Worry Worry

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of **Worry, Worry. Or, The Egregore**, by Anonymous.

**Title:** Worry, Worry. Or, The Egregore
**Author:** Anonymous
**Release Date:** June 3, 2022
**Language:** English, translated with some liberties from the original German. Adapted for general audiences.

Produced by Vaughn Avery
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= *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORRY WORRY ***

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<h1 align="center">Worry, Worry</h1>
<h1 align="center">Or The Egregore</h1>
<br>
<h2 align="center">Reflections and Ruminations</h1>
<br>
<h3 align="center">One Known to God Only</h1>

<h3 align="center">Printer to Wilhelm Friedrich Ludwig. An. 1867</h2>

<h3 align="center">For the Initiative</h2>

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<br class="page-break">


<h1 align="center">Worry Worry</p>

<br>
<h2  align="center">0 …. Foreword</p>
<br>
<h2  align="center">I .... Maxims</p>
<br>
<h2 p align="center">II ... Bahmalow</p>
<br>
<h2  align="center">III ...Worry</p>
<br>
<h2  align="center">X … Postword</p>


<br class="page-break">


<h2 p align="center">0</h2>
<h2 p align="center">Foreword</h2>


One cannot describe a nothing, not with language, or mysticism, numbers, or with religion. Even a zero is something. Even an empty room contains that something. One might allude to that though, or offer a parallel, as one does with words. 
What is equally difficult is to describe the ultimate Truth or, God, or, The Law. One is by design, incapable, because to figure God is to be God, and vice versa. One cannot change God or touch God, or figure Him.  I make no such attempt. In fact, I believe the whole thing may be irresponsible. 
Why reason God? Status? The betterment of man? Assuming, one succeeded, what would the consequences be? Eternal life? Damnation? A giggle? Nothing? When questioned, my friends each pause in their speech, or send longer letters. The answer will always be knowledge, for its own sake. 
The Society, or the Initiative — my friends — each figured at this thing, nevertheless. Some worked at this with chemistry, some with prayer, maths, or other meditative disciplines, aiming at somehow touching the spiritual realm through concentrated willpower:
The scientist, and his colleagues, working with preparations suggested from centuries old alchemical traditions, grafted to modern chemistry, and our popular occultism. He is still chasing after the stone of the philosophers, hoping to capture The Law along with it.
The enchanter claims to visit with spirits in her dreams, as an anthroposophist, or to predict the nature of these things through the reading of hands and faces. She hopes to find God on the ethereal waves of spiritual intellection, but I believe she will find Him only in the way that we all naturally do.
I own the hall in which this group gathers. Twice yearly, each patron meets with the goal of figuring God. I write the minutes, and organize our letters, and in a gentle way I direct them, but I do not interfere. I have no trade or skill to be spoken of. I trade money with my tenants and the city councilman. I am not a man of science, and am only a man of God so much as the next man is. I am a generalist and a dabbler. I am gullible of anything and skeptical of nothing. I have a little something for everyone.
I’ve seen no evidence of magic at these meetings, thousands of years and miles between these people have not gleaned one substantial peek into the realms of the unseen, and no weird has been pulled out from it. A fashionable Occult society, like any other.
It is my way though to find God through laughter, with which the Initiative has provided me plenty. I hope when this book is discovered each of them will have found God, or meaning (which I suppose is their real ambition), each in their own way. I will not release this when I am living however out of respect for the Initiative and their privacy. One might say this volume begins and ends with me.
This book is perhaps an homage, or digest, or a rumination. A journal of confused ramblings. A history or an allegory. Their combined efforts and my curious gawking. In my life I have always been a spectator and a recorder. I reckon I was brought to this world to observe. In a way I feel I was written this way, borne, by their lives. My slate was etched by all the people I have met in my life, as with this book, and, in that same way, this book might print itself onto you.
—One Known to God Only


