His Unnerving Human Gaze

Contributed by Nicolas Papaconstantinou on 14/10/09

The memory of the eye still sits within, sifting and shangling through the cloud spores of furthest recall.

A horrible vision, significant in its insignificance, horrid in its mediocrity.

In some spaces, at some of what the people who live here call moments, within the framery of their primitive notion of linear time, Kalack Klat Krckchack feels a creeping horror at the fragility and scope of the eye.

Kalack Klat Krckchack had been resident in this space for many years before the eye arrived. Kalack Klat Krckchack has been in this paltry triple-dimensioned realm since long before any eyes were here to see, for what it matters, as far as time is measured.

Kalack Klat Krckchack found Kalack Klat Krckchack’s self stuck here, for reasons Kalack Klat Krckchack chooses not to go into.

But then, the eye came. The eye, attached to a skin-sack of a man named Sam Taylor. The only-named Sam Taylor. These tiny things and their tiny names.

Kalack Klat Krckchack the nine-named struggles with the scale of the human skin-sacks. Only-named, indeed. Kalack Klat Krckchack is nine-named only in human tongues. Kalack Klat Krckchack is infinite-named across the many veils.

Kalack Klat Krckchack had grand designs, before the eye. Kalack Klat Krckchack had intentions, to rule this kingdom.

Kalack Klat Krckchack has ruled before, and will rule again. When the Viking Gods faced their Ragnarok, it was the children of Kalack Klat Krckchack that they fought against. When the Intergalactic Human Empire finally fell, it was… But Kalack Klat Krckchack forgets… that is yet to happen. Three dimensional time perception is so restrictive.

But now, Kalack Klat Krckchack finds Kalack Klat Krckchack’s plans thwarted. By nothing more impressing or impressive than a single skin-sack. Sam Taylor is the one thing that stands in the way of Kalack Klat Krckchack’s truest destiny.

Sam Taylor and his college anecdotes. Sam Taylor and his Friday night takeaways. Sam Taylor and his incessant prattling about something called New Battlestar Galactica.

But Sam Taylor also has the biscuits. And the cups of tea. And the television.

And the television has the Loose Women. And the This Morning. And various other entertainments involving exchanges of shelter and the collection and dispersal of decades old items. And domestic antipathy played out on a public stage.

This civilisation cannot last. Kalack Klat Krckchack will outlive these petty beasts, and their distractions, and go on to rule this reality.

But Kalack Klat Krckchack’s ascension will wait until the time when all television is passed. There is no need for a Dark God’s rule, while Jeremy Kyle and his followers still hold sway over this daytime world.

Until then, the one called Sam Taylor will continue to provide Kalack Klat Krckchack’s momentary sustenance, and Kalack Klat Krckchack will avoid meeting his unnerving human gaze.