Beyond The Spell Of The Sensuous

The story you are about to read is not very good.

In fact, I would go so far as to say it’s terrible.

Terribly nonsensical, mostly unedited, and completely incoherent.

But, all of that being said, I’m still proud of it.

I’m not sure why. It isn’t very good.

Still, there’s something about the ideas within the story that makes me happy.

It’s those ideas that lead me to publish the story on this blog.

Even though this story is, in most ways, quite unlike what’s normally published here, there are a couple of key ideas that pertain to some of the central themes and ideas we explore.

Central themes and ideas such as creativity, imagination, and meaning.

So, if those interest you, and you want to read something nonsensical, yet fairly imaginative and somewhat unique, then the story below may be worth reading.

But, if you aren’t looking for that, and want something well-crafted, then the story below is simply not worth your time.

Beyond The Spell Of The Sensuous

Long ago, there once lived a man named “Milton”.

Milton was, I am told, a renowned artisan who specialized in sculpting walls.

Every wall that Milton sculpted was made of the same material. A material that looked just like concrete, yet was very different from concrete.

No one knows the material that Milton sculpted with. Perhaps, Milton, himself, did not know.

The walls Milton sculpted were renowned for their artistry, elegance, and stability. All very common traits that any sculptor of walls is familiar with.

But, you see, Milton’s walls were known for something else. Something that every wall possesses, yet Milton’s walls were very different from every other wall.

Every single wall Milton sculpted contained a profusion of cracks, gashes, and contours.

All of these cracks, gashes, and contours occupied the same surface and converged upon one another.

The cracks, gashes, and contours within Milton’s walls were dependent on one another.

Each crack, gash, and contour served as a facet of a world.

A living world. A world in motion. A world brimming with motion and flow.

To access this world, one need only to stare into the wall, into the seemingly formless miasma of cracks, gashes, and contours.

In doing so, one would find a symphony of stories and beings, coalescing and converging in ways not bound to the structures and forms of our conscious minds.

The worlds contained within these walls were known as containers. Containers of extraordinary wisdom, guidance, beauty and, in some cases, love itself.

But, to access this world, and the infinite series of gifts contained within the worlds of just one of Milton’s walls, one must rely on the invisible faculties contained outside of their conscious awareness.

Long ago, a close associate of mine shared a story with me. This story, if I recall correctly, was about a woman named Laura.

Laura was part of the Qureshi family. A once-royal dynasty that ruled a series of islands and archipelagos somewhere across the Asima Samudra Kalpana.

No one remembers the Qureshi family, except for me, my close associate, and, perhaps, a few books scattered across the vastness of our world.

As the daughter of Abdullah Qureshi, Laura was given access to all that she needed, and all that she could ever want.

Laura wanted a wall. A very special wall — a living wall — constructed by the maestro himself: Milton.

The Qureshi Patriarch granted the wish of his beloved daughter.

Soon enough, a wall was shipped all across the Asima Samudra Kalpana, to the island owned by The Qureshi Family.

My close associate told me that the wall given to Laura Qureshi was the largest Milton had sculpted at the time. It was, perhaps, the largest he ever sculpted.

Seven servants were required to set up the wall. The entirety of Laura’s third bedroom was surrounded by the wall Milton had constructed.

To the Qureshi Patriarch, the wall was a gift — a treasure, even — but it meant nothing to him, in comparison to the love he felt for his daughter and his desire to make her happy.

To the Qureshi Princess, however, the wall was more than a mere treasure, and far more than a simple gift; the wall was a doorway to that which goes beyond the spell of the sensuous.

Many of Laura’s diaries were filled to the brim with the evolution of her journey within the wall, various revelations and revolutions in her thinking, metaphors and allegories that pierce the veil of the conscious mind, and even glimmers and glimpses of languages beyond any that man has known and, perhaps, will ever known.

Early on in Laura’s journey, contained within the ninth journal, of many more to come, there is a story. A story that my close associate chose to share with me, for it is the story he remembered most vividly, and felt most deeply.

