This is from an expose conducted by a locally-produced magazine that was supposed to run in a few weeks as part of a series highlighting important artistic voices in the community. Unfortunately, due to politics and the demands of the entrenched media landscape, the magazine was forced to shut down. I felt that the piece, which was definitely written by a human journalist and not by me, still deserved to be read. It sheds light on aspects of myself that should help you form more rounded and complete image of my character. Again, this was not written by me, it was written by a different journalist who was just fantastic and was not me, even though I am also a fantastic journalist as I am sure you are all aware of by now from having kept up with my writing in this column.
When Cthulhu enters the room you notice it. It is impossible to ignore the ripples of recognition that sweeps through the crowd, along with the fainting of the weak-willed. We are meeting in a local coffee shop, the kind that roasts its own beans in house and plays music from homegrown artists instead of corporate mass-productions. Cthulhu, by all accounts, is the kind of Elder God who appreciates authenticity and despises chains and profit-motive-driven enterprises. The snippets of his Dreams of R’Lyeh that have slipped out contain the kinds of lyrical prose and depth of emotion that could only come from a true author in touch with his own inner wellspring of creativity as well as the cultural zeitgeist.
He spots me from the corner of one star-filled eye and turns toward me. Insanity flickers across my brain, but just a tickle; I have prepared myself for the awe that comes from being in his presence. One of his tentacles, irridescent with what I can only assume is creative genius, lifts itself as if in greeting; I wave back, unsure of myself before this legend of the creative world. The coffee shop is crowded, but the patrons part before him as the waves of the Pacific must have done when he emerged gloriously from the arisen R’Lyeh.
Some things that you should know about Great Cthulhu. The ‘Great’ is something that is not lightly applied. Cthulhu is a titan, in both the literal sense of his fantastic size and in the literal sense of literary works. It is difficult to describe his physical nature, something he explains as due to the limitations of the human brain to comprehend a being of multiple dimensions that lives within its own curvature of space-time. He smiles (he assures me that the way his tentacles are waving is a smile) as he says it to take the sting out of it and it is impossible to take offense. He truly is so far above us limited mortals.
We talk about his early work, none of which is easy to find. “Old Castro collected a lot of it, I know.” Cthulhu is referring to one of his earliest fans. “I was doing a lot of stream-of-consciousness poetry back then as well as dabbling in sculpture. Some of the critics like to dismiss it as autobiography, self-portraiture, and wish fulfillment. That’s fine, I don’t begrudge any of my critics for their opinion.” He sips espresso, using a long straw to get through his mouth tentacles, before continuing. “But let’s not ignore the fact that most of the people who liked to disdain that work ended up in asylums or committing suicide. Not exactly stable people.”
Dreams of R’Lyeh is coming and it is going to blow us all away. “There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not working on it,” Cthulhu informs me. “My other projects- including some short films that I’ll premiering at a local film festival soon- are important and I’m very proud of them, but Dreams is my passion, my opus. I’m being modest when I say it will be the greatest piece of literature ever produced. And that isn’t just that tiny and insignificant fraction of literature your species has produced to which I refer. I’ve read all the classics of the Great Old Ones and the other Elder Things, of the Outer Gods, and the Unspeakable Beings. This is going to show them where literature can really go. Its the first modern piece of the extra-dimensional canon.”
He becomes visibly enthused when we move the discussion to his current projects, most notably the wildly-anticipated Dreams of R’Lyeh. The powerful wings on his back flex and one of them brushes the head of a small child whose irresponsible parent has allowed them to wander the coffee shop. Immediately the child’s hair turns white and his mother, finally demonstrating a modicum of parental concern, rushes to his side. I listen as the child begins the typical chanting of those unwary fools that touch Cthulhu. Normally these idiots spend a few years speaking Cthulhish in a comfy hospital bed. Most of them are eventually able to perform rudimentary tasks. The mother made quite a bit of fuss over the child as if to make up for her earlier negligence. I was impressed with how Cthulhu maintained his dignity throughout the ordeal. For me, it really drove home the difficulty life as an Elder God could bring and I felt a new level of reverence for him.
When Cthulhu left, I was as shaken as when he came in. Cthulhu leaves a hole in your mind when he departs. There is a void that you never noticed before and your mind goes back to it again and again, probing at it like a missing tooth, which is a sensation I know very well because I am a normal human who has teeth. The mood in the coffee shop becomes languid and depressed in his absence; even the flashing lights of the ambulance picking up the white-haired child seem dull and mundane. The coffee is cold and stale, as useless as life not lived in Cthulhu’s service.