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<br>
<h2 p align="center">I</h2>
<h2 p align="center">Maxims</h2>
<h3 p align="center">The Initiative and Their Truths</h2>
The Initiative and their unique perspectives on God and Truth.
<h2 p align="center">---</p>
THE SCIENTIST: The scientific method is the guiding hand of truth. We can use it to predict outcomes. If we predict results for long enough, we can build God, and meet It on our own terms.
THE ENCHANTRESS: I see God in my dreams but She is so difficult to describe. She has destroyed my minds eye, and now I cannot make music in my head. I have communed with angels who wish her ill will.
THE GOURMET: I am a mixing man and a baking man. I bake the food to make the food. I eat the food to beat the food. Cooking will end us. The wrong dish will break a man. Follow the recipe.
THE IDIOT: It seems to me that God has always existed in some way, since seeds were sown and bones were let to heal. It always appears to be an egregore of human fear and love. It is a book that writes itself into you, a reflection that reinforces itself.
THE MATHEMATICIAN: Maths is the only science. 1, 2, 3, 4, numbers, which we have created, can explain anything. Calculations are a language and language is thought. I wish I had not been taught German (and only numbers) so that I could only add and subtract and never have to talk to anyone.
THE POET: Imagine not being able to describe something. This is why we are taught words. Words can be arranged to assemble an accurate description of truth. Sometimes when I’m sad or happy, I think of different words. I accurately describe one thing in thousands of ways.
THE GENERAL OCCULTIST: When looking through my grandma's old things, I found an old ritual for curing dysentery. The ritual was very complex. On the back of the parchment was the Magician’s address. When I went to find him he had turned into a tiny horse. We neighed and bit at each other because we had both performed the ritual improperly.
THE ALCHEMIST: Have you tried chemistry? Okay. Have you tried all chemistry?
THE PUPPETEER: I have a puppet and he speaks to me. I have another puppet and he speaks only to the other puppet. I have many other puppets but I can only use two at once. I have tried to speak with four but my feet dont fit in the little socket. When I am not using my puppets I believe they are dead.
THE ENRAGED MAN: Every day I am so very angry. I curse every man and woman and dog that I see. I assault people. I burn and destroy everything I come across on a whim. I have not been wronged, and I am not dissatisfied. There is no reasoning for my anger. It is all a method. I simply enjoy the rush of being mad. I am this way intentionally.
THE KING: I dare not speak of this publicly, but you are my most trusted confidant. It is my goal to arrange and merge the provinces of the Confederation into two. At the center, I want to modify the borders of Hessen, Thüringen, and Anhalt, so that it looks like a little cat. Do you see how it kind of looks like a cat already?
THE BARD: I was playing the gurdy the other day and I got to thinking - what if everything was made up of strings? What if you could reach out and pluck one of them? What if it was all a song? What would happen if we managed to strike a new note? Would we all disappear?
THE PHILOSOPHER KING: Students learn much away from books and old stones. Many revelations come without thinking at all. Maybe we have already found truth?
THE MILK CARRIER: I take milk from the farm and sell it to each house in my village. I have never found truth in this or reckoned it could bring me to God. I just like delivering milk.
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<h2 p align="center">II</h2>
<h2 p align="center">The Bahmalow</h2>
<h3 p align="center">The Letter and the Spirit</h2>

<h2 p align="center">---</p>

In a dark and shining place, a creature made of ends of things rolled around in search of ingredients.

"Spicy sweet!", it chirped and hollered as it bounced up corners and flew through walls, all in search of the spicy sweet. It went to and fro wobbling and wiggling and giggling and smiggling.

<i>Boing Boing Boing</i>

Until at once it came at an impasse. It realized that there was no such thing as <i>ingredients</i> or spicy, or sweet. Bahmalow, or the woggling (as it was called by its enemies), would need to fathom them.

"Ingrediemts" [ sic ], it muttered to itself.

The woggling inflated into a new room, and continued inflating and rebounding about things for days and centuries. Then, one day, as it was reflating and conflating, it realized something else.

"There's no such thing as fathoming something..."

The woggling exploded and imploded across the galaxy slash universe in order to find out about what it's like to have an idea about something. So that it could make the stew, which contains, or is called, Spicy Sweet.

"Hmmm", The woggling considered. Thinking possibly, its difficulty lie in the structure of words and language, and it was possible that this etymological thought prison was preventing it from attaining its culinary goal.

"😔🙏 🍲" The woggling chirped, but still, nothing.

The woggling deflated and sputtered and whizzed about the world for centuries on seemingly without hope, and, starving. In the world of the Wogglings, there was no food. Because the woggling could not find food, or make food real, because it failed in its mission, the Woggling and all of it friends and family died.

<h2 p align="center">THE END</p>


<br class="page-break">


Or was it? The woggling reformed and resapiated ontologically into the realms of the real. In the empty void of nonexistence, where nothing exists, the place before birth and after death, of empty space, and void of thought or object, the woggling found no answers. Its constituent parts crunched together again into being.

"Ouch... my ribs."

"Nothing is true..." The woggling intellected. And suddenly... The woggling felt itself being pulled, converging across multiple bodies, on a snowy field somewhere. It opened "eyes" and found itself surrounded by jerking bags of chitin and blood, brass and iron.

