IS IT...?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
U.K. POP REGGAE
One foggy morning, wandering along the riverside - One sunny evening in golden fields - - - Jewel Elephants Emeralds glistening pillars mist shroud of zig-zag magpie man -
Apollo mosaic bicycle minaret jade energy lagoon circus peacock atoms cobalt prismatic
Drifting off in a field - dreaming of a flying dragon - waking with a butterfuly tickling my nose - my friend laughing - a finger pointing into the summer sky, seeking truth - brooding cumulus gather their foothills - smell of damp trees, rain will spatter the tent, so cool the breeze - rapture
- - - the liquid elephants in Apollo's glistening mosaic - - - shimmering rippling waving vapor undulating spate yet & magpie conjourer pecking at the World-Egg - - -
Skeleton Jangle
Apollo mosaic bicycle minaret jade energy lagoon circus peacock atoms cobalt prismatic
Drifting off in a field - dreaming of a flying dragon - waking with a butterfuly tickling my nose - my friend laughing - a finger pointing into the summer sky, seeking truth - brooding cumulus gather their foothills - smell of damp trees, rain will spatter the tent, so cool the breeze - rapture
- - - the liquid elephants in Apollo's glistening mosaic - - - shimmering rippling waving vapor undulating spate yet & magpie conjourer pecking at the World-Egg - - -
Skeleton Jangle
Woody Guthrie
Woody Guthrie
Pete Seeger
The Weavers
Johny Cash
Folk Fiddler
Donovan
Tom Northcott
The Pretty Things
The Clash
The Bodysnatchers
The Clash
Ken Boothe
Leroy Smart
Dillinger
Dillinger
Delroy Wilson
Lou Reed
Dennis Brown
Sadly someone has deleted a couple of these wonderful videos - perhaps you can find them...
LIFE COULD BE SO EASY....!
LIFE COULD BE SO EASY....!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
AZARA MYSTERY
Dactylorhiza!! It's the Paper that Remixes Itself!! Ye Caterpillar Dub, Number 8, takes you for an autumnal stroll through the garden.
Time to mulch your metaphors...
Time to mulch your metaphors...
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
LUMINOUS IGLULIK VISION
in pure polar realm; lighting the light, the sky and stars...
Some chrysalises for you to hatch...
Some chrysalises for you to hatch...
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Step through the looking-glass,
down the alley, beyond the cobweb-envelope and into the twisting Cretan maze of moonlit mansions and meandering mewses, cobbled, clattering go the feet, the feet that scurry, the feet that skeet, carrying the carapatic encumberant form of ye Caterpillar. Lanthorns of green glass glittering thier sub-aquatic doom glow but what's behind the light? Drizzle on lichen on granite gate-posts topped with orbs. Globular sentinels. It seems that there are whole sections of the town that lay undiscovered by me even after years of habitation here. Amazing that you can live in a place for years, never knowing about these 'other' districts. But you can just step through an archway and you hear the sound of a fiddle and distant laughter and a new vista unrolls to your eye. Murky streets of mansions antiquated. Leafy avenues at dusk, free from motor-traffic, only the vague echo of muffled hooves from the faraway horse. A leaf flutters silently down from a stately plane-tree. Sinuous quadrilles slither from slide-octave trombones, serpents, viols and bassunes. Mellow twighlight and the streets are all deserted. We seem to be back in the eighteenth century; a carriage rattles by, driven by a footman in powdered wig and silk tail coat. Following the streets of the night, one can wander free through a dream-woven tapestry whose threads are the slumberous thoughts and wishes of the drowzing town. Purple sundown streaming through leaves of bronze and copper.
Thought I heard the scratching of a quill on parchment, the smooth glide of a cuniform stylus at play on a clay tablet. The rattle of a phonograph being wound up. Pizzicato strings of a Haydn quartet. The chink of a tile hitting the floor of the courtyard of a Zen monastery in Kyoto - was it?
The quadrille drifts back in as dusks' fogs swirl slightly scattered askew. Always these situations recurring rattled patterns of matters mysterious refracted back through fractured lenses of antiquated magnifying glasses. Mosaic pavements of obsidian shards unfurl throughout this distinguished district, distinctly digressing down instinctive inherent inroads, into the forgotten streets.
