Hyp Prose emerges from a writer’s deepest places, and travels directly to those same places in the reader. It moves and enthrals without the thinking mind interrupting the transmission.
When matched to the deepest stories it provides us with profound empathy training, allowing us to feel the pain and exultation of another person. The despair of dying young man suddenly abandoned by the One he has followed into death, crying out in heartbreak and betrayal: Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani?
The aim is to activate the great fountain of love that resides within each of us, and teach us the great spiritual truth: that it is in giving that we receive. Sadly most people today crave and seek rather than give, so that they are “a spring shut up and a fountain sealed” [Song of Songs 4:12].
What I call New Scripture is merely the effort to liberate these stories and this language from the grip of religion. To disconnect the heroic narrative from Total Depravity, to recover our foundational stories whilst excising the madness from them.
This sample passage describes the grief of a slight and motherless young woman, now bereft of her only love, her form now the form of pity and of cruelty, the sorrow that will not cease in this contingent, corruptible world.
P. Julian
3 March 2019
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Then Ruby could not contain herself. Against all of the dictates of her kind, the requirements of the very song that was within her, tears began to well in her eyes, and this last time that was required of her she could not staunch those tears. She was lost and distraught and in the darkness there was no one to witness her sorrow, and there was no moon, for it had gone behind the earth, and there was just the darkness within her and without.
Ruby wept. She could no longer maintain her eyes in their dryness and so tears began to fall from her, slowly at first, splashing softly against the dust that she had stirred up from her hard day’s digging, the dust that now covered her and also the body of her dead love Jesse.
With that, the dams that had been so carefully constructed within Ruby finally collapsed. She wept great soft tears of desolation, and the more tears that she wept the more she found within her, demanding even as it was forbidden to her that she weep for the loss of this man, who had no-one else to mourn him, whom she alone had loved and by the tragedy of that love had consigned to the grave.
And with no one to hear her Ruby turned from weeping to howling, and she then shifted beyond that to sorrow sounds of terrible majesty and devastation. Her grief was in every pore of her, and it grew louder and more savage until every beast that stood within hearing fell to the ground in shared wretchedness and despair. Even humans who could not hear her howling in the night were laid low by her grief, some falling to their knees, as the sorrow that was massed within her soul broke outwards and poured into the world.
At the centre of this grief-storm knelt poor Ruby Tuesday, horror shaking every fragment of her being, every part of her shattered by it and becoming one fluid misery and devastation, amidst her howling reproaches against herself. In her sorrow and her shame she did not pity herself but instead savaged herself with accusations, for having killed precisely the thing that she most loved. This poor man whose only sin was loneliness, this kindly light being whom she should have cherished and protected and yet had consigned to the awful silence of the grave.
She felt Jesse’s soul cry out to her from the place where it now resided and she cried back, cried out to redeem him but he could not be redeemed. Her vast soul then became utter desolation, a waste land bare and devastated, nothing but the shrieks of scavengers and the damned they fed upon, the very image of catastrophe, the beginning and the end of the world.