This guy is feeling blocked. Like, he’ll lie awake at night, or be woken up in the middle of the night by cats, and have all these great ideas, so great, he thinks, that he’s sure to remember them in the morning, which he doesn’t of course, and when he sits down to actually produce something, well that’s the problem, he never actually sits down to produce anything. But then someone says, that’s odd, if someone were to tell me to write something about specific topic X, I would be totally stuck, yet you, told the same thing, bubble with ten different ideas, or a hundred different ones. And the guy thinks, maybe so.
And then the guy’s wife calls him at lunch and says he’s lucky he’s not at home because she’s in a murderous state as she just cleaned out the refrigerator, which was supposed to be his domain, she decided, apparently, okay he grants her that, and some bagels he did a while back that in the end turned out way better than he thought they were going to turn out while he was making them, deformed little imps yet, the next day, more bagelesque than anything he’s baked to date and which, yet, didn’t all get eaten, to the great delight of mold spores in the kitchen atmosphere.
And this reminds him of one of those late-night thoughts he had!
All it takes is a trigger! The ideas really were so great he’d remember them. He just needed something to trigger it. They might all be filed away in the folds of his cerebrum somewhere.
What was I talking about.
Oh, yeah: this guy I was talking about remembers he was thinking about the origins of life on our planet. And the nature of life. On this and other planets.
Say life comes from somewhere else, not here. They even found a meteorite with organic traces on it. From which all life on Earth evolved. Into all these different things we know of. Plus stuff in the oceans we can’t even imagine. Plus stuff under the forest floor, and in my kid’s forgotten lunchbox, and elsewhere.
Like in the frozen seas of some distant planet. Or worms waving their fannies (U.S. usage) around the rim of some undersea volcano.
All that from one little meteorite? He thinks not.
Maybe we had one meteorite for the mammals, one for the fish, one for the lizards and birds, et cetera.
And one for the Most Ancient Ones, Cthulhu and stuff.
Forms of life upon which merely to gaze would drive one mad and stuff.
Maybe, at one time, these slimy guys were all over the place, with their own institutions, theme parks, everything, just slimy versions of them. Stuff that wouldn’t show up in the fossil record.
Slime mold – that’s bacteria, right? Something along those lines, which under the right conditions organizes into a larger creature that can move around yadda yadda. So imagine, at one time, an Earth where conditions were really right, and they were these big Cthulhu things all over. And then something changed so they reorganized back into harmless slime molds and fungi and bacteria and viruses and shit BUT ARE STILL SENTIENT.
There’s that mile-wide, 10,000 year-old mushroom in Michigan (i.e. the Humungus Fungus, google it). There are these balls of stuff forming in the Mediterranean.
There is his refrigerator, and his breadbox: Cthulhu. It’s not just fungus, it’s digits of an Ancient One. Watching and waiting. Think about that next time your cheese goes bad. It’s just Cthulhu taking back his/her/their world, one thing at a time.