Past the shack where Pasternak snacked on shattered crackers with his natterjack toad. Roads rolling, bowling along, bowing out owl-like past boarded-up railings, palings and rows of oars. Cumulus, gaseous liminous, luminescent lustre on lobstertail alleyways, sacks of coal in cul-de-sacs. Alley cats, stray cats, cats that wail, cats of soul, coal-sacks and blackened stumps of claim-jumpers burned-out shacks. How long will this go on? I wondered. These verbal vernacular pathways going from the synaptic ragtime synchopators to the artists quarter left of the bank. Down a misy lane I turned my wandering feet, past weeping willow avenues, still fresh from summer rain. Sleeping in the rain walking in the clouds, stumble-footed nocturnal, haunter of sylvian star-pastures, the encloacked and out-shadowed form of the Caterpillar was unseen and nowhere to be on the scene. Then, like a cataleptic cavalier capsising a cantilever crane a figure was looming. I loomed towards the figure. The gas-lights spat and flickered fitfully, casting a thin a greasy glow into the swirling gloom of the night. The quadrille had ceased, not a dog barked. Footsteps approaching. Above the stout gate-post of a crumbling mansion, caught in the gas-light, a cobweb strung with beads of moisture shivered loosely, a thing of great artfullness. The figure is nearer now, walking straight towards me. And the walk, it's familiar, irregular, almost volcanic, like a flow of lava. And as he drew nearer, the bluey-green shimmer that came off his skin and emanated from all around was a bedazzlement supreme. And he told me of many a thing, and I tried so hard to recall it all, but could not help being distracted by the scintillating light. The flowing light that rolled in shining waves of blue. This self-emanating light left a deep impression on me, and it's flavour and atmosphere have stayed with me more vividly than the words that accompanied it.
This looming figure, this giant-midget, this little embodiment of natural presence never fails to scatter a silver trail of sparkling delight wherever he goes. Operating on levels barely perceptible to the ordinary human conciousness, he goes quietly about his work, his never-ending work. It seems he'd been in Egypt, where he'd gone to Heliopolis to make contact with his opposite number, a character know only as 'The Scarab'.
The Scarab was a top-level papyrus man - or beetle - anyway he knew his papyri and could translate them into demotic laconic pictograms which he could then transmit to Blighty by telegraph or semaphore if the lines were down across the desert.
This being the season of the dread Sirocco, the Bedouin would be doing much of the signalling, and in this way, the newly unearthed wisdom of Alexander the Great, and the scholars and philosophers he encouraged and supported, was being transmitted from the site of the excavations, straight to the Caterpillar's centre of operations in Britain.
I don't know why the Caterpillar picked me to help spread his message - after our rare encounters I'm always too dazzled to recall and represent his words. Perhaps he has others - if so, I know nothing of them, yet if he relies on me alone, well, I suppose he has his reasons. Soon my luminous friend departed, leaving the glow of his aura, like the strange and wonderful glow-worms of summer nights passed. And as the dew settled in the hedges I threaded and treaded my footsteps back through the sprawling labyrinth of gaunt granite mansions and cobbled byways. Wandering through red-brick districts and toppling thatched rows of Jacobean hovels, slumbering side-streets and serpentine alleys, my feet seeking streets familiar, a-wandering the night -town, a few sparkling lights on a dark rock rearing out of the sea... A vast ocean swirls around this rocky shore, but blanketed in fog, the town drowzes under the archaic arc-light of argon-glass green lanthorns. What lurketh behind the light of their doom-glow? Returning from the 'other' districts, past globular gate-posts of lichen-strewed granite. I ushered past houses in the fall. Drizzle-haloes caught in gas-lamp's glow. Clattering cobbled Minoan mazes give way to plazas and meandering boulevards. Streets spin out and ramble like the Spanish boots on the feet of the gypsy. Footsteps skeetering the twisting streets towards morning and the familiar scene of Ordinary Street. But first to pass beyond the cobweb-envelope, down the alley, step through the looking-glass.
Thought I heard the scratching of a quill on parchment, the smooth glide of a cuniform stylus at play on a clay tablet. The rattle of a phonograph being wound up. Pizzicato strings of a Haydn quartet. The chink of a tile hitting the floor of the courtyard of a Zen monastery in Kyoto - was it?
The quadrille drifts back in as dusks' fogs swirl slightly scattered askew. Always these situations recurring rattled patterns of matters mysterious refracted back through fractured lenses of antiquated magnifying glasses. Mosaic pavements of obsidian shards unfurl throughout this distinguished district, distinctly digressing down instinctive inherent inroads, into the forgotten streets.
