankly beautiful, militant joyfulness that makes the underground small movements of the world jealous. Burrowing into a deeper, smaller hole, avoiding the tiny fragments of leaves and the coins of strange britannian idiots. In the small forest there’s no such thing as reverie.
When the greatminded nihilists say there is nothing in the universe worth salvaging, we agree, and attach to that noun the singular lack of material and metaphysical being our unwavering, perverted eyeball.
The idea of being able to see a single atom with the naked eye had struck me as a wonderfully direct and visceral bridge between the miniscule quantum world and our macroscopic reality,” he said in a press release. “A back-of-the-envelope calculation showed the numbers to be on my side, and when I set off to the lab with camera and tripods one quiet Sunday afternoon, I was rewarded with this particular picture of a small, pale blue dot.
Contemporary humans are unsubtle in their variety and among the many things they think are worth insisting on, somehow, not big or small per se, but a nonstop comparison between the two. These fucking gigantophilic democrats who choose the grandeur of their institution over the little anti-accumulations of shadow that undermine their worldbuilding and erziehungism from the inside.
Yes, I am on the lookout for the gap beyond misanthropy. I am looking for “man-holes”. Whether this refers to caves in the perfect shape of specific humans (Junji Ito) or little atomic black pixels in the present tense, I don’t know, I am sure it’s infrathin and much smaller than any mere idea.
I hear the gnostic gnawing of a very tiny varmint crawling underneath the skin of the springtime. Swarms are of the small, as are infestations. Germs and plagues, like Merlin used to defeat the Mad Madam Mim in the most definitive wizard’s duel of the century. Deep utopias in black holes the size of a, the size of a, while always the fucking sizeofa?
Darkness is smallness. Evil is a cavity.
I was always remembering the miniature model of the town in the film Beetlejuice. In particular, the scene where the main characters are shrunk down and find their model suddenly has a new gravestone which they didn’t put there. They dig through the plastic fake grass and cardboard and glue to find it, to awaken that forgotten repressed thing…
To be small absolutely. This means to accept no comparatives when it comes to size. To destroy once and for all the dichotomy between big and small, and to choose without hesitation the side of reduction.
To accept the devil on our shoulder, the germ, the evil glimmer in the eye, the pang of guilt, as incarnations of the smallest, blackest sublime point. A pinprick of nothing in the fabric of reality; a punctum so incredibly minuscule that it brooks no detection. The portal to smallworld, or Hell, as you prefer.
If you hadn’t guessed, the above are entirely occulted instructions for the creation of a newly improvised kind of omelette, the Old golem, a neanderthal omelette that comes in an aurochsbone lantern. This little wandering androgyne that has all our limbs but none of our hangups, who comes from High Hell to tickle our inner ear with terrible puns and the desire to set blasphemy charges on the parliaments of the world. Warm the plate and wipe off the wax, or wash it off with spirits of turpentine, and rub the plate with fine dry whiting. The next instrument to proceed with is the graver; consisting of a blade of steel about three inches long, which is fixed in a convenient handle like an ant’s unwavering eyeball.
Study the smaller print, leave the big words for the illiterate bighearted. Look into the superior, SURACHROMATIC incomparable diotropic composed microscopes of the unholy Achille Brachet, herder of microscopes, discoverer of the smallest satan.