the conception and birth of tuktuaitut
Who: Tuktuaitut ("Luck")
Where: uhhh sort of nowhere and then a bit of northern Quebec, then called "New France" by the European settlers.
When: 1742 - 1759, New France era, pre-Colonial Canada.
What: Memories/reflection about the beginning of her existence as a spirit and then as a "human."
Warnings: no content warnings, HOWEVER it will be impossible to understand if you don't sort of know Luck's history at least vaguely, so I'll give you a quick sum-up here. She was an intangible wish-granting spirit believed in by a native american Inuit tribe (made up by me) in the far north of now-Quebec. Each person has their own, sort of like a guardian angel, except it doesn't actually care about protecting you or anything and is just an indifferent part of nature and responds to certain things. Anyway, she was actually a corrupt spirit because her person, Philippe, was born to a believing inuit x a nonbelieving European. And then she was wished into "human" existence by him.
(If you want to read the rest of the belief system, what she is and her history, go here. Plus there is assorted other information in her personal journal.)
It exists.
Like the moment of human conception, the transition from nonlife to life, there has to be that instant in-between, of change: there is nonexistence,
and then there is existence.
But like conception, who was there to remember it? In birth, it's only delivered, not created. The moment came long before. And so It exists, conceived in some moment it cannot remember, and indeed It does not care to remember; there is no merit in why or how, there is no reason to dwell -- that is, there is simply no reason, only existence.
To describe the world as it was "seen" would be to explain colour to the congenitally blind. It perceives, anyway, in one way or another, and it "sees" Him, its ward, its child and brother, like a reflection in a mirror and one side is humanity. His side. It can see his face more or less as you might, fleshy, round, living, exuding desires. But It exists outside the senses, the other side of the mirror, perceivable through only wisdom and the whims of nature. And within, it can see Others like It.
They are faceless and shapeless, they have no form or design, only a feeling of themselves and their presence. They are not individuals but branches on a great eternal tree, and through Them all of humanity is linked. Without the body-soul that humanity possesses, they are only name-spirits and energy, and It finds them easy to look into but it certainly doesn't care to. It sees wisdom, It supposes, age and power and connection, and yes They are beautiful, but the perfection is repetitive, the silence and stoicism, well, simply boring. Simple. Its curiosity wanes; It doesn't care.
Some time later, without memory of conception, there exists the sharp understanding that Its curiosity and Its decision not to care are all Its own. In fact, even its perception of time is something quite alien. It sprouted from the great eternal tree, outside the realm of senses, and yet It can reach through the mirror and touch, feel, wonder. It wonders, in fact, if the Others can do this do and, for some inconceivable reason, choose not to. In time it comes to believe they simply can't, and in fact They can't choose to begin with. They are simple; They do or they don't, they act or they do not act. They do not choose.
This is a taint. It knew it from the start, whenever that was, but like a child It grew into Its understanding. It understands how the world should work and what nature intends, but this limb of the tree is disconnected. It feels for its human ward/brother, which the Others do not for theirs. They exist, symbiotic with their humans, but without passion or drive. They do not Want. It begins to feel like the western image of a ghost, a wandering spirit lost in the in-between, but it is magnificent here and It cannot feel lonely in good conscience. Life is all around It. The Others are not cold but simply proper, how they ought to be, a powerful and electrical component of life.
The world is a sea of existence and It exists.
But suddenly, in some imperceptible instant, existence is changed.
She has flesh and skin and hair, eyes, sight, smell, taste. Born into humanity, she feels cold for the first time. She sees her human, Philippe, there he is, how he smells, how he might taste, his cold skin, his lonely eyes. She looks at the world and there is everything in two ways: she perceives the life of the trees, the souls in Philippe, the deadness of the sled dogs beside them and the hollows where their life was, the wishes he continues to think and release into the air like the seeds of a dandelion. But she sees too, the other way, the human way, the shapes and the textures and the colours.
It never cared for the beginning of Its existence, Its why or how, reason, none of it. But she clasps her fingers together and rubs to rid the cold, she thinks, how did I get here?, she asks it aloud to Philippe in their language and she's laughing and she's crying, and she loves him and hates him but more importantly marvels at herself, her body, her improbable illegal incorrigible existence.
