Persmithery Pie
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by 
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Persmithery Pie
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I am a being that has no beginning that I am able to deduce, mused Basiliuœus in his bamboo-bound journal. As such, the blueprints that arise from my quill are not inventions of my own with a concrete beginning I may pinpoint. Instead, I am a synthesizer of sorts. This tendency, however, causes much confusion as well. For, rather than specializing in one niche of biomech, I insist on...
"Baa--sil!" came a mother's exultory tones. "Do come downstairs, please. We will begin the persmithery ritual momentarily!" Basiliuœus groaned audibly, then yelled down "all--right, I'm co--ming!" in a derisive manner. "Where was I?" he mutter-asked himself.
For, rather than specializing in one niche of biomech, I insist on plumbing the depths of that industry's catalogue. My hunger for research is insatiable — along with my appetite for novelty. I cannot settle for a simple living lemon. I MUST discover how a lemon-meat-machine may be brought to sentience. I dare not stop at a golden flux-circuit flowing with Waran-water. I MUST cause that circuits' veins to flow with the sanguinity of a Nohonic Fount. REAL BLOOD must be brought to pulse through that metaphorical heart.
The youth was beginning to work himself into a mania internally, though his exterior was still cool, disinterested-looking. His reddish hair began to slick with sweat and his pale-green eyes began to blaze with a weird light all their own — adding to those external, rainbow-hued reflections of the magical fireplace which filled the cluttered room with warmth. Who may say what unspeakable emotions stewed behind the laser-light lucidity of those precocious portals? In his journal, he continued.
How cannot the others see it? Has it to do with my lack of magical propensity? Unclouded by the passions of the seven na'an, am I able to laser-deduce the scientific myopia of my fellows? Is it, instead, delusions of grandeur and the arrogance of a young person? I am aware of an emptiness within myself. — It is — a LACK of EXPERIENCE! I am aware of how painfully young and naive I really am. I grapple with this great angst... that I cannot choose where to go and what to do, even intellectually as I am physically trapped with my mother, father, and siblings here! And, on top of it — I create, spontaneously and without any hesitation — the most beautiful and bizarre biomechanical blueprints I have ever seen. And — I swear it — this is the truth, not the mere bragging of a one-xod kid!
"BAAA-----------ZZZIIIIIIIILLLLL!" came the shriek of an enraged banshee from the throat of a woman. The ground rumbled and Basil’s devices clinked and squelched as her magically-amplified voice shook the house’s foundations. "I SAID — — — I'M COOOO--MIIING. ALREAADY!" the calm, poised young man bellowed: becoming possessed with the spirit of a Brass Yak (metaphorically speaking, for young Basil had no magical ability of any kind — let alone advanced animal spirit vessel-invitation!) Now, though his heart continued to pound, the lad continued obstinately at his journal as follows.
While I am swearing, let this record show — I shall never cease my pursuit of biomechanical mastery — not until I determine the manner of creating the ULTIMATE MACHINE. Then... I shall create it!! The ultimate machine sounds like fantasy... it will be the creation of a fully sentient, persistent, self-sustaining and potentially even IMMORTAL mechanism that, itself, is capable of the creation of life.
Through this, I shall DISPROVE for once and all the existence of that false figure YOD, in whose insidious name so many commit acts of insane fervor. I must even make a charade of it myself — whose own mother would be sure to un-house me should I admit my secret in public! Even now, I must speed my trembling hand to the end of this entry so that I may participate in the ridiculous ritual of the holiday Persmithery Pie! (I must admit to loving that sour-sweet delight of a morsel. Perhaps this silly ritual causes me to appreciate it more, or endows the final dish with more delight. In all humility, I guess that I really do not know. Still... I WILL BUILD THAT MACHINE ONE DAY.
MARK — — — THESE — — — WORDS! — — — # z£$ @ ) b (&₱!#| )6&₫ { az¥f! # J H;’ , .₡Uf$ C₴ ^
NOTE BY SCRIBE Tum Ti’illigree — this concludes journal entry 2.6.5.9 by the great inventor Basiliuœus Shrimfæm during his youth. The final, nonsensical characters at the end are, more than likely, caused by his mother dragging him violently away from his writing-desk, down to the Persmithery Pie Ritual downstairs. I do not know whether it was he or she who made the marks, though... due to the sheer savagery of their appearance, I may only guess it was she — enraged by his heretical sloth? Alas, Basiliuœus himself never answers any questions about his mother. Indeed, any subordinate of his who broaches the subject more than once is swiftly terminated from his employ. I do not even know whether she still lives.
Original writing and images
by Daniel Pendergraft
— created for HIVE —
published on Dec. 4, 2021.
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Writing is fully original
and can be considered a free-written
blueprint towards eventual completion of a piece
shared and preserved immutably on blockchain.
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Images are created with Wombo Dream,
scaled up with Final Cut Pro
and further processed in Deep Dream Generator.
