Walking through golden mist knee-deep and
swirling thick and glutinous like luminous marmalade, through budding meadows
brim with the efflorescence of ages and the mysterious hoof-prints of the
miniature deer that run by night. Over
the bridge into yet another realm, this one congealed and composed of
conglomerations of sensory experience, like the five skandhas or aggregates of personality as taught at Nalanda in times
antique and gone to the Indian sun of past millennia. Glittering sea-glass and muted orange-barley
glow in the harvest-fields, following, following, following; ever following the super-luminous trail of
The Caterpillar as he loops across the land;
now here, now there. Blessing the
Earth, suffusing it with culture and knowledge, parchments scattered like
leaves in his tracks, clattering clogs on many a foot going round many a block
and skittering down alleys and country cart-tracks and byways where sun shines
dappled through leaves that tremble when the breeze comes around stirring and soughing
high and lonesome in late afternoon. Reaching
a wondrous isle suspended just above midstream in the dragon-fly river, it
glistens in water surrounded and fish spit and gurgle there. What nature whispers in the waters and the
leaves of the trees can not be written in the tongues of man. The nature-feeling that we write of is just
an echo of the real nature-feeling. Only
a lungful of air can say it. Only an
uphill puff can inflate it. Only the
rustle of wind in the corn, the long meadow grass and wheat, only the rustle of
cereal crops under dark thunderous blue and purple skies in the summer’s
blasting heat can say it. Only the
splash of the surf can say it. Mordros
mutter tramor and back, wondrys, marthys and Glagolitic. Subsisting on glossolalia is no substitute
for nature’s silent roaring laugh. If
the world is old and ill then the spirits of the Earth will rise.
DREAM ALL ABOUT IT - LATEST FROM THE OTHER SIDE - THE CATERPILLAR DUB - AN ANTIDOTE TO CONCEPTUAL JOURNALISM - AVAILABLE EVERYWHERE SIMULTANEOUSLY - THE ONLY PAPER THAT TRULY TELLS IT LIKE IT IS - Written in light in the space between the atoms of solid conditioned quotidian reality - A yelp from the forest at the edge of town where the wilderness begins - The drip of rain on the back of a fish - An echo of the explosion that gave birth to the sun and stars - The primordial rush - a pocketful of stardust - a rustle - a hustle and bustle - It-s the Dub! It-s the Caterpillar Dub and it-s available everywhere now!
So there I was, walking down the road, when all of a sudden- (Open
a new tab and expand your image) Ancient geometrical
rhythms, patterns in the cloth, the march of the mountains, a faded
colour-postcard, Kodachrome film flickering, people in outdated clothes, hats, newspapers
clutched, streets bustling with gone-people, living-only-in-film-people,
black-and-white-film-people gone drifting back in time.
Ain’t always got the
time to dream and slip into the summer meadows yesterday, dappled sunlight in
the trees, through the meadow and into the tress, drowsy with summers’ torpor
dropping like honey-flies from the leaves of the trees, glinting in the glade
so cool. Time to slip and slide to where
stupas melt in time and fjords reflect the pure sky… through the meadow and into the trees…. through the wildflower meadow, buzzing with
insects of summer grass. Into the trees,
into the trees.....
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.
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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