Past the shack where Pasternak snacked on shattered crackers with his natterjack toad. Roads rolling, bowling along, bowing out owl-like past boarded-up railings, palings and rows of oars. Cumulus, gaseous liminous, luminescent lustre on lobstertail alleyways, sacks of coal in cul-de-sacs. Alley cats, stray cats, cats that wail, cats of soul, coal-sacks and blackened stumps of claim-jumpers burned-out shacks. How long will this go on? I wondered. These verbal vernacular pathways going from the synaptic ragtime synchopators to the artists quarter left of the bank. Down a misy lane I turned my wandering feet, past weeping willow avenues, still fresh from summer rain. Sleeping in the rain walking in the clouds, stumble-footed nocturnal, haunter of sylvian star-pastures, the encloacked and out-shadowed form of the Caterpillar was unseen and nowhere to be on the scene. Then, like a cataleptic cavalier capsising a cantilever crane a figure was looming. I loomed towards the figure. The gas-lights spat and flickered fitfully, casting a thin a greasy glow into the swirling gloom of the night. The quadrille had ceased, not a dog barked. Footsteps approaching. Above the stout gate-post of a crumbling mansion, caught in the gas-light, a cobweb strung with beads of moisture shivered loosely, a thing of great artfullness. The figure is nearer now, walking straight towards me. And the walk, it's familiar, irregular, almost volcanic, like a flow of lava. And as he drew nearer, the bluey-green shimmer that came off his skin and emanated from all around was a bedazzlement supreme. And he told me of many a thing, and I tried so hard to recall it all, but could not help being distracted by the scintillating light. The flowing light that rolled in shining waves of blue. This self-emanating light left a deep impression on me, and it's flavour and atmosphere have stayed with me more vividly than the words that accompanied it.
This looming figure, this giant-midget, this little embodiment of natural presence never fails to scatter a silver trail of sparkling delight wherever he goes. Operating on levels barely perceptible to the ordinary human conciousness, he goes quietly about his work, his never-ending work. It seems he'd been in Egypt, where he'd gone to Heliopolis to make contact with his opposite number, a character know only as 'The Scarab'.
The Scarab was a top-level papyrus man - or beetle - anyway he knew his papyri and could translate them into demotic laconic pictograms which he could then transmit to Blighty by telegraph or semaphore if the lines were down across the desert.
This being the season of the dread Sirocco, the Bedouin would be doing much of the signalling, and in this way, the newly unearthed wisdom of Alexander the Great, and the scholars and philosophers he encouraged and supported, was being transmitted from the site of the excavations, straight to the Caterpillar's centre of operations in Britain.
I don't know why the Caterpillar picked me to help spread his message - after our rare encounters I'm always too dazzled to recall and represent his words. Perhaps he has others - if so, I know nothing of them, yet if he relies on me alone, well, I suppose he has his reasons. Soon my luminous friend departed, leaving the glow of his aura, like the strange and wonderful glow-worms of summer nights passed. And as the dew settled in the hedges I threaded and treaded my footsteps back through the sprawling labyrinth of gaunt granite mansions and cobbled byways. Wandering through red-brick districts and toppling thatched rows of Jacobean hovels, slumbering side-streets and serpentine alleys, my feet seeking streets familiar, a-wandering the night -town, a few sparkling lights on a dark rock rearing out of the sea... A vast ocean swirls around this rocky shore, but blanketed in fog, the town drowzes under the archaic arc-light of argon-glass green lanthorns. What lurketh behind the light of their doom-glow? Returning from the 'other' districts, past globular gate-posts of lichen-strewed granite. I ushered past houses in the fall. Drizzle-haloes caught in gas-lamp's glow. Clattering cobbled Minoan mazes give way to plazas and meandering boulevards. Streets spin out and ramble like the Spanish boots on the feet of the gypsy. Footsteps skeetering the twisting streets towards morning and the familiar scene of Ordinary Street. But first to pass beyond the cobweb-envelope, down the alley, step through the looking-glass.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
BOOM SHACKA LACKA
LOOPING LP LOST ON TURNTABLE OF TANTALUS in the Andalusian plain of sunny dust.
