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#0 : Wellspring and Causality

Prologue to the blog Krim's Fictions

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The Start of an Adventure

23 May 2019,

Today is the beginning of a 3 months adventure in Bologna, Italy, where my precious summertime will be apportioned unequally betwixt research activities at the University of Bologna; touring far and wide across the country in the sole company of my broad backpack and dependable bicycle; vacantly tapping at my computer keys writing this blog; and finally, idling my time away doing absolutely nothing. Pertaining to my journey, one curious mind could inquire as to the why's of my coming to this faraway paradise. What could have possibly guided me - a peaceable, slothful, altogether hazy slob of a human being - to such a daring path, full of thorns, ambushes and trials. To them I must answer, and to answer them I must recall my past, a terrible past from O so long ago.

More precisely, everything began last summer: being a student - member of the poorest social class imaginable - I had had to find myself a summer job, to provide my purse with sufficient funds to survive the upcoming winter. Hence started my unending search for a paying pursuit suitable for a university junior following a bachelor's degree in electrical engineering. Being of a rather unruly and frivolous disposition, my choice ended with an activity inherently insignificant that would consume the least of my time, energy and intellect, namely: research assistant at the reputable Université de Montréal. There, I accomplished most marvelous scientific feats of unquantifiable value that had already been accomplished profusely before in the scientific literature by far superior men and women than I could ever wish to be. Other scholars from all around the world had sought the same shallow ventures as me and were loitering hither and thither in our conjoined laboratory. Yoked with such similar minds as mine, I immediately sought to deepen our affinities and throughout learned considerably about their origins, culture and experiences. Thereby sprouted in my spirit the first springy buds of adventure that would subsequently flourish into a magical, yet still humble copse not altogether too cumbersome and irksome for my lax inclinations.

It must be emphasized to the readers unfamiliar with my saga, that at the time of that fateful summer, I had not conceived even the faintest notion of writing in my spare-times, and for my own self-pleasure at that! I had however, half a year prior, initiated myself to poetry, having been so inspired by a certain visual-novel pertaining to the life of high-school girls part of a literature club, which endowed me with a sufficient insight on rhythm, musicality and rhyme to support - or rather incur - my already obscure weaving and intertwining of words and sentences that so embodies my prose. This former bent into the world of poetry having sadly found no worthy audience per fault of my crippling lack of talent, Life decided to use all Her available sagacity and mischief in order to succor me into achieving my thitherto unknown ambitions. Her having accordingly not bestowed me in the immediacy with an amount of fiduciary means substantial enough to permit myself the luxury of renting my own room that same summer, I had had to resort to readily parasitizing the couches - and matrimonial lives - of two of my closest and dearest friends from Montreal. In quest of an activity we could practice together, we though it would be an interesting idea to introduce ourselves to the universe of Dungeons and Dragons. For those of you, worthwhile readers, unfamiliar with this prodigious role-playing game, its intricacies can be so described as having an arbitrary number of players - so called adventurers - coincidentally reacting with unlimited free-will to the depictions of events, actions, characters and places portrayed by the master of the game, the Dungeon Master. Thus, a story involving the players' reactions and initiatives to the developments happening in the Dungeon Master's fictitious world is created without any prior knowledge from both parties of the narrative's progression.

The idea of mitigating my foregoing losses by starting a new creative onset as Dungeon Master to this company of dysfunctional dweebs occurred to me, which I promptly consented to after a shameful glance at my still untouched agenda. Unfortunately, my erstwhile tendencies to swerve myself from any constructive predicaments had prevented my ever acquiring the creativity or quick-wittedness needed to achieve such an art. But in order to complete this ordeal I had so unjustly placed upon myself; those attributes were of a paramount importance. Even I realized it but picturing myself for once accomplishing something that had the least semblance of significance sustained me with barely enough strength to contrive for myself a plot that would change my life forevermore.

I thus promptly summoned the five last remaining troops that so constituted my lowly garrisoned Bravado and departed headlong into the maddening jungle of my innermost conscience. Therein, I trudged for what seemed to me like days, shielding myself throughout from the downpour of a rainstorm whilst scratching and tearing apart my clothes, limbs and mind on the tangled, overgrown vines, prickly barbs and clawlike protrusions all bleeding a thick, red, unearthly liquid. My soldiers, that had supported me up to now with the most laudable of faithfulness, were now all lost to the ubiquitous abysses. The first having been lulled to his doom by the jungle's beguiling voices; the second, having been devoured by a passing Manticore; the two that followed were buried alive when the surrounding vegetation abruptly came to life; and the last one - it so grieves me to remember it - underwent an abrupt transformation moments after his skin impinged the previously described goo-saturated flora that overran this jungle. His mutation propagated far too quickly for my attempting anything to safeguard him; I was useless to the end and fled still deeper into the heart of this recondite swampland.

At the end of my strengths, my sight wavered as the moving lights around me became progressively dimmer and duller; the slim motherly arms of Exhaustion began swaddling me like an infant, dispossessing me of my wits so that I laid entirely on the muddy ground, in a deep swoon. Upon my woken-up, I no longer felt the rain on my back. To my great surprise, I looked up and found myself alone in a clearing, next to an ancient, tarnished fountain circumferentially adorned with meticulously stippled golden engravings. From its spout came streaming upright and then outward the fluttering flow of a crystalline liquid; its spattering and drizzling painted in the air a colorful rainbow that pulsated, unchallenged, to the fountain's immediate urge. Its clear water beckoned me. I was thoroughly enthralled; never had I seen anything so mesmerizing: the blithely tides ever-changing and dissimilar, the monotonous susurrus of the splattering droplets akin to a rapid heartbeat, its surface’s faceted reflections comparable to...

Cough Cough Anyway. The fact that I can now admire, through the sole little windowpane of my wretched dwelling in the historical center of Bologna, the sun's first glimmers pioneering the early dawn of a new day is sufficient proof of my having erred from my original motive whilst writing all this. To summarize the meaning behind this loosely entwined piece of personal history, it could be crudely alleged that the accumulated experiences of an individual is something unique, that has the potential, when adequately wielded, to give meaning and purpose to any entity that so wishes it, however mundane, trite or prosaic these might appear to be at first glance. Moralizing being the bane of creativity, just like hot milk to a hearty bowl of morning cereal, I unceremoniously announce the conclusion of Krim's Fiction’s prologue, even if so many questions still see themselves unanswered.

My sincere gratitude to you, meritorious reader, for having kept me company to the end, be it through a partial skimming of this late memoir, or through a careful perusal of its innermost subtleties.

Krim

Posted by KrimFiction 11:56 Archived in Italy Tagged history beginning introduction prologue Comments (2)

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