Monday, July 29, 2019

Caterpillar Dub Dasson Blabbers On Regardless

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? 
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...

Friday, July 26, 2019

An Gath Vlewek Gortheren ha Gorwir

I lit a new lamp in my garret. The old one had burned too dim. I loved the light from the brand-new lamp that flooded the flat and showed it to shine, but that was as nothing for this same night I’ve seen the almost-full Moon through a glass and it’s a sight to stir the psyche to euphoric rapture and slide into blissful glissando white lunar reveries of infinite peace and silence, courted by bright Venus, so clean the craters and cloud’s rag-shadows racing over flicker the face of the great moon and cast a vast spell of great nature’s power and airless luminous silver mystery, also thrown upon the face of the waters in the glistening shivering merriel meniscus on the wet silver fishwaters of the shores of old Newlyn Green. Flatfish teem and eels in countless thousand myriad shoals and schools I thought, churning and churring, just below the surface, teeming, pulsing and beetling they shiver and rattle the water to glint back the moon’s borrowed glow of the Sun, who’s hiding round the other side of the drowsy night world, yawning and stretching, dreaming under the diamond myriad skies of fishwet night. All asleep and drowsy deep the sea, the light, the flickering scintilla that struck with rapture shiver and gape in sheer naked wonder at the course of the stars through the heavens and the bronze colossal archaic structure of time’s very veering as it looms from nothing to nothing, blazing meanwhile in full effulgence humandivine. Searing sideways the moon’s light slithers gelatinous yet crispy-dry, pulsating and pullulating yet uttering an ever-deathly stillness to the dark night of another transient eternity. 

Friday, July 12, 2019

Eightfold Dub

Never mind the other news - The Caterpillar Dub tells you all you need to know.....   Simply print, cut down the centre line (but not all the way!) and fold into your souvenir Alice book.... 

Eightfold Alice

Can Alice work out how to print, cut and fold the images into a coherent book? Not if The Mad Hatter can help it! And he's not the only baroque character out there trying to impede Alice in their own crazy way.

Awareness Flows Clear

Yes, that fluffiest of bunnies, that most albumenesque of pseudo-rodential, mythic trans-dimensional watch-clockers, the fabled and fantastical so-called and self-styled ‘white rabbit’ has been seen in the area – Beware!
If you are the punctual type, it’s best to keep well away from this curious little critter – he has a way of making people late.  Very late.  I’m talking of days and weeks, not minutes and hours, by the way.  It’s your call, but I’d keep away from the little sucker if I were you…
{I heard that! Quoth the White Rabbit wrathfully.} 

Flow Of Clear Awareness

I love to see the lights come on warm and golden in the evening’s misty damp grey.  These beacons of homely glow and cheer lure the weary home, like the disembodied souls of the universe flying home to roost.  This priceless golow glister that shines from a sea of earthly windows on the houses up on the hill, it speaks of the sanctity of home, of the beauty of warmth and shelter and also of the hint of adventure as your life crosses that of another. 
Lovers play in some of these lighted looming rooms whilst in others, solitary sit the solo, lost in thought and musing the universe through an eye to the sky.  Spangled light orange as barley and glowing from within, seeping and dripping from gambrelled windows and gable-pitched rooves.  Each window a splodge of golden orange paint in my oil-painting, my structure of dark blue brickwork against the city sky when I was youth incarnate. 
Casting away sorrows, the rebetis takes up an ancient lute and breaks into song.  Now let the light shine. 

P.S.  You might have noticed that The Caterpillar frequently comes out late these days.  For that, we can only blame the influence of the white rabbit.

Thursday, May 16, 2019

Spirits That Rise With The Sun In Their Eyes

From out of the mouth of the gyni came forth fables and parabels - this was good - as long as the gyni never offends the sultan he is free to babble - but if the sultan gets too pissed off the gyni will have to hide in a jar until he passes or turn him into a camel...
he doesn't mind doing this.