Silken threads of light. Glistening harps, celestes and quaint musiqual chests. Up on the street oil paint blotches and dabs and daubs of colour await you in the blurred rainy black taxi street, grey, brown foggy - a blur of young and old voices -
Travelling rambling nomadic mosaic mesquito -
Mindless buzzing dream of an old Turkey-Buzzard a chewing and a chawing on the carcass of an old old buffalo -
- and in the late Summer of '09, the Antoinette and the Longhorn raced along the Cornish Cliffs, wingtips almost touching - glinting, dragonflies in the sun -
Silken threads of light. Glistening harps, celestes and quaint musiqual chests. Up on the street oil paint blotches and dabs and daubs of colour await you in the blurred rainy black taxi street, grey, brown foggy - a blur of young and old voices -
Travelling rambling nomadic mosaic mesquito -
Mindless buzzing dream of an old Turkey-Buzzard a chewing and a chawing on the carcass of an old old buffalo -
- and in the late Summer of '09, the Antoinette and the Longhorn raced along the Cornish Cliffs, wingtips almost touching - glinting, dragonflies in the sun -
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Odell, Bedfordshire
ODELL, BEDFORDSHIRE seems like a pleasant and quiet village, deep in the English countryside. Back in the Summer of '68, things were a little more lively, as this quiet and respectable community was flabbergasted by a multi-million pound gold bullion robbery that spiralled out of control and involved Secret Intelligence Services pitting their wits against a Bizarre gang of Free-Wheeling, Ingot-Pinching Rural Guerillas
1967 went down in history as the Summer of Love. Peace, Flowers, Acid, Love, Music and Colour. Suddenly everything seemed possible. There was Revolution in the air, if you could spot it through the clouds of Hash smoke. The World belonged to the Young, and they were going to Save it, by daubing it in rainbow hues, serenading it with fifty million tinkling lyres, dancing ancient ecstatic dances of the Soul upon it and cuddling it with the collective arms of the International Love Revolution.
It seemed that The Man had other ideas though, and gradually Babylon started gearing up for a vast and ugly Crackdown on the Uncontrollable Butterflies of Multihued Laughter. A dark and doom-bringing wheel was set up in the centre of the Empire, and one by one the Dark Forces caught the Butterflies in the net of Hatred and proceeded to break them upon the wheel. What The Man had not fully realized was that in among the great cloud of butterflies were many other creatures, exotic, free, mobile and armed. Some of these species were potentially toxic, like the Destroying Angels and the Panther Caps. Some of these entities had been given military training by The Man, in the earlier stages of their evolution.
By 1968 the climate was changing. Freedom was in the air, but by now it was a less naive, more wised-up form of Freedom. The Czechoslovakian People took to the Streets in a courageous uprising against the tyranny of Russian 'Communism'. The Bear came to Prague in a tank, thinking to crush the Freedom aspiration of the Slavs. Parisian Students were ready for Revolution and fought in the streets with the forces of oppression. At the Democratic Convention in Chicago, Illinois, the forces gathered. The political shenanigans of the Establishment at the convention were mirrored by thousands of Freaks gathered in the park. Bands like Jefferson Airplane and the Motor City Five played for Free, and Freedom. Mayor Daley's police went galloping through the streets, gassing, clubbing, breaking and doing law-enforcement. In London, a protest against the Viet Nam War, in Red Lion Square, outside the American Embassy turned into a bloodbath, courtesy of the Police.
However, the great majority of the World went about their everyday business, aware of these events only through the filters of radio, television and the press. In rural England, on the village greens and vicarage lawns, at the greengrocers and up in the top meadow, life went on very much as it had for centuries. The quiet rhythms of rustic existence were played out as before, and if a few young people wanted to grow their hair and dress strange - so what?
Under these shifting and dangerous conditions, many revolutionaries simply went underground, adopted disguises and new identities, and carried on with their missions. All this Revolutionising needed an economic base, and fund raising could not realistically be carried on through the normal channels of society. A daring series of Jewellery and Art Heists commenced across the World. Suddenly the Revolution was better fed, more mobile and organized - now they could afford paper and ink, microphones and amplifiers. People could be reached and the message spread abroad.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
AFTER FORTY-ONE YEARS IN A TOP-SECRET VAULT UNDER WESTMINSTER
a fascinating piece of micro-film has been unearthed and finally deemed safe for public release. How this rare, grainy and evocative footage came to light is quite a tale in itself. Under the terms of the Sneaky Government Act, 1948; information - and this can include, files and dossiers, moving images, audio recordings, artefacts and just about any object or concept - that pertain to cases where there is an issue of National And Internal Security, must be held in secrecy for at least 30 years After this time has elapsed, the case is reviewed, and according to the current interpretation of the political security status of pertaining information, it is either then released, or marked down for a further period of secrecy. These periods are invariably in ten-year increments, so in the case of the Odell Gold Diggers, the information was considered of such a dangerous, inflammatory and downright wild nature, that our men in Whitehall decided to bury it for a further decade.
Even though the footage is now in public aether, the identities of the people caught up in this dramatic moment of history will, in all probability, never be revealed. The Invertebrate Press has, however, been making a few underground investigations of its own, and can reveal the following details:
The two Gold-Thieves belong to a cell that drew its membership from across rural England, from Bedfordshire to Cornwall. The gang took the name Gold-Diggers with a tongue in cheek irony - they were actually on a mission to bring about the downfall of International Capitalism and were collecting funds to destroy the world economic system - presumably in the naive belief that they would somehow have the power to replace it with something better - that's how alot of people were thinking in those times.
