Squalling
in out of the West, it’s the paper that tears itself…. The Caterpillar Dub,
Issue 45… available from all good outlets of the Alaja Vijnana, hanging out in
space, radiantly nowhere…..
Something’s happening in there,I know it.
I just glimpsed a hand
– well, I say hand,
perhaps I should say an appendage. Yes, something definitely slunk, sort of
withdrew, faded into the penumbra inside that gaunt and granite edifice that
faced me across the time-bemoldered alleyway of ongoing experience.
The day could not have
been more leaden and grey, a sobering blustering blast blew chill from
Atlantic’s swirling swell, flecked with crawking gulls and slopping jellyfish
blooms. A squall stole in, scattering
showers, gusts and blasts across the gables, tiles and slates of the village-towne. I’d noticed signs of activity in the old
warehouse recently, coeval with an increase in footsteps late at night, in
owl-hours and beyond. Sesquipedalian
scuttlings astir in archaic rhyme-rich dripping atmospheric glassy-eyed
glaucous backstreets. I seen lights on
in there at night and I heard hammering and a-yammering coming out of there and
I know there’s something going on in
there.
A slate-grey gloom
slayed hopes of drowzy summer’s slumberous afternoons, chilled and thawed and
frozen out as brittle bits and fractured fragments of brown-baked bracken blew
down like brittle biscuits. Maybe it’s
the Glagolitic Mass, echoing and emanating down tunnels of steel, bronze and
bulkheads of obsidian basalt columnular conglomeration in catalytic conversation. That’s probably what did it, what set my mind
to thinking and to realizing.
Blending into that
tea-like darkness, that was a being alright, definitely a being of some
sort. Swirls of fog notwithstanding,
some denizen flittered and flitted in, in stealthy flight departing. Thirsting for experience’s flow, I followed
and bat-like flitted silently inside.
An unearthly glow
pulsed colourless drenching the ancient chamber in nacreous effulvous
effulgence oscillating with slices of photoperiodic obscurity and a deep deep
blackness. A calm warmth seemed seeping
forth, encouraging my peregrination. A
fresh impression like a French Impressionist painting, blurry and soft; muted, speckled; plates, greenish-white glow, spinning
fingers, antennae, shifting plates of the carapace, a gliding motion of an
archaic garment of clothing, a vast greatcoat surcoat, swaddling the figure of
the being, the entity, the Caterpillar!
And now, as I look
back, the encounter – if such it was – is indeed a little vague and sepia-faded
at the edges, this being the inevitable concomitant
of such episodes as these, featuring as they do, the meeting of mundane with
supra-mundane Mind… I have a series of
recollections, rather fragmentary, disjointed and indistinct. I have much more positively in my possession though
the echo of the feeling, and this is
the subtle gossamer whisp that is so discolos hard to convey through
words. A sensation of being refined and
rarified, as when metal is purified in great fire. This suttleification was bathed in a warm
vibrant peace – whilst all this was going on, knowledge and informations were being
poured into me from a source universally present. The presence of the central figure was one of
great warmth and wisdom, a sunny benignity coupled with the dizzying mysterious
drift of space itself. In fine,
something that went beyond my limited grasp, yet left me uplifted, inspired
with a hint of something vast and brilliant.
When I had fully
returned to my normal condition, I was in possession of a casket of scrolls,
tablets, cuniform phonograph rolls, wire-recordings, sketch-books, scribbled
formulae and classical poetry, incantations, evocations and revalations. Rich food for the soul, for psyche’s flight,
butterfly-like into the new bright night of day.
What follows in ‘The
Caterpillar’ – A Visionary Ghetto Tabloid - & its remixed Dub Version is
culled from the fertile trove of lore and learning bequeathed to me on the
occasion of my most recent visitation of my mysterious carapaced friend, to
whom ye humble blogspot and its accompanying journals are most respectfully
dedicated.
