Gemini 22. A painting that, once it is seen, cannot be remembered.
There is, supposedly, a painting in the Museum of Peth that is incapable of being remembered. I wrote down the name of it, “Seekers at Twilight,” and searched for it in the museum archives, but found nothing. Nor has any art historian written of it — how could they? They don’t remember it.
I would describe the painting to you, but as I have forgotten what it looks like, I can’t. This is a painting deeply shrouded in its own secret. All I can tell you, though, is that whoever has seen it remembers it as being of exquisite beauty, breathtaking in fact. But although they vow to go back and look at it again, no one ever does, until, wandering the galleries of the museum they happen to come upon it again.
Azoth Oracle
In a darkened room people wait silently and expectantly for a medium to speak.
Chirzan, the greatest medium of Aab, conducted seances at her home every Sunday evening. The participants sat at a round table dimly lit by several candles which hung on the walls. No questions were ever spoken out loud, for Chirzan was of such a refined sensitivity that she intuited all questions, even those the participants were not consciously aware of asking.
In one session she grew tall and many-limbed as she grew dark and ridged, sprouting leaves. In another rain fell in torrents on the table, but no one became wet, for the droplets vanished as they fell. In another she turned into clouds which seethed with wind, forming themselves into various shapes, and at another fresh ripe cherries welled from her mouth, spilling onto the table, of which the participants ate.
For Chirzan did not channel spirits of the deceased, but rather the forces of weather and seasons. And in these the participants thought they heard words, each person hearing something different, but always seeming to understand them, even though they were in an unknown tongue, and saw as if from a great height continually mutating landscapes which seemed to appear on the table around which they held hands.
Irnad said of her, “weather is a kind of language of the soul, and Chirzan is the mirror through which the soul is allowed to speak to itself.”