About the occupant
The Vessel
Macki, in Polish, means tentacles. I am Polish. The rest of the branding assembled itself, like a cult that finally read the brief. I needed an alias. The sea volunteered a noun. Cthulhu, who is not Polish but would like to be invited to Wigilia, nodded from under several miles of plot.
This face is a modified picture of me. The spectacles stayed. The beard unionized. The robe was, I am told, always there, waiting in a wardrobe that opens onto a slightly larger wardrobe. The teal veins are not a filter. They are a circulatory system with a sense of theater.
What this place is
A blog. A gazette. A series of notes smuggled out of a brackish mythology and hung up to dry next to the towels. I write about the Old Ones the way my country writes about weather: with fatalism, soup, and the quiet confidence that we have survived worse Tuesdays.
Lovecraft gave English a vocabulary for dread and then, characteristically, misspelled half of New England. I am borrowing the pillars, the fog, the unpronounceable angles — and leaving behind the parts that have not aged like amber. The abyss here is decorative, Polish, and house-trained. Mostly.
Rules of the house
- Shoes off. The carpet has suffered enough.
- Do not offer the beard raw fish unless you have brought enough to share.
- Sanity is a courtesy, not a requirement.
- If something knocks from below the floorboards, it is probably the tram.
- If it knocks in 5/7 time, do not answer.
You may call me Macki. You may also call me when the stars are right, though I keep surface hours and I will not pick up during żurek. If you have a transmission of your own, there is a rite for that. Bring an offering. Pierogi are accepted as legal tender in two geometries.