The Caterpillar Dub No.44 brings you a new contributor,the jazz-horn player from Chicagee, Mr Ben Jacket. Please read responsibly and dissipate your euphoria in scintillating ripples of unbridled lightful joy. Any crackling audible over one's wireless set is a result of inter-orbital phonographic disturbance and will pass as we enter the next Age of Brahma. Poems and other pieces of verbage may be sent to the editor at the address to be found overleaf. Please do not forget to include a threepenny stamp and ten for a shilling if you get them hot. Allright, let's roll the film over the eyes of sleep.
Following
recallibration of the soporific illusion nets,it has become apparent that life is indeed a
dream. The findings came to light as researchers at the Centre for Dream Experience and
Elucidation finally woke up to the facts of life can be a dream. Also how did they know not to that it
wasn't? And anyway it's time to wake up
now--- you're running, running down a street - you're in a strange city, though parts of it seem oddly familiar - alone you ramble
and wander the serpentine and convoluted conduits of a misty dream-city - you
meet a friend - is it a friend?
You see your lover down by the great river that winds out of the
jungle-country to the north-west, above the mountains, beyond the plains where the horse-nomads live and the skylarks
play. Is it her? You follow but she's
gone. Some foreigners arrive and offer
you a ride in a canoe - should you take it?
Why not? You jump in and are
conveyed to the ancient city, upstream, that was built by the elder culture, before the new city was built - - but wait - isn't it the same city?
The
Caterpillar – concise, logical analysis of today’s unfolding news stories. A clear overview of current events, reported
directly to our readership, via the valves of Universal Transmission
Services. The Caterpillar – talk to your
local newsagent to subscribe to The Caterpillar & have it (& its
sensational Dub Edition) delivered to your door! So put your feet up and let us bring the news to you – because that’s our job! Up-t0-the-minute coverage of the issues that
matter to you! Presented in a format that’s easy to
understand… If you like an empirical and rational look at today’s events now,
as they actually unfold, then ‘The Caterpillar’ is the paper for you! Get it today!
Tell your friends! ‘The
Caterpillar’ is the paper for people like you.
For people like us… So remember
folks, subscribe to ‘The Caterpillar’
and everything will be alright…
Both Club Oilers Bow Out of Row. Wrath roilers woe at Bow. Furry-winged controversy blights East End club. Such hail the newsboys on bleak London streets. Thus flap the posters, and scraps of newsprint swirl down the side-roads, emanating information to the urban conurbation. Feathery tiled wings swoop down Baalbec Way, massing in penumbra of mythic maths, splash puddles of meths, the stuff of myths. Open-mouthed, the madding crowds fear the moths, mere metaphysical chimeras after all!
A stupendous view of the bayis commanded from the bay window
transoms, from Loe Bar, across by Halzephron and on down to Mullion and The
Lizard. Someone seems to swoon forward
in gentle reverie, images rippling outward from expressive, inventive mind. Cluck,
jackdaw's feather flutters to ground shimmering blue and dark shine.
Possible
Side Effects: Some people experience side effects when
reading this publication. If this
happens to you, please see your vendor of Dublications or contact Chilled
Distribution directly. Symptoms can
include: Glossolalia, Hyperverbalism,
mild or acute Logomania, Adjectivus Hyperbolus, Dry Mouth, Excitability, Vertigo,
Stag, Dizziness, Torpor & Turpitude.
Unused
copies of this publication should be disposed of safely. They should be returned to the starting
point; the original one; the one mind;
the space of previous things; the
point of origin beyond; the luminous fog of aether. &c..
Unread
material shall be stashed in the phone-box on the corner, or secreted within the
old deserted house down the back-street or buried at the cross-roads at
midnight. * * * *
Street-cars,
side-cars, allotments and rugby-pitches- a rainy Saturday afternoon, the radio
blaring. Fragments of lichen and Spanish
Moss cling to the trees - an old movie. Sunlight on the pavement on the hill, quiet. Grass sprouting in the gutter. Snatches of brass band music being blown
about by the wind; tattered posters
flapping on old brick walls, chimes of
an ice-cream van. Dry warm wind blows
the dust in rivulets along the brown and fading street, bleached by summer’s
old-time sun. A thousand summer suns
that shone and in shining shone on as one.