She might live one thousand lives and never remember the moment she became alive.
Where: uhhh sort of nowhere and then a bit of northern Quebec, then called "New France" by the European settlers.
When: 1742 - 1759, New France era, pre-Colonial Canada.
What: Memories/reflection about the beginning of her existence as a spirit and then as a "human."
Warnings: no content warnings, HOWEVER it will be impossible to understand if you don't sort of know Luck's history at least vaguely, so I'll give you a quick sum-up here. She was an intangible wish-granting spirit believed in by a native american Inuit tribe (made up by me) in the far north of now-Quebec. Each person has their own, sort of like a guardian angel, except it doesn't actually care about protecting you or anything and is just an indifferent part of nature and responds to certain things. Anyway, she was actually a corrupt spirit because her person, Philippe, was born to a believing inuit x a nonbelieving European. And then she was wished into "human" existence by him.
(If you want to read the rest of the belief system, what she is and her history, go here. Plus there is assorted other information in her personal journal.)
It exists.
Like the moment of human conception, the transition from nonlife to life, there has to be that instant in-between, of change: there is nonexistence,
and then there is existence.
But like conception, who was there to remember it? In birth, it's only delivered, not created. The moment came long before. And so It exists, conceived in some moment it cannot remember, and indeed It does not care to remember; there is no merit in why or how, there is no reason to dwell -- that is, there is simply no reason, only existence.
To describe the world as it was "seen" would be to explain colour to the congenitally blind. It perceives, anyway, in one way or another, and it "sees" Him, its ward, its child and brother, like a reflection in a mirror and one side is humanity. His side. It can see his face more or less as you might, fleshy, round, living, exuding desires. But It exists outside the senses, the other side of the mirror, perceivable through only wisdom and the whims of nature. And within, it can see Others like It.
They are faceless and shapeless, they have no form or design, only a feeling of themselves and their presence. They are not individuals but branches on a great eternal tree, and through Them all of humanity is linked. Without the body-soul that humanity possesses, they are only name-spirits and energy, and It finds them easy to look into but it certainly doesn't care to. It sees wisdom, It supposes, age and power and connection, and yes They are beautiful, but the perfection is repetitive, the silence and stoicism, well, simply boring. Simple. Its curiosity wanes; It doesn't care.
Some time later, without memory of conception, there exists the sharp understanding that Its curiosity and Its decision not to care are all Its own. In fact, even its perception of time is something quite alien. It sprouted from the great eternal tree, outside the realm of senses, and yet It can reach through the mirror and touch, feel, wonder. It wonders, in fact, if the Others can do this do and, for some inconceivable reason, choose not to. In time it comes to believe they simply can't, and in fact They can't choose to begin with. They are simple; They do or they don't, they act or they do not act. They do not choose.
This is a taint. It knew it from the start, whenever that was, but like a child It grew into Its understanding. It understands how the world should work and what nature intends, but this limb of the tree is disconnected. It feels for its human ward/brother, which the Others do not for theirs. They exist, symbiotic with their humans, but without passion or drive. They do not Want. It begins to feel like the western image of a ghost, a wandering spirit lost in the in-between, but it is magnificent here and It cannot feel lonely in good conscience. Life is all around It. The Others are not cold but simply proper, how they ought to be, a powerful and electrical component of life.
The world is a sea of existence and It exists.
But suddenly, in some imperceptible instant, existence is changed.
She has flesh and skin and hair, eyes, sight, smell, taste. Born into humanity, she feels cold for the first time. She sees her human, Philippe, there he is, how he smells, how he might taste, his cold skin, his lonely eyes. She looks at the world and there is everything in two ways: she perceives the life of the trees, the souls in Philippe, the deadness of the sled dogs beside them and the hollows where their life was, the wishes he continues to think and release into the air like the seeds of a dandelion. But she sees too, the other way, the human way, the shapes and the textures and the colours.
It never cared for the beginning of Its existence, Its why or how, reason, none of it. But she clasps her fingers together and rubs to rid the cold, she thinks, how did I get here?, she asks it aloud to Philippe in their language and she's laughing and she's crying, and she loves him and hates him but more importantly marvels at herself, her body, her improbable illegal incorrigible existence.
She might live one thousand lives and never remember the moment she became alive.