My close associate told me that Laura stared at the wall and, in so doing, fell into another life.

A life that was predetermined, already written, and bound to rules and conventions not present within the world of our conscious experience.

The moment Laura entered was, according to my close associate, transformative in ways beyond definition or conscious knowing.

You see, Laura entered the life of a woman named Ammalina.

The moment Laura entered and experienced was that of Ammalina writing a letter.

A letter to her husband. Her husband had died in a war taking place across a great chasm between literal mountains, and the deserts between these mountains.

Ammalina chose to write this letter in the hopes that it would provide solace and some form of reconciliation.

Everything that she wanted to say, to the man she so loved and missed so very much, was found in this letter.

But, there were two qualities, within this experience, that Laura — and, in turn, my close associate — chose to emphasize.

For you see, this letter was not written in the languages and forms most known to us.

Rather, this letter was, in fact, a symphony. A symphony of sounds, none of which can be described within the framework of spoken or written language, all coalescing together.

Each sound merged into the aforementioned symphony. From this symphony, a letter was written.

But, there was no paper, there was no pen, there was no space for this letter to be written, recorded, shared, or even discarded.

Rather, it was as if the letter was made of sound — sound that was both tangible and invisible — and the actions following the creation of this letter — that of being burnt, and the ashes being melted into a pot of golden water — were also made of sound, without any genuine tangibility or presence within the realm of light and space.

Yet, even though this was the case, Laura felt this woman’s loss profoundly. So much so, that the experience is mentioned in the later journals with regularity. But, according to my close associate, the experience differs with each retelling, as if the act of remembering is, in its own way, an act of creativity.

Within the forty-seventh journal, Laura tells the story once more. But, in this version of the story, she shares what happened to the invisible ashes — my associate knew of no other word for what this letter transformed into — that were once the letter.

The invisible ashes were poured into a pot of golden water. Slowly, they melted into the pot, turning the water into a dark miasma of crimson and blue, despite them being both colorless and distinctly gray.

Eventually, the miasma of dark crimson and blue was poured into a small pond lying outside of Ammalina’s house, within the garden she had created with her husband.

Slowly, the miasma of dark crimson and blue merged with the green water that was filled with algae and invisible beings.

Eventually, from this singularity, a single island, with a single volcano, was born.

No one but Ammalina — and, as a result, Laura — could see the island. But, on the island, there were two women — lovers — named Indira and Allesandra.

The two women, despite seemingly being born moments ago, claimed to have been living for many years, in relative tranquility.

But, according to the two women, the volcano would soon erupt, consuming them both, and ending their love.

Indira and Allesandra both begged Ammalina to do something, to save their lives. But, for as much as Ammalina tried, she could not do anything.

In the end, Ammalina told them she was “Sorry”, shed tears for them, and left them alone to embrace and hug as the flames of the volcano came upon them, burning them alive and turning them into ash.

The experience, as Laura recalled it, was just as transformative, if not more so, as that of being Ammalina for the first time.

But, of course, Laura claimed that this was part of the initial experience, and that the experience was singular and never replicated.

My close associate was unable to piece together the truth.

Did Laura omit key information from the first experience? Did Laura remember her own inexperience incorrectly? Was Laura simply insane?

My close associate never answered any of those questions.

According to my close associate, the journals continued to be written, eventually going up into the thousands.

A variety of new stories and new experiences were added regularly. Laura’s gifts only became more and more significant, enabling her to engage with the wall in ways that my close associate was never able to truly understand.

Eventually, while looking at the cracks, gashes, and contours of the wall she so cherished, Laura stopped breathing.

The body did not shift for several days. But, Laura was, according to my close associate, and medical records obtained from a library containing fragments of the Qureshi Family’s history, dead.

A young woman, lost too young.

My close associate told me that her bedroom was encased in glass. Preserving Laura and the wall that she so cherished.