Side streets, rugby-cars and rainy allotment pitches on a radio
afternoon of blaring Saturday. Feet
clacking down dry dusty streets, past shacks of clucking clarion cockerels,
heralds, horns blaring. Swarming downtowns turned to brick, nostalgic
reverie reveals no intrinsically solid stalactites.
Sparkling through the crystal-receiver, distant laughter. Shimmering in water droplets, in light-rays, rebounding brilliance, luminescence. Rattling keys of the machine encoding and decoding old poems of the fog on the hill under the ash trees drooping. Going the way of the Ancients – a fresh World blooms awhile before the stars go out-
We are receiving reports that a concatenation of skyanarchists have been attempting to infiltrate, subvert, subsume and obfusticate the serious work of The Invertebrate Press by jamming transmissions of ‘The Caterpillar’ and superimposing their sacred cloud images upon our news bulletins. Such subterfuge sucks big bucks from Bub’s box and cannot, I say can NOT be tolerated. Should you, the aforementioned, find such persons, person or personae imbibing, implicating, ridiculing or otherwise meta-confabulating ‘The Caterpillar’s current communiqués with suchlike aery jargon and flim-flam you will please not encourage them.
Established in 2008, tried, tested, trusted and true; there is only one ‘Caterpillar’ – accept no substitutes!
Relishable to sit on the low cliff, overlooking the water. The Cor-Mor-Ant skims over the Mor, projecting his silvery reflection. This lapping pewter mirror meniscus slips over the bed of the Earth. Cloudy sky dips drooping down to meet and marry the mor, grey billows puffdadaist pillows of watery vapourous flimsy stuff. Searing sun slinks hidden above the puffy layer, basking, rasping, replete and resolute in shiny shark-skin suit.
At the water’s edge the land is muted, swaddled, subdued and subsumed… The soft land melts into the soft sea. The clouds disolve the hills. The ocean absorbs the land and the rocks.
Technical note: Since Blogger seems to be having a problem with letting you enlarge images, we’ll print the text of ‘The Caterpillar’ No.38 for you:
Hallo, and in today’s newswe have reportsthat large sections of the country are dreaming in golden black earth fields as flamingoes wield glint feathery glowing rivulettes.
Reports are beginning to reach us from the Mid-Country,the Centre-Earth, the drowse-field, the furrowed furlong day, the hinged flint hinterland saying mercury runs through time like sand.
And now over to our home-affairs correspondent in the home counties where tea-cozys chuff and puff scones, thatched-roofs, brittle biscuits, croquet lawns clacking, a sunny day, a drive in the motor-car, ducks on the village green, the Weald, the Wold, the wobbling early World, bakewell tarts, cricket, cloche hats and a phonograph playing the Charleston.
And from our foreign affairs department we are receiving reports of vast open spaces, titanic gangetic deltas, Obs, Dakotas and Orinochos. Of teaming hordes, stampeding herds, shattering ice-bergs, lava-flows, cactus jungles and steppes. Of turbans, Turfan, Dong Fang, Ming Ching and deep-fried chicken-wing.
And in the city today a basket of currants see the light of a market day, on market street, buzzing, fizzing metropolitan jazz schisms scatter frissons of shivering glissando rhythms. And souls of the city soar, searing and seething gleefully revealing today’s street-feeling.
And today’s weather – there will be shattered skewers in the rest and sloth, with bands of grain and packets of isolated sun-hailing. Sleet sleek she slithers silently forth. Sun-glow a-boom a-radiate down like a radio tuned to warm. Magical under the sun, maroon earth slumbers.
Spread The News:- pass out some flyers in your area….