The robbers were known for their Jocular Hijinks and Joyful Subversion.
The Heist went down in the Summer of '68, and came to be known as the case of Tec-Nick and the Gold Diggers. The pipe-smoking detective acquired the code-name Tec-Nick and is believed to be an agent of the shadowy unit know only as, 'National Security'. This operator is a colourful character known for his flamboyant taste in clothes and his curious mixture of old and new TECnologies. Observe his use of what was considered state of the art surveillance equipment in sixties Britain. No Stone is left unturned by investigators of his calibre.
Perhaps the most enigmatic character is the Donkey Herder who was robbed by the gang. Originally portrayed as an innocent victim of a fearless inter-county revolutionary movement, more recent theories about the case indicate a possible connection with the desperadoes. Direct Connections have been hard to prove, but a certain Delightful Humour certainly pervades her field of activity.
To Hurry on now with the plot, we must remember that the gold bullion was only discovered to be missing when the Decidedly Happy rustic woman arrived at the Metropolis of Odell and proceeded to its teeming Gold Market. The Market Manager was only Too Helpful, in his best Neville Chamberlain collar. When a good cause arose, he was a keen joiner, and the author of many positive things.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The micro-film that you are about to see was recorded by special agents of National Security who were blended into the landscape, using contemporary techniques of camouflage and subterfuge. Slabs of fudge kept the agents going as they staked out sections of hedge, tree, field and, of course, the pulsing boulevards and twisting labyrinthine alleys of downtown Odell, set like a jewel among the Lethan meadows and wooded hills of sweet, dreaming Bedfordshire.
RUN MOVIE
FOOTNOTE: AUGUST 2009, ENGLAND: The Caterpillar is very happy to report that all the characters in the movie are still living in various rural locations across the South of Britain. The characters grew up and multiplied and the dramatis personae now roam the sunlit meadows, the green hills, murmuring forests and rippling streams of this ancient isle.
And Finally... when the Odell Two were eventually released in 1974, after much petitioning by the international community, a poem was found scribbled on a tobacco wrapper that had been hidden inside a light-fitting in their small cell.
"Just Simply telling you
Even in the darkness -
I'll never forget the summer meadows -
The sun of gold on the long grass in the afternoons
forever,
ever running, reaching for the clouds, the dreamy clouds of summer
running, laughing, friends and kin to run with on the way -
Never forgotten rustic summer day -
All this laid out before an eager kid, a tapestry,
a feast of golden joy and wonder - adventure in the nettles -
(Does life have to get lost in the nettles?)
Albion dreaming through bee-buzzing summers under elms,
We were pirates, grasping the helm we raised the jolly roger
and boldly stole the Gold, thinking it would buy Freedom!
Now sealed in this cell, reflecting the rain running endlessly
I see the ways of life.
The paths that people choose and why.
Me, I stare at a golden sky, blessing my eye on beauty overarching
Thinking with love of all the souls I've met along the ways,
the paths and fields of our lives,
under Albion's enchanting summer skies..."
Prisoner 102010205090; Autumn 1968.
1967 went down in history as the Summer of Love. Peace, Flowers, Acid, Love, Music and Colour. Suddenly everything seemed possible. There was Revolution in the air, if you could spot it through the clouds of Hash smoke. The World belonged to the Young, and they were going to Save it, by daubing it in rainbow hues, serenading it with fifty million tinkling lyres, dancing ancient ecstatic dances of the Soul upon it and cuddling it with the collective arms of the International Love Revolution.
It seemed that The Man had other ideas though, and gradually Babylon started gearing up for a vast and ugly Crackdown on the Uncontrollable Butterflies of Multihued Laughter. A dark and doom-bringing wheel was set up in the centre of the Empire, and one by one the Dark Forces caught the Butterflies in the net of Hatred and proceeded to break them upon the wheel. What The Man had not fully realized was that in among the great cloud of butterflies were many other creatures, exotic, free, mobile and armed. Some of these species were potentially toxic, like the Destroying Angels and the Panther Caps. Some of these entities had been given military training by The Man, in the earlier stages of their evolution.
