A Theology of Thunder

The peculiar tale of the discovery and ordering of this manuscript will be told at a more convenient time. The peculiarities of its form of recording deserve their own discussion – suffice it to say that the text is a gloss of a Hittite or eastern ancient Mediterranean language unknown until the ‘Vrontin’ carving was found in the cave in mountainous central Anatolia. It is perhaps the stub of an alternative development of a primitive religion, although the inclusion of unparsable terms makes its translation very difficult. To aid in comprehension, we have entered the most likely English counterparts, although it should be remembered that, for example, the goose noted in 15 [1] is probably not any species of goose that the reader will be familiar with, although similar behaviours have been found to exist in aggregate over many populations of goose across the world. The most difficult term to translate was found in carving 3.1, where a term for emotional brain capacity was found wanting. We have used the vastly unsatisfactory ‘limbic system’ as a stand in, waiting for a time when a translator with the right powers of sight can offer up a more fitting word.

With regards to the numbering of the individual epigrams, the translators have here grouped the terms in order of likely relation, given the variety of their array and depth in the cave. Roughly (and this will be gone into in more detail in later articles) the lower the appended figure, the deeper into the cave its hieroglyphics were found. Numbers in square brackets indicate the rough location of repeated forms of the epigram, but changed. For example the repeated refrain of epigram 2 repeats unchanged within the system of carvings several times. But the figure of 21 [1.1] is one of these altered carvings, that appears in (roughly) position 21 but also appears redacted in position 1.1, which is to say, related to carving 1 spatially, but struck out, or reversed, or written in a different hand. One of the deficiencies of our manuscript is that it does not indicate which of these separations has occurred. But we considered that even an unsatisfactory preliminary exposure to these texts was worthwhile to readers of this series.

We will of course update you with any exegesis we receive of the religious system here denoted, and of any further carvings that come to light. If you are reading this, we assume you are of high-caliber and fully suited to do the exegetical or theological work required. We look forward to receiving your suggestions.

A quick word for the working title. Originally we had intended to replace the title which casts anachronistically back western intellectual categories into the ancient past. One of our interns suggested Vrontinalia but again, that seemed unacceptable. We assume that a new title will emerge in time through academic consensus.

– The Text –

1 The white moon is rung with haze.

2 The storm has no parent but rises out of the past without ancestor.

3 The storm neither breathes, nor holds its breath, but breathes and holds silence within itself.

3.1 The storm propogates out of itself in shapes different and indifferent, in the limb, the nose, the eye, the limbic system.

4 The storm is peace and war, and fear and love echo from it.

4.1 The storm is peace – thunder brings the force of silent contrast.

4.2 The storm is war – lightning breaks the branch and water breaks the land.

4.3 Fear echoes from the dark storm but love is bright in the eyes beneath it.


5 Nothing can stop the storm, neither can it be held back from where it wishes to go.

5.1 Only by moving the land under it, or by moving upon that land can an end be found.

5.2 The storm moves on, and beneath it the land changes, or does not change.

6 The air is heavy with rain.

6.1 Quenching will bring emptiness and fill the land, and press it down.

6.2 Water is heavy as rock, and yet the storm holds it dark in the sky.

6.3 A feather is light, and yet the storm brings it to the surface of the water.

7.1 The storm has an eye but cannot see.

7.2 The storm has arms that cannot touch, and cannot help but touch.

7.3 The storm has no head, and so when it thinks, it thinks only in patterns of water.

7.4 The thoughts of water guide the sky.

8 The storm cares not where it strikes.

8.1 It will strike the same place again and again until that place is wrack, as no custom has reach over thunder.

8.2 The storm’s finger points but does not blame.

8.3 Blame is for the breeze, and the small branch that taps on the window.


10 The storm cannot be read, for the world has tried to read the storm and failed.


12 When it rains, it pours, or the pour is missed.

13 [10.1] The storm is never the same, for sameness is never present within it.

13.1 [10.2] The storm is never different, for difference is not present within it.

14 The storm has no parent but rises out of the past without ancestor.

15 [5.3] The storm rests in the sky whilst it boils in the cup.

15 [1] Every day the goose flies low under the black clouds.

16 [2] The storm is afraid of the spiders web, and of the dew on the grass, for the spider is sharp and straight, and the dew is a small jewel.

16 [1] The moon’s black belly holds within it the storm, therefore watch for the black moon if you search for the storm.

17 [5.4] The storm tears when it moves against itself.

18 The storm will strike down the highest first, but will strike the dancer before all, though it loves a dancer.

18.1 The storm cannot abide disregard.

19 The storm is sad and slow, and the storm is fast and joyful.

20 The storm will wake the sleeper.

20.1 The storm draws unto one all who hear her.

20.2 The storm will wake and draw all unto one who hear her, and all that cannot hear her, but feel her.

20.3 Lightning in time is nothing compared to the storm in time. But in mind the flash overrides beyond its realm.

21 [1.1] The storm is heralded from afar by thunder that ties time to the land.

[…] the storm without warning […] shores [illegible]

22 The storm has no parent but rises out of the past without ancestor.


Memory danger. It’s a pinch.
They’re in our heads, in our bodies
They could strike at any time. Know:
Memories are dangerous things.

They wrench our heads through time, it’s worse
even than the ground opening
and letting you plummet away.
Just to jangle from side to side

from rock face to rock face – insults
raining from their mouths. “Good lord, boy,
Call that falling!? A downy scrap
of feather would do it better.

Call that hitting your head? Go on…
Pull the other one! Try again –
Oof but that was okay, good byeeee!

So melodramatic, but yeah.
It’s like the world is scattered all
with massive invisible traps.
Bear traps with a ghost chain attached.

And then you drag the ghost around
as it complains mightily – “Please,
I’m as tired as you, my liege. But
can’t you stop that racket I’m sick”


When mercury was first designed,
it was as a lesson. Silver
and undulant like nothing else,
disguised as a solid jewel

Have you ever spilled it? It’s like
letting out a secret, unthought
and feeling the moral landscape
shift and set snare traps in your gut.

It’s fractal til it disappears,
like the ramifications of
any action. It rolls across
the surfaces with great interest.

It’s vapours send us mad, and fish
become mercurial in this
disregard they have of our minds.
To be quite fair, who could blame them.

In landfill sites across the world
it falls, year after year, into
the sources of our deepest fear.
Our breath stutters at its slick thought.

‘This is a tricky thing’ they said.
Listing it on the slate of things –
alongside sex, and time, and dreams,
and cave paintings, and tv

Wetherby Road

The wood gate is crisp
driftwood’s dry mirror –
and the church behind
is the rock upon
which the waves crash hard.

This hubbub decries –
with the tree’s creaking –
those who seek a peace.
Really there is no
well chiselled message;

In the graveyard hear
soft undefined hums
of voice and organ
mixing in hollows –
hear wind whistle through.

Hear your insecure
thoughts tapping upon
the stained glass dust – hear
choral doom and then
lays of the bright voice;

in time’s long empire
has brought the air here
and the soft water
and me