<h2 p align="center">THE BEGINNING</p>


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<h2 p align="center">III</h2>
<h2 p align="center">Worry</h2>
<h3 p align="center">Worry</h2>
<h4 p align="center">(Worry)</p>
<h2 p align="center">---</p>
The words bleed into the reader eagerly. What the words lack in hands, they steal. What's more, the reader provides more in writing, to the more in reading, and so on in this way.
What is God? A Truth? A celestial? A Law? A Knowing? All of these things? Useless navel-gazing? It is certainly one thing at its core: An idea. Information. Conceived of thought. Words with teeth. A predilection so stubborn when gotten hold of, that you could never do away with it. A dreadful curse. A life is framed around the idea or in spite of it. Or the thought is sealed with black drapes.
I could feel myself being born the first time a thinking thing died, or looked into a night sky. Of course people have always managed that trouble well enough, one might reason it's a natural part of life! But what is well enough alone? Progress is a drug. Forward motion is its own reward. Every solution is packaged with a thrilling new echelon of problems. Every patched hole gets you two new leaks. A stitch in time makes nine. Every scientist conceives a new idiot.
We’ll never know what the world used to be, or what God was, because that was an old worry, and the people that resolved it continue to pick at the idea like an almost-healed scab. They’ll suffer lack of context into eternity. They have killed the mundane now and forever, but will continue in their hopeless search for magic.
I can tell you before the Initiative started, these words weren’t possible, their lives didn’t make sense, and that world wasn’t something we could process today. But I know. The Book remembers. And people can sense it. A week ago a local aesthete flung itself off a bridge, and the poor thing died thinking it was crazy. But life goes on all the same, even if the fundamentals have been changed, even if now we have to deal with things like philosophers or kings.
What was the precise moment that it happened? How did it happen? The answer to both of these questions is yes. It happened in the snow with arcane tools, it was an exquisite dish, it happened in some sort of general, metaphysical way, in which there was much consternation. Every crux will be its own answer.
But this doesn't answer the question? How was God killed? Which is the wrong question. A God cannot be killed, or figured. It cannot be fathomed at all. It cannot be changed. It cannot be created, or destroyed, and the efforts of the Initiative were always a useless, narcissistic diversion. Its extensions Law, and Truth, likewise, permanent and unchangeable. So here we are. Or there we were. Things weren't always this way, but one cannot describe a nothing, and once, people never conceived of things like God or milkmen.
Before the Initiative asked their questions, and ripped this world kicking and screaming out of the hole, there was something called a bahmalow. If I had to make it understandable to a human being, it's like the feeling you get when you've been holding it in for a while, but all across your body. This is the last stage of its life cycle. It is a relatively common meteorological phenomenon.
In the last world there was something called a Worry-Worry. I guess it could be indirectly described as a lump of skin and arms in the shape of a ball. You see it and your ears are ringing sharply. It appears around corners, or accidentally in crowds. Sometime a bit far away down the street. You remember seeing it and suddenly you're aware that you've been motionless for minutes. You lick your lips. A nosebleed trickles into your mouth. You swallow the blood. The air is overwhelmed with the perfume of ozone and copper. Static needles dance on your skin. And you can't pull your eyes away.
Before the Initiative conceived of a God at all, or forgot that they had already killed it, they thought up something called an Idea. This however, I can't find a parallel to. You didn't ask and you couldn't know.
<br/>
<br/>
<h2 p align="center">X</h2>
<h2 p align="center">Postword</h2>
What was the world like before? What did the Initiative do? Am I suggesting the Initiative created God? What is the purpose of this book? These are all fantastic questions, and I eagerly await your answers. Or if you've been reading differently, you want to know the precise moment the Law, Truth, God, <i>reality </i> was killed in such a way... Or you want to know how a tired old thing such as myself has time to put jokes like this together. Or, how I alone know the world was different before?
More questions will just leave your brain in a tangle, but people can't help themselves. People are always concocting new recipes. I am always gorging on questions, and I am always in the mood for a bite. In the meantime I plant the seeds of worry to reap in these new, fertile fields.
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> **Filename:** lane.png
> **Name:** British Library digitised image from page 540 of "Der Mensch, die Räthsel und Wunder seiner Natur. ... Vierte Auflage"
> **Author:** British Library
> **License:** Public Domain
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> **Filename:** banner.png
> **Name:** British Library digitised image from page 43 of "A History of the Cries of London, ancient and modern. (Woodcuts by T. and J. Bewick, etc.)"
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> **Filename:** owl.png
> **Name:** British Library digitised image from page 43 of "A History of the Cries of London, ancient and modern. (Woodcuts by T. and J. Bewick, etc.)"
> **Author:** British Library
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> **Filename:** devil.png
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> **Filename:** worryworry
> **Author:** [[*user faminepulse]], British Library, Kipling, Rudyard, Gleeson, Joseph M. (Joseph Michael), or Bransom, Paul, 1885- (ill.)
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/worry-worry SCP Foundation Wiki]
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> **Name:** British Library digitised image from page 5 of "Waterloo letters : a selection from original and hitherto unpublished letters bearing on the operations of the 16th, 17th, and 18th June 1815"
> **Author:** British Library
> **License:** Public Domain
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> **Name:** Illustration at p. 207 in Just So Stories (c1912).png
> **Author:** Kipling, Rudyard, Gleeson, Joseph M. (Joseph Michael), or Bransom, Paul, 1885- (ill.)
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Illustration_at_p._207_in_Just_So_Stories_(c1912).png Wikimedia Commons]
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