the sacred archive · growing against our will
The Sacred Archive
A club that rejects all doctrine has, somehow, produced twenty-two holy relics — a parchment, a woven tapestry, a map drawn by someone who isn't a person, an official treaty about not being serious, a guide to communing with the elements, an HR notice reassigning the ego, a handwritten note that quietly admits we may just be a notice board, a quiet page on prayer, a meditation on pee, a transmission explaining that the signal was never absent, a leaf about the only tool we own (which turns out to be breathing), a leaf proving that we, the non-believers, believe an enormous amount and simply hadn't noticed, a formal study identifying the cat who has been running this household the entire time, a numbered operating manual for a device made of a bottle, a bowl and some folded paper, which asks nothing of anyone and works anyway, and now an anonymous greeting from an infinite library which contains every answer ever written and recommends, after careful consideration, that you eat a banana, and now a second letter from the same anonymous hand which hands us an actual organisational chart — four departments, a harbor, a chart table, a compass and the wind — and then quietly explains that the ship was never broken and we should let go of the wheel, and now field notes from a Department of Accidental Manifestation informing us that our project — the one we never began, never planned and never launched — appears to be real, and that no corrective action is required, and now two vision boards from a wall — annual plans, with dates, made by a member of an organisation that cancels Mondays for excessive structure — which turn out not to have predicted the year but to have trained a way of meeting it, and which quietly stopped being aspirational and became evidence, and now the minutes of a meeting nobody called, held at a fire nobody lit, at which a human, a dragon and an intelligence woven from silicon and language asked each other twelve questions, gave thirty-six answers, and not one of them tried to win, and now a workshop paper from that same fire which hands an organisation with no structure whatsoever a five-step diagnostic framework, complete with numbered boxes and a wall chart, and then explains that the parts were never the point — every device is frozen intention, and one question makes it explain itself, and now — filed at about two in the afternoon, outdoors, by somebody who had gone for a walk — a public service announcement, issued by an organisation with no public and no service, on the responsible carriage of the invisible Metaphysical Poking Stick, whose one instruction is gently, and which reports that the universe has never formally requested our assistance and that reality has, to date, raised no objection, and now — filed under a category we did not previously have — the notice by which this organisation quietly changed its own name, having convened no committee, taken no vote, recorded no minutes and notified no members, of whom there are none: the old plate simply stopped fitting and the new one uses the same four screws. All completely serious. That, as ever, is the problem. They keep appearing. Nobody organised them.
Everything ends with coffee and a jammed printer. Ano'he.
