I'm now Severin @luciferal@mstdn.party
on the server hosting Mastodon. Eugen (Mastodon mastermind) I friended first, then his asst. Jonah. Then I added Neil Gaiman (as he was one of the prominent choices offered at the onset), Nancy Collins (as she just tipped me off to the platform in the FB brane of the Meta-verse) after which I found my friend John Shirley registered as well.
I began with my own name but after my first two introductory posts went up, I opted to change that to Severin. In keeping with wanting to cloak my identity under a variety of shifting names + an endless host of AI generated avatars = a fun time fully immersing myself in Mastodon as more of a mysterious entity with tantalizing connexions to the hyperverse.
The gigantic moss covered tree below I used as my first backdrop, with the following bio:
emerged onto this Earth thirty six hundred feet above sea level in a mountainous region within the isthmus of the Americas, a place known to some as the Carbonales Valley, and to others it remains a nameless and lawless land that may as well be another lost branch of the multiverse
Lucius Shepard and I hit it off on Facebook while he was still alive, and one of the reasons was he'd visited Honduras habitually throughout the early to mid 80s, while my dad was still living down there and I visited him every summer with my brother, and one year with my best friend Greg Grub.
In Lucius's fantastical novels he wrote about the Carbonales Valley, situated in the dense and steaming territory of Honduras, somewhere near the vicinity of Olancho, presumably, although the veracity of such legends are fading from the mists of our memory today.
With Mastodon I want to fully disappear into the role of what could only be identified as my true self. By merely invoking the information about myself in strange, synonymous terms my legacy may become defined in the signature style of the fantastic, which as anyone who knows me well enough should have figured out by now, lies as close to my heart as whatever our conceptions of the truth may happen to be over any given periods of time.
Mastodon is significant because it's the next cyber vicinity, after FB and Twitter, which certain packs of crewrats like myself and other cyber pirates have come to stowaway within for as long as our travels could stand to carry us. I mean, John Shirley quit Facebook years ago, and now that I've found him on the Mastodon.cloud, I'm not as surprised as I'm startled to find ourselves shunted so far into the future all of a sudden.
But the gravitational wavelets of time which carry us over this great divide we're apparently crossing move forth in shifting bursts of acceleration and deceleration, or so I've come to be led to believe. For all we know, just as events are about to deliver us into certain conclusive consequences, the universe may suddenly yawn, causing the flow of eventuality to slow down tremendously and hover over an interminable pause during which we're granted some surcease before the inevitable quickening end.
This image I conjured with words in my DALL*E account and reminds me of certain powerful indigenous spirits yet in possession of the lands far south of our border with Mexico and deep down into the unexplored regions of the Carbonales Valley, where significant parts of the landscape are said to be the remains of an ancient dragon whose heart died down generations ago yet whose great decomposition has continued to affect the growth of the land and its extensive underground mycelial network interconnected with terrible secrets buried even deeper than the human genome.
Honduras remains a land haunted by demons and angels throughout its twisted cloud jungle valleys and steep, mountainous ranges nestled in a temperate zone which produces only two seasons annually, the rainy and dry seasons. The Mosquitia survives and thrives for thousands of acres of spread out mystery shrouding millions of exotic parrots and jungle cats, howler monkeys and pit vipers, strange toxic mushrooms and verdant flora secretly blossoming with an explosive variety of alluring species.
The Reclamation continues as the primeval forces impenetrably interlaced continue their stranglehold despite a nearly panicked mankind furiously trying to immolate it all down. The puny fire-sticks carried by this rodent like simian race of primitive bipeds are no match for the oceanic abyss of saturated embalming sludge and torrential muck the likes of which so many nuclear fires would be swallowed and snuffed out in an instant...
