You’ll forgive me, dear reader, for these hasty notes but everything is seeming to come together. I haven’t been able to leave the office since yesterday’s fruitful breakthrough. I’ve finally been able to compose notations on the notes coming in from the loam, but they are difficult to present here, before you. The vertiginous rot responds to my words, but no longer to these few fumbling sentences, cast out here in this journal. No. I have begun arranging a new medium, the soil itself.
At first I thought it would be just enough to hold some part of the flowers while writing. Using their essence to imbue my words and scribblings, but it took me nowhere — nowhere further, nowhere new. I was able to get some new bars by arranging piles of dirt around the office over night and whispering a bit to each pile. I’ve requisitioned my entire work bench and have begun moving in on others. The taking shape here is of a kind of altar of rot and gristle and dust. My colleagues complain about the smell, and the softly crawling grubs which now inhabit various jars and sheets around me.
I have disrupted the work space, and I hear profane utterances from my collegues. They take away reams of paper and notes and flee for some place which contains less truth. A few are staying on, it appears, but no one understands the fascination. No one seems to hear or heed the infinite low tones of the argillaceous earth. My collegues shuffle with curious and mortified eyes, gazing equally at the putrid structure I create and the song I must be humming under my breath.
The song demands a composition and the composition requires a receptacle, which I am only just now coming to grips with. You’ll find an appendix of my efforts attached at the back. Of particular note is “larynx receptacle with baby’s breath” which is truly the cornerstone of what will most certainly be known as the first in a series of grand achievements in our pioneering language. The mulch requires an annotation — a sermon to go with the song.
Mixing a bit of petal and stem with my own blood as a thickening agent provides the tool with which to write. And onto these many fetid pages I will cast my melody and the melody I will set unto the altar, whereupon the melody will find it’s true voice, spoken unto the earth and commingled with these transitory vestiges of science…