The strange anachronistic writings of Mischa von Castellan were initially discovered at her family’s estate in late-2002. The writings were discovered behind a loose brick in the upper bedroom believed to belong to Mistress von Castellan herself, before her death in 1871.
The manuscripts were inherited by one Anne-Marie Tennant, von Castellan’s own great-great-great-great Grandniece. Thankfully, Miss Tennant possessed romantic inclinations and quickly became enamoured with the texts.
Thus desiring that her distant relative’s writings be shared with the wider world, Anne-Marie donated the complete collection to the Crystalline Archive in May 2009.
As you are, no-doubt, aware, the Crystalline Archive is a private museum operating in an unfindable cul-de-sac in Not-London, or Caladon, upon that parallel earth wherein all (most) magic is hidden.
I now have the great privilege, as a member of that enigmatic Illuminatus named “Dept. 38” to share some of these writings with the public.
Although Mistress von Castellan adopted an unconventional, if not aberrant, style there are wisdoms and truths amongst her words that are as relevant today as they were in her own parallel 19th Century. Of particular interest to the Department are the anachronisms located throughout her work, seeming to indicate that Mischa von Castellan was, in fact, some sort of vessel for retro-causal transmission.
Now, please enjoy this fragment, discovered on the first page of Mischa von Castellan’s unpublished masterpiece, “A Peculiar Whimsy”.
I ask myself: “What is the cost?”
If I get back in my box,
And all I love is lost,
Amidst some burning holocaust.
The rituals take shape,
In the sky beyond my eye,
As I see the things unseen,
Begin to rise,
BEGIN TO RISE.
The lamb walks to the slaughter,
Circled silently by sharks.
The scientist sits quietly,
Seeking answers from the quarks.
The madman chuckles wearily,
Amongst dismembered human parts.
While the poet waxes lyrical,
Attempting to make “art”.
But what IS art?
Except some whimsy of a convoluted brain,
An attempt to perform alchemy,
By transforming human pain.
(Here’s the transformation,
I know that spell, I have it written down…)
Pain MUST become rain,
And by rain I mean your tears,
If you let them trickle down your face,
They’ll release you from your fears.
And from that barrenness of suffering,
Where nothing wished to grow,
You’ll feel that soil yearning,
For whichever seeds you wish to sow.
A sacred blood-red orange in the sky,
Begins to rise,
BEGIN TO RISE.
But the light is far too brilliant yet,
So you must avert your eyes.
One day you will look upon it,
And bathe amidst its light,
But you mustn’t be some Icarus,
Attempting premature flight.
Take what you need from God’s great jungle,
Do what you must and heed the cost,
“Get back in your box”.
– Mischa von Castellan, “A Peculiar Whimsy”