Blastin' out from our Invertebrate Transmitters with valves aglow to push out the sound through pulsing glass, wire, cardboard and ebony-wood cabinets, all ashake and arumble. The popping cones of the speakers bark and tapes spool, spiel and unreel, running on crackling acetate and glistening obsidian shellac - sounds shaped by city-hands, chilly hands, fingers stiff, plucking at E-strings and rattling the snare - a snarl and a stream of sweat show sincerity and 'No Surrender' daubed on walls of grimy brick our creed-
* Glyphs 'n' scriffs encrypted on slivers of silver mythological spliffs betwixt a Gryphon's lips exude ear-splitting licks, riffs 'n' silly tricks, still it's only with a smile so it helps to be sunny on a day like this. ** Leaves fall - rain falls - stars fall - flesh falls - epochs fall - rains fall - seeds fall - dew falls - light falls - sun falls - radiance falls - breeze falls - a leaf falls - *** Hymns in homage to hunros, oneiro, reverie and dreams dream itself - lulled and hypnotized into hypnogogy by the feathery hands of Peristeris, the 9/8 rebetikou guitar-man with the mercurial rippling zeibekiko guitar runs - **** So anyway, there I was, walking down the road ***** Visions from another brother, visions of the yogic, the aethereal and the hypnotic sacred mystery awoken by the Shaman's rattling snare-drum - ******
The Notorious Byrd Brothers...
Hear the great Greek guitarist and composer Peristeris (The Dove)....
At first I was joking when I used to say I was 'going back to the Bronze Age', but quite soon the joke was on me and I found myself enshrouded in the crepuscular Keltek dusk of Kernow's tewlwolow husk. The stones broke through like teeth emerging. One finger points to another. A long shadow cast by the moon. Defend, Cultivate, Observe - study the Universe. Honour nature. Unlock the code. Discover what is to be known - nature, the stars, people, the ocean, insects, your dreams - all one.
Well the ray of the moons' glow bounded off the tongue of a sleepless lark and glittered hard against the Druid's old stone tower. Some things never change. Bits of sunlight glimmered, glistened, glittered and glinted in a shimmering frazzle of dazzling glare, looming and rearing up all radiant daring to blaze through the haze and shazzam through the fleeting vaporous spindrift shimmer. The eye of seeing saw to it that the mind of knowing knew the deal. Nature resplended in its entire perfection. Nature comes with thorns. Nature comes with horns. Nature flows inseparable from the mind that perceives - thus, 'you are the eyes of the Universe.' The entire fleshy, rocky and salt-water-croc-riddled trip centres around ye, the experiencing perceiver at the centre of the web, the heart of 'reality.' Well, if the whole Empire of Dust is pulling one way, might as well pull the other way, blazing up with the fire from the diamond-eyes of the stars. Blaze against the cold steel rail, the numbing aparati of stagnation and the death of freedom - blaze away and rave, rage and rant - it's always better that way. Rock the joint with ten thousand watts of pulsing rhythm and the wailing and popping cones of a hundred speakers, barking and yelping out their joyful song of life. Just don't turn down the music if you want to meet the Muse. *** Stay back where you are - you wouldn't like it here - this is not your place - stay in your age, you'd despise these weak and sneaky moderns with their stinking fire-chariots and their life of utter weakness. There's nowhere left to run a horse and the game's all gone. The chase has been replaced by the queue - they have these things called 'supermarkets' - stay where you are, my dear bronze ghosts, for you'd certainly hate it here. All the towns are in the wrong places and nothing is aligned with nothing - Says it all - stay where you are - I'll come to you. *** Rita Abatzi - One of Greece's greatest singers of our era: Some stuff about my book, The Horned Whale... a Celtic Mystery Tale from Ancient Brittania The pathways of the sky, painted across the land - a gift from the Old Ones, for those who have eyes to see.
Like a puffer-train pulled by a drunken mule, The Caterpillar Dub Number 100 finally rolls off the press and hits the news-stands, where it is quickly snatched up by an eager public, ever-hungry for news of the Unconscious-Front and developments in the inner and outermost realms of the Alaya Vijnana, the Deva Loka and sundry realms hither, thither and higher than you know - right here - under your nose.
In an illusory world, what could be more appropriate and needed than an ephemeral and non-substantial journal, of which this is the mere echo, the mere shadow of a shade, perhaps dreampt of one drowzy summer afternoon, many long summers ago, if I do remember arightly.
Gather ye blessings, my brothers and sisters, my old ones and young ones -gather ye virtues and kindnesses and ye shall be blessed with a bliss that blossoms in deepest fragrant bloom - the Great Kindness that hides within, like the tree within the seed. The carefree seed of joy - hey ho the heart that hateth not is free indeed.
