Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Of course later I could not be sure, but at the time it had been very clear. I had wandered through the Town, the old town dripping with fog and I had picked up his trail. I felt a little reserved for some reason, I had not made his acquaintance for some time so I was not in a hurry to interrupt the maze-like wandering of his buskined feet. Curling and weaving he wandered swaddled down to the sea-front where the Great River of Ocean swirled and swam, green, glutinous and brineful. He hurried on. I followed. He seemed to be muttering to himself, but when I crept nearer I realized that he was reciting ancient poetry, humming hymnals to Helenic wonder-deities, formulae of mystic subtle luminous pathways; words of glorious upfullness.
I spun my code-wheel-machine open and loaded a fresh spool of microfilm - must map the pupating presence - must percieve his depth of meaning - must not misinterpret. Must try to glean the meaning articulated authenticity. He knew I was monitoring, reading him - he made that clear through his ripples of wisdom-humour, his kind indulgence. "SO! You want to play!" - he thought. His compassionate indulgence was my fortunate template of tolerance. Afterall, he wanted his message transmission to disseminate, and I, for some fortuitous reason, was his link to VALIS, the transhuman inteligence network.
His feet scuttled now to the East, then to the West, looping and twisting a skein of tatooed rhythm before settling down on a course to the West-South-West - towards Old Lynmouth! Why, the Old Quarter, he's going towards the Old Quarter! That timecrumbled ghetto of poeto spudfish and manta-ray middlemen, of course! I should have realized he'd be making a bee-line for that rhyme-encrusted neck of the woods. I'll dip behind this swirl of fog and chuckle momentarily over the audacious inevitability of it! Where else would the Carapaced Coat be heading but to that legendary burg of codling merchants who pin their Fradgile 'Opes on the Myth Foundary and all its myriad muttering bliss-waves! The lapping shore of the Glass Sea of Lapland that swooshes at the rusty shell-crusted pillars of East Pier - known to some as the landing place of Sunfish galore and Eels by the score wriggling ashore. Why of course! That's it! He's moving his operation to pupate in the West, with lots of pubs and lobster pots! Why didn't I realize before!! He certainly misses the shore and he's migrating back to alleys of old, twisting lanes of Jackfish and Flounder. (Must keep an eye on the dial of my ancient code-wheel-machine - yes- all good...) Antenna picking up static - will he stop to wet his beak at that piscine alehouse of low repute? No, surely not, he merely nods to the knot of pescadors huddled outside with tankards of fish-fine ale and clatters on his hoof-horned way.
He seemed to lift feet off the ancient pavement momentarily as he turned portside down a side street. In wondrous pursuit I chuckled at his fine clacking technique, unique footwork - original and refreshing to watch. Up the hill he wound and wended, then turning again and he ducked through the fabulous ope, that archaic archway that harbours multitudes of fradgile memories and preserves the long past whilst echoing the forming fresh foam of the future. The mist in the moon created chimeric prisms and refracted crystal slivers of lunar luminosity. Subtle waves of silken bliss/humour wove the trembling air into spiral appiritions and projections of gossamer myriads. The Larval One laughed - I distinctly heard him laugh. He was enjoying our psychotelepathic game of hide and seek. Once he had turned round to look with his physical eyes, in imitation of the everyday folk for whom he had such kindness. I had instinctively ducked into a green flaking doorway and held my breath, but just then the microfilm had got to the end of the spool and made
that rasping clacking noise that was a sure give-away - coincidence? I don't think so. Such things tend to happen in the Old Quarter on nights such as these when pursuing interdimensional wisdom-pupae.
A rolling, jingling bell gave out its toll - the lamp-lighter was passing by. We exchanged greetings and he illuminated another guttering feeble green glass shining gas-lamp on its ancient oaken pole. In the cottages a dim blue-green glow shone forth. Broth brewed and bubbled in the cuttlefish cauldrons and cauliflower croquettes were acrueing to the hearty dinings of my good folk. The laughter of children seeped out from the glass-bubbled windows of the antique dwellings thereabouts. Fog particles danced in the flickering gaslight. A gull screamed scrawing overhead, dissapearing its voice molding and melding into the nightsoup of dank mizzled sky, so low. Keeping the Creeping Fellow in my sights I set forth anew, hat askew. Pausing to adjust the microfilm I sussed him clicking across cobbled wayfares. A big fella asked him for a light, a marriner fresh returned from brine-fathomed meanderings on Posidon's lapping lair. The Sesquipidelian One obliged him, taking tinderhorn and flickering a candle to light from his overcoat pocket. Bemused the marriner puffed at his pipe, adding sweet fragrant clouds of smoke to the murk that hovering droplet by droplet lurked. A wish-fullfilling wanderer, the light he shone was many-hued, imbued with health to plant seeds of good suggestion in the wave-lapping mind of the nocturnal sea-farer.
Flowing and following him down many more a twisting turning lane we came upon a wattled ware-house. A long-disused net-loft from days of yore. He pushed the door and entered. I stepped forth boldly but he was too quick for me and with a stifled chuckle the portal snapped shut slam! Damn! shut out and excluded - surely not. I turned up my trenchcoat collar and willfully waited within the arch of the door-post, biding. Surely he would not be hiding from me, his acolyte... As I dreamed and mused within my mind, distracted momentarily by distant thoughts of Parnasos and jingling mule-bells recalled from mountains high and dappled days of autumn far, remote and high - the door swung open and, leaning as I was upon it, I fell within.
Laughter was my greeting as I lay on my back with the Carapaced One looming over me directly, his shadowed face looking full into mine. "Don't bother to get up" he seemed to beam intuitive in humourus gleam as his presence washed like a wave of wisdom-presence around my startled mind. "Kind of you to drop by, now try these" he said without speaking as he handed me an acetate case containing spooling tapes to transcribe and teleport by telex-lexicon- conection. I smiled and mumbled some inanity as a wave of joymind swept up my Heart. He knew I'd be faithful to his intention and strive to impart his messages abroad and across the trembling telegraphy of telepathic integrity, emanating the Caterpillar vibe to a hungry World. At least that's what I think happened. Of course later I could not be sure, but at the time it had been very clear.

Monarch Butterfly egg hatching Time Laps

Caterpillar Transforms Into Crysalis Time Lapse

Time Lapse of Butterfly Life Cycle

Ever seen a caterpillar transforming?

Painted lady butterflies develop, emerge in time lapse

The Sound of The Butterfly

Language has, since our pre-Human past, been used as a vehicle for conveying meaning. It is one of the many forms of communication available to us. Its habitual use has given rise to forms of linguistically-conditioned-consciousness. How many of us ever go beyond play-words?

No comments:

Post a Comment