Some nights, Abdullah Qureshi would wander to Laura’s room. Never entering, but merely glancing through the transparent glass walls, onto her body, and onto the cherished wall.

Supposedly, the Qureshi Patriarch would, during those sleepless nights where melancholy fills the air, stare into the walls and find himself in worlds and spaces beyond his own powers of description and definition.

The experiences, as infrequent as they were, shook the Qureshi Patriarch, to the point where he considered destroying the wall and, in turn, the bedroom of his beloved daughter.

But, out of love for his daughter, the Qureshi Patriarch did no such thing and, instead, merely instructed his servants to bury the glass room behind a series of stone walls and steel doors.

One key was made. A single steel key that would unlock the unbreakable doors and allow one to enter the space containing the glass bedroom.

According to my close associate, the key was preserved in a small safe, contained in one of the Qureshi Patriarch’s bedrooms.

Soon after the process was finished, the palace — a magnificent structure beyond the architectural marvels of today’s world — was raided by the mechanical men the Qureshi Family had, for so long, used as servants and slaves.

The Qureshi Patriarch, and every other member of his family, was killed.

The palace was destroyed with weaponry known only to the minds of the mechanical men conducting the revolution.

Only one space was preserved. The library. Every single item within this library was shipped to the various islands across the Asima Samudra Kalpana.

Eventually, after a period of many years, a variety of those items made their way to the United States of America.

My close associate found the journals in the library at his university.

The stories contained within these journals lead to him searching for information on the histories, cultures, and families contained within the vast expanse of that moment in history.

Soon enough, my close associate learned about Milton, a name he had seen in the journals — but whose significance was not known to him — and the walls Milton was known to sculpt.

The journey continued. My close associate persisted.

Eventually, a network of relationships, cultural narratives, histories, metaphysical practices, arcane habits, and historical ephemera was created.

Each facet of this vast network was, according to my close associate, the key to the Qureshi Family, the key to the walls, and the key to what lies beyond the spell of the sensuous.

Alas, my close associate perished before the treasures within this network could be gathered, polished off, and assembled into the “Keys To The Kingdom” that he so hoped they would be.

My purpose — my journey, if you will — is to finish the work of my close associate.

But, you see, this task, it is a great challenge for one man, and one man alone, to fulfill.

I ask you, my dear reader, to understand something.

Something important. Something that was not mentioned earlier and, now, must be mentioned.

For you see, within the network that my close associate had created, there were several pieces of historical ephemera — interviews with those that had once interviewed Milton on his walls — that contain a key to the Keys To The Kingdom we are seeking to assemble and share.

Milton, according to the aforementioned interviews, sculpted his walls through the use of a method given to him by a close teacher who he met, every single night, in his dreams.

The method consisted of staring at a surface — any surface — and saying “Thank You” to the surface.

“Thank You, For Revealing Your Gifts, Your Treasures, And Yourself.”

In engaging with this method, according to those interviews, Milton was able to create living walls. For it was the information that the surfaces gave to him, that allowed him to do this.

I ask you, dear reader, to do this with me. For, if we do so, we may discover what lies beyond the spell of the sensuous.

Conclusion

For the most part, the story is nonsensical; a stream of images and ideas, vaguely related to one another, with some semblance of a structure uniting them together.

Even though that is the case, however, there is a central set of themes and ideas.

You see, it is my belief — and, the essays on this blog explore this central idea — that we, as human beings, possess causative abilities that pertain to the mental and emotional aspects of our lives.

Through the use of these causative abilities, we can come up with great ideas, turn those ideas into a reality, fulfill our desires, and transcend our limitations.

The story is, in a way, an exploration of those ideas. More than that, though, it’s also an attempt at exploring those ideas within the framework of a unique mythos that suggests more than it explicitly states.

I don’t think I succeeded, at all, since the story isn’t very good. But, for whatever reason, I still felt like publishing it.

Thanks for reading the story! If you want to reach me, for any reason at all, you can do so at “maxwellcakin@gmail.com”.

Best wishes, and have a great day!