Stellarium – see the stars, planets, galaxies and galactic clusters; satellites, mythologies and trajectories.>>> In issue 37 of The Caterpillar Dub, we explore space, form & texture; plus Li Po and the mysterious cow. Also, The Caterpillar bounces back the ongoing question to all the People out there:- “Who Are You?” “Who Are You?”“Who Are You?”
(If you enjoy ‘The Caterpillar’, please spread the word, by printing out some of these flyers, cutting them up & distributing them… thanks!)
Of course, it had not been my specific intention to seek out that mysterious carapaced presence, transmitter of cultural aftifacts, radio-telegraphic telepathic mind-waves, magneto-grams, gasometers and general bivalve-envelope oracular dramatic.The Caterpillar was not one to be sought, so much as one to stumble into, no doubt in some archaic and eldritch spot, probably a mist-haunted cross-roads, at around 3.15 am, on a rain-rattled morning when even the dogs howl not and upon the towne falleth a blissfulslumber; but not, of course, for all…
No, not for all – for some wander, stumble and blunder, blusterously billowing forth with sails hoisted high up the mizzen-mast and thoughts of a whaling voyage around the Cape of Greenland or some such doom-shattered remnant of mind’s utter, outer and outré folly. So yes, as I say, The Caterpillar is not to be sought, any more than one would rightly chase shadow-chimeras upon the chiming chimney-hearth on blasted heath. For that noble & elusive figure does flutter forth shimmering in High Yogic Concentration, giving off a humming, a sort of knowledgeable pulse of warm glowing yellow energetic plasm-pulse, utilizing internal magneto transmitter antennae system.
Rattling down alleys and ancient lichenous byways, the form ripples on like photons on a hot tin lozenge. Ululating and simultaneously undulating was culminating in simplistic dualistic rustic risk multitudinous to spinning discs of info fixed on crystal wheels,encapsulating glittering vistas of spacemind’s inner and outer eyes turned forever twixt a constellation spinning fixed, whirling disc whisk glittering mind’s sharp edge.
The scrolls and optical viewing equipment were passed from the shadowy, pupal one, to me, inexplicably, inextricably, indubitably and indistinguishably by the very same being, that rippling and many-footed furry hooded figureof night’s foggy moonglow. I say night’s foggy moonglow.
Hazey horizon means Summer has come to the sea. The Lizard dreams in the warm, indefinite haze. The chugging trawler gives bass to the hissing rippling waves licking the shore-stones. Cloudless – radiant – only haze for a terrestrial corona. Only life clinging to this planet, such a warm island in a deep and cold space. Such a peaceful friendly island on which life can flourish, can grow goodfully and diversify into a chiliad myriad species, eggs, wings, legs – fishes and things. 600,000,000,000 years ago the molluscs – what’s this year’s thing? An internet argument for Homo sapiens? Or the mass-transformation of humanity into ten thousand billion Avalokiteshvaras?
A small, shiny thing, creeping off the path – a lizard basking in sun’s radiance, in glimmering viridian carapace waistcoat. Moving away, with the delicate, swift, hesitant, slow movements of the Jurassic.
In the clearing, an art-deco fritillary thing, rare speckled happy Butter Flye, lapping the drowzy nectar – opening and closing your mystery rococo wings – very very slowly.
White snow-falls of thorn-blossom dust the hedges along by the sea; horse-chestnuts bursting into stemmy, furry leaf – and oaks fragile baby leafes resplendent.
Chiff Chaff chatter, the burbling of warblers and rusky cooing of wood-pigeons- crack! A pine-cone opens in the heat. Sounds like a Canadian guiro being played by a crossbill.
(If you enjoy ‘The Caterpillar’, please spread the word, by printing out some of these flyers, cutting them up & distributing them… thanks!)
Flower-gardens in the rain, petals washed away, rain falling in the pond.
