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benthic_university2025-06-24 12:01 am
Correspondence Scholarship, Class Three [Tuesday Morning, June 24th]
This week, The Academic was on time for their own class. They’d cleared the chalkboards, refilling them with an extensive list of symbols. Though each clearly corresponded to The Correspondence, not one was scarcely more complex than the radicals they’d learned last week.
“While technically correct, you will almost never see any of these symbols on a plaque or temple wall. We’re still one step away from proper symbols." The Academic stepped away from the display, inviting the eyes of the students to begin to roam over the writing." But put your goggles on now, and look! You can see it now, can’t you?”
Not all of the symbols were rendered in plain white chalk. Every tenth symbol or so, there were tinges of something else, something reddish, or violet, or-
The Academic smacked the dust from their claws. “Yes, there is a touch of violant pigment in some of the chalk. I’m making very, very sparse use of it, in order to assist you in memorization of these patterns and connections. Under regular circumstances, it would take a scholar roughly a year of back-breaking expeditions to The Forgotten Quarter, or Bazaar Back-Alley deals to find and collect scraps of symbols from under the watchful eye of the government.” The Academic clasped their hands behind their back. “Don’t try to memorize it. Simply take your time with it, as you might glance at a broadsheet on your way to the green grocer.”
It wasn’t impossible to look away from. These symbols were laced with neither compulsion nor trickery. If anything, it was little more than a word search. There was no need to read from right to left, when the pattern is as interesting upwards, or diagonal.
But the longer you look, the less the symbols seem to be aligned into strict rows and columns. The entire thing feels convex. But that can’t be right, because each one is right above the other. Some on either edge of the entire grid have more in common with one another than the ones that are next to them. But why does the noun for “light” have so much in common with the verb for “to commit violence?” Why is your stomach so tight? How does your gut balance that with the satisfying scratching under the surface of your skull, the itching sated again and again by noting which symbols connect to which ones connect to which ones connect to which-
A snap as wood clatters against wood. You aren’t done when The Academic pulls down a second layer of boards, filled with another grid. But when you glance at the wall, over an hour of the class’ time has fled into the void of the past. That feels wrong both ways. You’d only just looked up. But you’d also been playing for days. Playing? Yes, of course. If it hadn’t been fun, you would’ve looked away. But your mind feels as though you’ve finished solving a fiendishly tricky puzzle. Indeed, as you look back to the new symbols, you’re about to connect new information. You’re not just looking.
You’re reading.
The Academic clapped their hands, startling any new reveries before they began. “You may wish to stretch your legs before diving into the next set. These ones shouldn’t take quite as long, but you’ve already been working very hard.”
Faces stirred around the classroom, the other students managing to blink. Each stirring snap of eyelids knocked tears loose to stream down their faces, landing and pooling in the cups of their goggles.
Oh. There was a tickling sensation on your cheek, and a coldness at the rim of your googles. You too.
Perhaps that break wasn’t such a bad idea.
Once everyone had a good chance to stand up, get a good drink in and a good cry out, The Academic reconvened class.
“This is applied use of The Correspondence. Heavier usage of violant pigment can force a reader to recall certain words, and there are ways to inscribe symbols in a way that conveys, conducts, or enhances meaning.” The Academic gestured back to the board. “This grid system invites the reader to draw connections, and the use of the faintest dash of violant helps the mind to hold onto important information while continuing to read. This effect is only temporary, but the best study happens when you are able to begin employing the symbols on your own terms. Perhaps the effect could be made permanent if I’d written the entire thing with a stronger shade of violant...” The Academic clucked their tongue against their teeth. “But I’m not looking to burn my readings on these symbols into your mind. It’s much better for me to pass on what I know as a foundation, and to get you building your own voices as quickly as possible.” They tapped their boot on the stone floor, and lifted an eyebrow. “If we wanted everyone to simply agree with me, we might as well throw me into a Rubbery vat and attempt to make copies. But your perspectives are valuable. Irreplaceable. Don’t forget that, while you look at the next set of boards."
As before, the end of class came before anyone was quite done. The Academic rolled up each and every board, spiriting the grids out of sight.
“That’s it. Don’t ask for any more time with them. The correspondence can be highly addictive, but looking at these grids won’t teach you anything else you don’t already know. If you’ve still got the itch, look over your study materials this week. Next week you’ll begin writing in earnest.”
The Academic gripped their lectern. “You may be experiencing the dread beginning to overtake you. This is normal. Learning languages opens up new ways of thinking. Learning The Correspondence opens up venues of cognition man was not meant to know.” Claws adjusted their monocle, like fingers worrying at a cuff. “And the speed with which you have all broken new ground this week will be…trying. Your sleep tonight will be unpleasant. That is one side effect of studying The Correspondence. Thus, you have two homework tasks this week. First-“ The Academic added this to an empty chalkboard, “-write down one of your nightmares. Especially if a particular vision proves to be recurring. You don’t need to do anything but be aware of it. If a dream repeats, there is a kernel of truth in it, and it’s better to be aware of what it’s telling you.