By 1968 the climate was changing. Freedom was in the air, but by now it was a less naive, more wised-up form of Freedom. The Czechoslovakian People took to the Streets in a courageous uprising against the tyranny of Russian 'Communism'. The Bear came to Prague in a tank, thinking to crush the Freedom aspiration of the Slavs. Parisian Students were ready for Revolution and fought in the streets with the forces of oppression. At the Democratic Convention in Chicago, Illinois, the forces gathered. The political shenanigans of the Establishment at the convention were mirrored by thousands of Freaks gathered in the park. Bands like Jefferson Airplane and the Motor City Five played for Free, and Freedom. Mayor Daley's police went galloping through the streets, gassing, clubbing, breaking and doing law-enforcement. In London, a protest against the Viet Nam War, in Red Lion Square, outside the American Embassy turned into a bloodbath, courtesy of the Police.
However, the great majority of the World went about their everyday business, aware of these events only through the filters of radio, television and the press. In rural England, on the village greens and vicarage lawns, at the greengrocers and up in the top meadow, life went on very much as it had for centuries. The quiet rhythms of rustic existence were played out as before, and if a few young people wanted to grow their hair and dress strange - so what?
Under these shifting and dangerous conditions, many revolutionaries simply went underground, adopted disguises and new identities, and carried on with their missions. All this Revolutionising needed an economic base, and fund raising could not realistically be carried on through the normal channels of society. A daring series of Jewellery and Art Heists commenced across the World. Suddenly the Revolution was better fed, more mobile and organized - now they could afford paper and ink, microphones and amplifiers. People could be reached and the message spread abroad.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
AFTER FORTY-ONE YEARS IN A TOP-SECRET VAULT UNDER WESTMINSTER
a fascinating piece of micro-film has been unearthed and finally deemed safe for public release. How this rare, grainy and evocative footage came to light is quite a tale in itself. Under the terms of the Sneaky Government Act, 1948; information - and this can include, files and dossiers, moving images, audio recordings, artefacts and just about any object or concept - that pertain to cases where there is an issue of National And Internal Security, must be held in secrecy for at least 30 years After this time has elapsed, the case is reviewed, and according to the current interpretation of the political security status of pertaining information, it is either then released, or marked down for a further period of secrecy. These periods are invariably in ten-year increments, so in the case of the Odell Gold Diggers, the information was considered of such a dangerous, inflammatory and downright wild nature, that our men in Whitehall decided to bury it for a further decade.
Even though the footage is now in public aether, the identities of the people caught up in this dramatic moment of history will, in all probability, never be revealed. The Invertebrate Press has, however, been making a few underground investigations of its own, and can reveal the following details:
The two Gold-Thieves belong to a cell that drew its membership from across rural England, from Bedfordshire to Cornwall. The gang took the name Gold-Diggers with a tongue in cheek irony - they were actually on a mission to bring about the downfall of International Capitalism and were collecting funds to destroy the world economic system - presumably in the naive belief that they would somehow have the power to replace it with something better - that's how alot of people were thinking in those times.
The robbers were known for their Jocular Hijinks and Joyful Subversion.
The Heist went down in the Summer of '68, and came to be known as the case of Tec-Nick and the Gold Diggers. The pipe-smoking detective acquired the code-name Tec-Nick and is believed to be an agent of the shadowy unit know only as, 'National Security'. This operator is a colourful character known for his flamboyant taste in clothes and his curious mixture of old and new TECnologies. Observe his use of what was considered state of the art surveillance equipment in sixties Britain. No Stone is left unturned by investigators of his calibre.
Perhaps the most enigmatic character is the Donkey Herder who was robbed by the gang. Originally portrayed as an innocent victim of a fearless inter-county revolutionary movement, more recent theories about the case indicate a possible connection with the desperadoes. Direct Connections have been hard to prove, but a certain Delightful Humour certainly pervades her field of activity.
To Hurry on now with the plot, we must remember that the gold bullion was only discovered to be missing when the Decidedly Happy rustic woman arrived at the Metropolis of Odell and proceeded to its teeming Gold Market. The Market Manager was only Too Helpful, in his best Neville Chamberlain collar. When a good cause arose, he was a keen joiner, and the author of many positive things.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The micro-film that you are about to see was recorded by special agents of National Security who were blended into the landscape, using contemporary techniques of camouflage and subterfuge. Slabs of fudge kept the agents going as they staked out sections of hedge, tree, field and, of course, the pulsing boulevards and twisting labyrinthine alleys of downtown Odell, set like a jewel among the Lethan meadows and wooded hills of sweet, dreaming Bedfordshire.
RUN MOVIE
FOOTNOTE: AUGUST 2009, ENGLAND: The Caterpillar is very happy to report that all the characters in the movie are still living in various rural locations across the South of Britain. The characters grew up and multiplied and the dramatis personae now roam the sunlit meadows, the green hills, murmuring forests and rippling streams of this ancient isle.