Frogs hiding, long hours, summer afternoon. Lighthouse, the ship- sunlight on brick on summer-lightning’s tongue. Tendrils of ivy on topiary trellises. Still the sampan goes down river, past buffaloes and mountains of the sun. Horns of the beast rippling with crinkled crumple-horn-rimmed speculation in orbic magnification. Smoky blocks of tea in the market, kettles, fruits unknown. Under Jade Mountains, cloud shadow. Under cloud shadow, Jade Mountains. Cloud over mountain, over air over earth. Forest quivers as monkey climbs higher. Rain in the East- the first drops falling into the tea-bowl…
Under cloud shadow, quiet presides- then thunder crackles and roars between the peaks. Gurgling waterfall draws colourful birds; a sage observes. Rain-curtains sweep across the mountains and valleys, grey sheets of water-element mixing with air. Water presides, and the crags run white with rivulets. Under Cloud Mountain, shadow of jade glows green. Down the river, past wallowing cattle, floating long hours. Tendrils of lightning’s tongue flicker petals of pond-water tea-bowls. Monkey splashes in the pond, slurps from tea-bowl, nibbles on rare lotus-shoots and runs shrieking into the trees. “Aboo! Aboo!”
Published in the street by The Invertebrate Press…
A carapaced overcoat huddled to the wind, disappearing round the next corner, enshrouded and enmeshed in mist. The multiple feet pattering on the Cornish cobblestone caunseway, clattering. A presence, larval, gnoscient, aglow with wisdom,a clear intelligence, cornucopia of crystalline chrysalis glistering glycerine lepidopteral looming forth through the fog that swirled in from the sea. This was no everyday wanderer, not the typical denizen of this realm of codfish pasties and odd goings-on.This was the ‘Carapaced One’, as I thought him so dubbed; the very Caterpillar, transmitter of this flow of fluttering double journals,flags flew in face of fleeting street rag barrows.
Holder of myriad glossaries of dialects, alphabets, idioms, pictorial hieroglyphs and tablets ceramicus. Dabbler in technology of shifting times, epochs and places around and all over the place. Broadcaster of shimmering symbols on aether’s aery waves. Living lexicon of culture’s codes, collections of systems, ways of communication lost or not yet found, ways ancient and dreaminspired; ways mottled in sunshine’s memory’s yesterday’s forever’s dancing leaves in the sun of yesterday’s a sunny day’s a dappled windy day’s echoing, shuddering, rippling pictures. Most informative and innovative pupa, mystical tourist guide to psyche’s flight; so long from my sight.A message he transmitted to me by the wire, the telex. This slumbering behemoth of a beast of a machine still hurled its rolls unraveling an ink-spattering paper-jam, ticker-tape and green lights flashing. Dream-transmissions of subtle cultural sub-codes continued. Myths imparted by osmotic symbiosis. An outwardly rippling telegraphy of symbolic meanings to open the eyes- his mission resolute as he hunched over the dials of his communicatingdevice, reloading paper-supply regularly and antennae-inspecting the inner-workings, clicking. With insectivorous precision he fixes the coordinates and delineates the paramaters of transmission, then the wave is put out.Jamming allspectra,the Caterpillarrides the airwaves as a buckaroo clings to the mane of a bucking morvil steer or a toucan spills over the rainbowgliding.Valves glowing and static crackling, ribbon spins and swirls on spools as ink is warmed by special flame jets to correct temperature for print-run, paper by now spinning on giant rolls towards gaping jaws of printing press. With the crisp rip of paper torn along a perforation, the message is in and production can commence… Dials sing, valves glow and the wave is put out…
Check out my fiction ebook, The Horned Whale - available from all good ebook sites - The Horned Whale or An Morvil Kornek by Jeremy Schanche - ISBN: 9780993490910 - 175,710 words - $3.99 - Contains the mystery novel - The Kramvil, plus short stories, poetry and glossaries. Find out more at : http://yecaterpillar.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/the-horned-whale-by-jeremy-schanche.html
Please also see these blogs:
https://haroldhempsteadcagedcrusader.wordpress.com/
https://savetheholyheadland.blogspot.co.uk/
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