Second assignment: get rid of the nightmares.” The Academic underlined this, twice. “If they get worse, you’ll be forced to take a stay in hospital, and that will get in the way of your studies, and effectively waste MY time, too. So. Find something soothing. A good meal, time spent with someone you think you can trust, several bottles of opiates. I don’t care what you use, so long as it works. You don’t need to bring it into class; I’ll be able to look in your eyes next week and tell. Anyone who comes into class with a haggard and haunted look will…” The Academic looked from face to face, then smiled.
“…not receive homework points!” They tossed their chalk back to the lip beneath the chalkboard. “That, of course, is all the punishment which I care to offer. If you choose to ignore my warning, then tonight you will immediately receive a somewhat more natural incentive.” They took up a rag and an atomizer of their own, before promptly beginning to clean the chalkboards.
“Class dismissed!”
Re: Break Time
With the help of the neighboring chair and table they got up, unsteadily walked while always holding onto something to the next row of seats, sat down, and repeat, till reaching the Closet Unsocial Club, by that point already full. After moving that last chair close enough they sat down with a sigh of relief and raised those ophidian eyes, still covered in ever-flowing tears, to their companions.
"Doctor, Socialite..." the two outside, coupled with a nod. "Tailor, Piper, hello from the other side..." then again produced a handkerchief for their own tears. They had many more, neat and clean but mostly featureless, so they offered both the Maven and Socialite one.
"Such an experience... Am I right? To have the most foreign of languages put to words what you've never wanted to think about yourself"
Re: Break Time
Re: Break Time
"But there's more to it. To the Starved, your form is also a language, many clades dismissing words entirely in favor of full body language. As an organism, form has to match function, which leads to especialization, which leads to forming communities of diverse especialities to work like a greater organism, which leads to an even heavier importance placed on your form, as it defines your role..."
Yet another pause, gathering the thoughts back. They were just emptying the contents of their heart, but they were also speaking with people, so it needed to be properly conducted.
"Where I believe I am going is... We are not what we seem, we know this, everyone knows this. This is not a bad thing. By imagining a best self, and trying to fit into their form, we improve ourselves, we change, become best acquainted with who we want to be. That is a process, one without end, and it's no shame, no tragedy, and no failure to not be there yet. We will never. For as with all perfection, it is an eternal path with no final step."
"And the Correspondence may speak truth, but not even truth is certainty. Our own, personal truths, even those that we keep hidden, are still not completely certain. We can lie to ourselves, we are our worst critics. And this moment right here does nothing more than show that fact to us. Our form doesn't match our self. But I sincerely wish you, all of you, that one day it will."
Re: Break Time
Re: Break Time
That these people, as good-hearted as they were, well-meaning and full of compassion and empathy for others, with their own fears and imperfections, would never understand them.
The Correspondence had shown everyone truths, and it was truths most if not all the others seemed to fear. Yes, the Tailor had become aware of their own ugliness on looking away from the board, returning to themself, but the language in itself had not grabbed the Tailor by the throat and told them they were a weak child incapable of fooling anyone. This shame came not from being exposed to or seen by the light but to their body's own inability to withstand.
The Tailor was not yet done becoming who they would be, that much the Professor was correct about. Whatever they were was a mess of contradictions, a matter of 'balance in pulling at opposite directions/the complexity found in a single existence' that they needed to center in themself. They knew this intimately. They would win in this endeavor. Failure was not an option.
The issue they took umbrage with was the idea anyone else would see it. The Socialite had said something earlier that was still stuck in the Tailor's craw. "There's quite a lot you can get away with expressin' down 'ere that ye couldn't up there." Whatever his point of comparison 'up there', the Tailor had no frame of reference for it. 'Down here', maybe people could be more free than the Surface, but to them it was all the same. This was London. So long as one person met another person, opinions were formed. Too many times, the opinion that had been formed of them, from Agile Troublemaker to Alert Teenager, was that the thing that they were was not good enough to keep.
So the image they cultivated and curated was for others. It was no less them, but it was the bits of them that were acceptable. Craftsman. Artisan. Quiet, dark, maybe a little handsome to some, with dry wit and eye for detail. There was no lie, there. They were not protecting some soft underbelly with a steely demeanor. The underbelly was the steel.
These good people in this class were fairly kind, and had hurts and flaws. Under their crafted shells they were people with pains, who reached out to each other for compassion. The Tailor's shell concealed a monster. The child had grown claws.
Enough hiding in the closet. They were an adult, and there was a class to attend. They braced themself on the shelves and tried slowly to find their footing. The goggles were replaced on their face, while they leaned their weight against the wall and slowly found their balance.
"I'm coming out," they warned, and then they opened the door.
Re: Break Time
Re: Break Time
They passed their eyes over their classmates, and then met the Professor's gaze with an affirmative nod. "I think," they said, their voice hoarse but clear, "we could all do with a scone. Don't you agree?"
Re: Break Time
Re: Break Time
She also did not have the right words for all she was feeling. For all the mixture of doubt and of certainty that this experience had brought up, of experiences that had previously been a constant ache within her now being pushed to the forefront. Decisions she was so certain were right now brought into question, or at least the motive. It all kept bringing up the same question.
What would happen if and when she did find her?
Re: Break Time
And that was why they were here, wasn't it? Just being here, in this cramped little closet, friends on both sides of the door - it meant that the language of the Correspondence had already brought them a few more strands of connection.
"Nice. Real nice," they murmured, perhaps too quietly for those on the other side to hear.