And Finally... when the Odell Two were eventually released in 1974, after much petitioning by the international community, a poem was found scribbled on a tobacco wrapper that had been hidden inside a light-fitting in their small cell.
"Just Simply telling you
Even in the darkness -
I'll never forget the summer meadows -
The sun of gold on the long grass in the afternoons
forever,
ever running, reaching for the clouds, the dreamy clouds of summer
running, laughing, friends and kin to run with on the way -
Never forgotten rustic summer day -
All this laid out before an eager kid, a tapestry,
a feast of golden joy and wonder - adventure in the nettles -
(Does life have to get lost in the nettles?)
Albion dreaming through bee-buzzing summers under elms,
We were pirates, grasping the helm we raised the jolly roger
and boldly stole the Gold, thinking it would buy Freedom!
Now sealed in this cell, reflecting the rain running endlessly
I see the ways of life.
The paths that people choose and why.
Me, I stare at a golden sky, blessing my eye on beauty overarching
Thinking with love of all the souls I've met along the ways,
the paths and fields of our lives,
under Albion's enchanting summer skies..."
Prisoner 102010205090; Autumn 1968.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
I GOT 31 HUNKS OF BREAD ON MY PLATE
WE ARE USED TO THINKING of things as having beginnings, it is hard for us to conceive of something as being Beginningless. Even this Ordinary Mind had a beginning, didn't it?
The fact that the Ordinary Mind cannot conceive of the Beginningless Extraordinaire, is not that surprising really. But isn't Ordinary Mind just a facet of Mind Extraordinaire?
Well, whatever the origins of consciousness, we do know that books have a beginning. 'Old Carapace-Face reckoned on 'just over 30' to get you started. I always take him at his word.
The fact that the Ordinary Mind cannot conceive of the Beginningless Extraordinaire, is not that surprising really. But isn't Ordinary Mind just a facet of Mind Extraordinaire?
Well, whatever the origins of consciousness, we do know that books have a beginning. 'Old Carapace-Face reckoned on 'just over 30' to get you started. I always take him at his word.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
MUST KEEP MY EYE ON THAT CATERPILLAR
Aeons ripening and decaying , decaying , de caying – pure! mandibles clutching, clutching a shapeless manuscript – no-one else to be! following the figure, eldritch flickering thunderdogs licking my temples and shivering rivulets of sweat trembling in Lethan trickles. A Daguerrotype electrified alive. time he travelled , I kept pace but I could not .the singularity. The anomaly. a gliding, skimming, skeeting many realms, many dramas. Dream rams and fleecing flounders abounded.
Over the dancing cobble stones, the skittering of those tiny shoes, all those shiny shoes, muted only by tufts of straw from the maw of the horse - sent swirling, skirling and wailing by a kind of zephyr breeze, a sea breeze.
Turning, twisting and taking yet another corner-block turn in that snaking and shining seaport towne, I saw my companion emerge, emerging directly upon the sea-front. picking up papers he had dropped along the way. Parchments thick and of Chinese flower garden petals. Relishing. – must keep my eye on that Caterpillar – trail him - he is becoming remote. Follow him.
Carapaced cornucopia flittering. I saw him moving, gliding ahead, onto the rocks of the seashore, with ease and agility, & again I paused - some papers of his could blow into a rock-pool! The wind blew back a shred - his chuckling laughter – playing some kind of game?? A joke - Is that it? - so struck by the beauty of the scene. moonlight casting a hollow glow on the softly rolling face of the micro-ocean, sharing silvery light with fronds redennek and sea-weeds and little shells and creggyns creeping. iridescent spiraling shimmers - shimmering of the perriwinkles. Strawberry Red Anemones eating sea-meat and little Gorgons, the tiny creatures at play within, glassy bubbles trailing upwards – bursting silently - darting fishes in miniature , unfamiliar limpets. All this drew me, this little world, with its dizzying beauty, its mysterious story..... possessing ..
Lunar kommolek. darkness ensuing. sesquipedelian vanishing act.
Strangely, unbelievably, I was not to set eyes on him for an entire year. Our paths were to part, but not forever. * * * * * * * * * * *
events extricate my transyek shore of gorhan croggans, blewek brenniganns, glothach smugairles and slinking sea-serpents, I did what I could and I could, did and couldn’t.
