If the glint in your mind is the myriad bubble of laughing awareness don’t stop. If the rise in your heart is the vision of vast all-one-nothingness-consciousness then the blades of grass shall ring true and birds and fish swim rightly through the elements. When the echo of laughing days of golden summer is etched into memory’s tablets of bronze then the myth can live on and reverberate down the hills, halls and hulls of time. If all these things can be, then what other things can be?
Who are you? said The Caterpillar...
The Carapace fluttered and shimmered, glimpsed and glimmered brief ere erstwhile shroudy fog beclouded the mind of man and hampered the looming-up of dazzling brilliance. Slick scintilla continued to zoom, exuding forth like froth, extruding still in continuum, sliced.
Again I lurked in the phone-box, awaiting the hour. Again the Carapaced Caterpillar made a showing and beamed his elaborate yet simple and jestful zest into the zeal-befogged and moon-struck spark of a mind as possessed by your intrepid reporter, I the undersigned.
Consisting of Cuniform and Linear B tablets which he advised me to take regular with meals of many a cultural flavour; wax rolls; cylinder-rolls; piano-rolls; shellac 78s and vinyl 45s; casettes; 8-Track Cartiridges; lost and supressed manuscripts by various raving lunatics, heretics and lizard-lickers; fragments of tapestry – medieval and musty; texts of rare Persian wisdom and Chinese poetry; papyri; acrylics and lyrics; myths and lyres; music, song and dance; rolls of micro-film and other anachronistic devices from the colourful world of espionage; secret-autobiographies of previously utterly unknown mystics and sage, far-seeing prophets of the age; archives of cultural flim-flam and film of cults of flame; these and vast clouds of other things were condensed and sent, encrypted in the eclat of the eclipse of the whirling, wise antenna of The very Caterpillar his-self.
Well phenomena arise, continue and then dissolve. Other phenomena change their modes, patterns and ways of being. All is restless change and upheaval. The Universe is still infinitely young. Consciousness is posited as a continuum; though lacking substance, its basis of existence is a former moment of consciousness. All of which is by way of saying that The Caterpillar (and its Dub echo,) which date back to 2008, is also undergoing a fundamental change and going from monthly production to occasional production. This is mainly to allow me to concentrate on finishing the books I’ve started writing and trying to bring some of them to publication. If you haven’t already read my novel, The Kramvil, you really should. It’s available in my anthology – The Horned Whale – a unique book of surrealist treasures. The Kramvil started out as a serialized story in The Caterpillar in January 2011.
I still aim to publish The Caterpillar and The Caterpillar Dub from time to time, but by releasing myself from the monthly deadline I think it will be a better magazine when it does appear. And of course with 124 issues of The Caterpillar and 124 issues of The Caterpillar Dub, that’s a back-catalogue of 248 issues to trawl through if, by rare chance, you are partial to the ghetto-collage style of the visionary tabloid that seriously questions its own existence… Ideally, the best thing to do is start your own magazine to put out your own message into the aether around us. Well, thanks for reading and I am sure we will meet again.
A gleaming bead of dew runs down The Horns of Consecration as dawn rises over Knossos. Reflected in the bead is all the culture of the ancients, all the mystery, romance and dream-idyll-reverie of ancestral echoes from the dream-days of long-gone previous millennia. Before evaporating, the bead drips onto the drowsing brow of the bard who slumbers’ neath the Horns. It wakes him groggily and his hand reaches out for his lyre and brown fingers bring the strings to life in soaring trancing tones.
Who are you? said The Caterpillar...