Well hey I could waffle on like this all night but I expect you're all waiting for the hard-news, the in-depth, investigative journalism and fearless reporting that has given The Caterpillar Dub it's hard-won reputation in the world of international journalism. So anyway babies, here's The Dub Version so I hope yous enjoy it -
Well the blurb is being mixed in the print-house and they're just getting the glue to the right consistency - these things are important you know. When the alphabet runs low, they simply import some characters from the collective unconscious - it's a process of Universal Flow and it's what gives The Caterpillar Dub it's peculiarly and distinctively local feel. Worlds melt and collide, forming colloids and celluloid jelloid gelatinous constellations that spin in joyous union with time and mind. Other journals tend to focus on more mundane matters that the clitter-clatter of a Caterpillar's glittering antennae in the dew-drop morning of the promise of magic - well,so be it. Anyway, ya know where to go when you wish to meld with the flow. Not a shilling, not sixpence will ye be asked, nor thre'pence, tuppence nor nout whatsoever as The Caterpillar Dub is a freely given echo, straight from the heart of the original Caterpillar, which is itself beyond cost, price, feathers and mice.
Well a ripple forms up out of the aether and up rises The Caterpillar, lost in the fog again. Where have you been? What have you seen? What have you to tell of The Shyre and it's perpetual dream? Many leagues have I laboured and many versts have I vaulted, faultlessly vaunting a Raven's crawk, I rattled back to town and blended in with the sleepers. Now I drift among them, a globose and gelatinous thing of the night, putting cats and dogs to fright with the fire in my jelloid orbital eye. Back from the Ancestral Lands where Spirits seethe in blissful ecstatic writhe, churning in a sea aethereal and glassy I brood gothic and austere, as lichen clings to the unspeakably ancient rock. Moss my bed and granite ivy and rooks for a pillow of illusion, dew-drenched and peeped at by wrens.
From the soul of your scribe streams a scroll of jive, freely given with aethereal fingers five, a pympbys starfish is a five-fingered hand - left hand stranded on the spindrift sands till time waves a hand holding a magic wand and oceanic billows crash - the thought-waves of a sea of mind.
Yes me friends, let the sun stream into your hearts, the jewel-like crystal images into your minds - from an autumnal hay-field blows a golden breeze bringing a gift from the Goddess of Harvest, the richness of the Dreamland, scattered to the breezes of summer's end. A tear trickles down the marble face of a Karyatid and a faughn shivers in the morning dew. Light glistening through a clear glass flask onto a pure flower of violet - memories of a youthful idyll, a bliss of the mind, a blessing, a wish, a dream, globules, crystaline fragments and jewels of the inner-lit-mind. Poetry poured from the horn of the proclaiming piper, a figment at the Gates of Dawn, wrapping his purple cloud cloak around shoulders of shimmering bronze, towering, ancestral, imaginary, wrought of jade, ivory and mother-of-pearl, you ride the Keltek breeze and guard the souls of the tribes of old, your eye sweeps the ocean deep and scatters souls to sleep.
Too long the lines of the Sun - too arced the zenith and peak - too long the beams of the stars - gravity bends time-waves and matter - regardless, the skein unwinds, the dew collects, the song upwells, the music swells, the spirits rise, the spirits rise - and songs unwind -
Scarecrow - Pink Floyd (supply your own music - whistle the tune or sing it if you know it… I sing it in D)
Bike - Pink Floyd
Julia Dream - Pink Floyd
The Narrow Way - Pink Floyd
Cirrus Minor - Pink Flord
If It’s In You - Intro-Blurb Outtake - Syd Barrett
Long Gone - Syd Barrett
Golden Hair - Syd Barrett
Effervescing Elephant - Syd Barrett
If - Pink Floyd
Jugband Blues - Pink Floyd
Tyranosaurus Rex - Stacey Grove
Or groove to these hip LP's - it's up to you... The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn - Pink Floyd More - Pink Floyd The Madcap Laughs - Syd Barrett Jet Propelled - Soft Machine Prophets, Seers and Sages, The Angels of the Ages - Tyrannosaurus Rex Playlist of stuff about Syd Walk With Me Sydney... Pink Floyd, 1965 - early Syd songs, recently released.... and in the dreaming shall be wakefullness!
Down the time-tunnel – through to 1966 and beyond – all stations
are stations of possibility – in this Lovesummer of Explosive Peace and bright
joy – revisiting the pastown like Marley’s Ghost, Marcus’ Ghost, Garvey’s
Ghost, and all the ghosts of Pengersick’s wizard-haunted towering realm, espied
afar overseas, far over tramor and trasna na dtonnta – this Keltek tin-town
tin-pot real – look and learn it… old newspapers – all the styles that have
gone – yesterday’s modernity – faded futurism and peeling paint on boutique
doors and discotech tactile touchstones – all is revealed in the streets of
archaic and lichen-crusted granite and in the faces of those you meet – reality
unfurls its banner and rattles replete –
Metheven howlyak scorches the pavements on the south-facing
hill, the nettley hill over the Cober – June sun sears streets and blue azure
dark dome broods happily with sparkling light-points- pointillism come to life
in impressionistic drowse – nothing changes too much here, I stuck my head
round the door of the dark and cavernous inn to see that naught had changed too
much, except for the bairns running around – playing in the drunken footfalls
of ghost-monks from the 13th Century – the Bewlay Brothers blasting
from a teenage tape-player, sunshine- sunshine – fields of the sun-
and all this shot through with great truths I have yet to
imagine-
ΣΑΝ ΕΓΥΡΙΖ' ΑΠ' ΤΗΝ ΠΥΛΟ, 1935, ΣΤΡΑΤΟΣ ΠΑΓΙΟΥΜΤΖΗΣ
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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