Discovering Raaa

PART ONE (from Book of Raaa! Vol. 1):

When it was firmly requested that I contribute a foreword to this assemblage of Raaa’s “Historical Documentation of Costuming and Identity”, I was honored and couldn’t say no. I should emphasize, I could not say no.

I did have small part to play in Raaa’s emergence into this world. Mainly, it was that I was blessed enough to witness it. I am reminded of this often.

From my perspective, it was through my actions and inactions, that a wonderful life was produced. I had no intention of ever sharing this experience, but creating a life is worthy of recounting.

Allow me to preface this creation story with a bit of how and why it came to be.

I am a fan of canned, sliced pineapple. Sometimes it's a heavy syrup that the slices reside in and sometimes it's 100% pineapple juice. I prefer the 100% juice to be the home in which my pineapple live until I consume them.

That being said, my belly is occasionally sensitive to large doses of acidic juices. I've learned that to successfully get through an entire 20 oz. can of pineapple, I need a full glass of water to drink while eating. Sometimes, by the end of the can, it's just too much liquid and I feel sick, full, and in pain.

Slowly, over the years, I've learned that I don't, in fact, have to finish the entire can. I could put it down and eat it later, or I could even store it in the olde icebox and resume consumption on an entirely different day! (That was revelatory for me.)

I preferred saving it for a later time. Though often, I would wait too long and find that the juice would grow thick and cloudy, at which point I'd promptly discard it. This happened more often than I liked to admit, and I grew tired of forgetting to eat it sooner, so I would just let the can sit out. However, my intrigue grew over some of the other changes: the firming sludge, the rusting of the can, etc.

After some research, I learned that the fermenting of such juice is actually quite commonplace, and could yield a tasty beverage, if done properly. I decided to leave a few more cans open and do some experimenting.

As soon as I acquired basic things, such as yeast nutrient, pectic acid, tannin, etc, I was well underway to becoming the kitchen/bathtub scientist I'd always dreamt of being.

I'll spare you the details of the success or failure rate of each of the fermentation attempts. Suffice to say, I drank some things that were probably better left UN-drunk. Alas, those were innocent times.

On the single attempt, which has brought me to this point of pontification, I shall now expound.

The interior of one particular can grew more fuzz than the rest, which was the main difference between all of the others which were left in their can. According to instruction, the metal can was never supposed to be introducedinto the process. In fact, on the can label itself is printed "After opening,store contents in glass or plastic container... you have been warned!". I had never noticed this and/or it was of no concern to me.

As the environment of fuzz continued to expand in said can, I began paying special attention to it. I can only assume that my overwhelming love and warmth allowed this habitat within the can to blossom.

Upon close examination of the fuzz, I saw that there was slight movement. It was more than just my steamy and loving breath that made it move. Each subsequent day, I noted substantial expansion. Enough so, that by day four, I had to forgo my own personal hygiene by giving up my bathtub to the can. It seemed like the only space capable of securely containing the spread of growth. This proliferation had overtaken the outside of the can, and after the first night in the tub, had spread to a full 8-inch circumference surrounding the base.

The remaining days grew strange, as the heat and smell from the can got stronger. I decided to take a specimen on the eighth day. Under my old high school microscope I could see interesting shapes, but to my untrained eye and weak equipment, I was not able to determine what I was being observed.
I needed stronger gear.

After about 30 minutes, I procured the necessary materials. (see photo)

I was then able to identify exactly what I was present. LIFE!! A living being! Nestled among the spores was a tiny smooth sphere that, after further examination, appeared to be more like an egg, but after further examination, proved to be the little creature itself. (see photo)

The remaining days involved a bonding that can only be described as intense and inappropriate. I devoted more time to the little baby thing than I'd spent on anything before. It's features quickly developed during this time and it fully dawned on me that this was something I would need to take seriously. And I did. 

Fast forward to today, and the following pages demonstrate what Raaa has become, with no help from me. I should emphasize, no help from me.

I thank Raaa for allowing me to tell the first part of this story. -JT

PART TWO (from Book of Raaa! Vol. 2):

After completing the first Book of Raaa!, I was excited for my next project to be something different. Anytime my thoughts strayed to anything new, someone quickly reminded me that someone’s certain story had more to be told.

Therefore, this is the book, now in your hands.

Another volume. Entirely for Raaa.

After the insistence of the previous book being titled “Vol. 1”, I suppose I should have seen this coming.

I left off describing the bond that had formed between the rapidly developing baby and myself. It should be noted, at this point, for a number of weeks, the routine involved maintaining the climate suitable for life, which attracted an abundance of odors and moisture that regularly gagged me. But like any good parent of a eukaryotic yeast-based bathtub baby (see Vol. 1 foreword), I became immune to these things, and grew to love them.

Hearing the gentle, muffled rustling of shifting movements coming from the baby comforted me. I continually spoke or hummed, and saw that there was a reaction to sounds and words. But there was never any indication of sound or communication in return. Until that chilly day in March.

After a stretch of warm weather, during which the radiators remained quiet, I recall hearing the clangs and whistles that came as the heat attempted to fill the room. But from the bathroom where no radiator existed, I began hearing a different sort of whistling. I crept up to the door to listen closer.

Controlled whistles. A tune!

I heard a distinct, repeating melody. Proof of some serious consciousness! As well as quite an ability to construct an awfully catchy little ditty.

But the whistling did not stop and the novelty soon wore off. Despite shutting the bathroom door and shoving a towel along the bottom to seal the gap, the whistling still seemed to permeate the apartment, and my soul.

At some point I fell asleep, but in the middle of the night, I could hear the whistling continue and creep into my dreams. Mid-consciousness, I grabbed a pencil and paper to jot down what I heard, in case, God willing, the whistling stopped overnight. I fell immediately back into a deep sleep.

I awoke in the morning to the same melody coming from the bathroom. Next to me was my crumpled paper:

It meant absolutely nothing to me. I needed to figure out a way to document what I was hearing, and there is no affordable means to capture audio, as far as I know. I’ve heard there are expensive devices that can trap sounds in a way that could be heard at a later time, but I’m not a millionaire, despite my highbrow taste and exotic lifestyle.

Quickly learning how to read music, I trained my ear in order to notate what I was hearing, along with a chordal accompaniment, and jotted this down:

To make the best of the situation, I bought a guitar. As soon as I began to play along, the whistling stopped!! I looked closer, and noticed the baby was plugging its ears, showing disapproval of the sounds I made with the instrument.

I decided to tune the guitar and learn to actually play the thing. Later that afternoon, we began our musical journey together. During a particularly stormy time, a boom of thunder frightened the baby. The whistling changed, and our minor key section was born:

Having a theme song seemed to increase the baby’s rate of growth. Within a short period of time, taking on the shape that would come to be what we all know. Roughly an inch in height and rarely standing or moving much from the spot of origination - this lazy blob of a baby was taking after me in many ways - and I was prouder than I could express through words.

I had not yet given the baby a name, which felt wrong. After weeks of the insistent whistling that dominated what felt like every waking moment, a new sound emerged from the baby. A tiny mumble of what sounded like “raaaaaah”, or something quite typical of any self-respecting monster.

With each outburst, the little baby’s arms would also flail outward, in an almost enthusiastic display of monsterly pride.

I would play along and act surprised or scared every time, encouraging each outburst. But as with the whistling, this never stopped. I would repeat the word. I tried to answer with a different word. Any word. But nothing changed.

Despite having never spoken of it to anyone up to this point, the word became the name I would refer to the baby from then on.

But soon more changes would come. And “Raaa” would outgrow and eventually outnumber me. -JT