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.
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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