A few scraps of papyrus perhaps rumbling hard earthenware tablets, cultural souvenirs, as well as the papers I’d gathered from the glittering, The shimmering sands of the moonlit cove. The previous year gone. starting to consider the case . the juddering case. quite suddenly, ,, the mist-shrouded one appearing... cool and laconic, a sceptic question - his own existence an inexhaustible joke. We like jokes. Think he said he antennaed to emanate more gems of visionary gift and multi-faceted eyes agaze. The city of simmering history unfurled fernlike on tapestries of spider-web shimmer. Roads and rails traversed. Dream-slips and ships weighed anchor and wash adrift on sleepy silver rails. Cycling of times revealed cleared and cleaned- new!. Pure fresk universal Time presented as a gift for the One, for the All. All for you.
And now again he’s departed, Sailing for a land beyond the reach of hands; now the channel is bright and crystaline. The signal strongly beamed and held. He seems satisfied with things Strongly speaking of regular encounters with transmissions of culture-nature. Communications assimilated and re-beamed, replete with the Dub Plates, via this and associated channels of communication. Lyres ring and sing mad grasshopper songs, Psyche shines doesn’t she sing rising like sunlight on Eleusis, fragrant flower-petals of consecrated pastel are scattered tumbling and turning again and again to the winds of the West each inscribed with a haiku. look right up close, look, you see riding along on one of those fragrant petals a little blue caterpillar, smiling
Over the dancing cobble stones, the skittering of those tiny shoes, all those shiny shoes, muted only by tufts of straw from the maw of the horse - sent swirling, skirling and wailing by a kind of zephyr breeze, a sea breeze.
Turning, twisting and taking yet another corner-block turn in that snaking and shining seaport towne, I saw my companion emerge, emerging directly upon the sea-front. picking up papers he had dropped along the way. Parchments thick and of Chinese flower garden petals. Relishing. – must keep my eye on that Caterpillar – trail him - he is becoming remote. Follow him.
Carapaced cornucopia flittering. I saw him moving, gliding ahead, onto the rocks of the seashore, with ease and agility, & again I paused - some papers of his could blow into a rock-pool! The wind blew back a shred - his chuckling laughter – playing some kind of game?? A joke - Is that it? - so struck by the beauty of the scene. moonlight casting a hollow glow on the softly rolling face of the micro-ocean, sharing silvery light with fronds redennek and sea-weeds and little shells and creggyns creeping. iridescent spiraling shimmers - shimmering of the perriwinkles. Strawberry Red Anemones eating sea-meat and little Gorgons, the tiny creatures at play within, glassy bubbles trailing upwards – bursting silently - darting fishes in miniature , unfamiliar limpets. All this drew me, this little world, with its dizzying beauty, its mysterious story..... possessing ..
Lunar kommolek. darkness ensuing. sesquipedelian vanishing act.
Strangely, unbelievably, I was not to set eyes on him for an entire year. Our paths were to part, but not forever. * * * * * * * * * * *
events extricate my transyek shore of gorhan croggans, blewek brenniganns, glothach smugairles and slinking sea-serpents, I did what I could and I could, did and couldn’t.
A few scraps of papyrus perhaps rumbling hard earthenware tablets, cultural souvenirs, as well as the papers I’d gathered from the glittering, The shimmering sands of the moonlit cove. The previous year gone. starting to consider the case . the juddering case. quite suddenly, ,, the mist-shrouded one appearing... cool and laconic, a sceptic question - his own existence an inexhaustible joke. We like jokes. Think he said he antennaed to emanate more gems of visionary gift and multi-faceted eyes agaze. The city of simmering history unfurled fernlike on tapestries of spider-web shimmer. Roads and rails traversed. Dream-slips and ships weighed anchor and wash adrift on sleepy silver rails. Cycling of times revealed cleared and cleaned- new!. Pure fresk universal Time presented as a gift for the One, for the All. All for you.
And now again he’s departed, Sailing for a land beyond the reach of hands; now the channel is bright and crystaline. The signal strongly beamed and held. He seems satisfied with things Strongly speaking of regular encounters with transmissions of culture-nature. Communications assimilated and re-beamed, replete with the Dub Plates, via this and associated channels of communication. Lyres ring and sing mad grasshopper songs, Psyche shines doesn’t she sing rising like sunlight on Eleusis, fragrant flower-petals of consecrated pastel are scattered tumbling and turning again and again to the winds of the West each inscribed with a haiku. look right up close, look, you see riding along on one of those fragrant petals a little blue caterpillar, smiling
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
REEMERGENCE OF INTERDIMENSIONAL CARAPACE
Finally, after aeons seemed to ripen and decay, I caught sight of him again; mandibles clutching a shapeless manuscript - it could be no-one else! I followed the figure, eldritch thunder played about my temples and icy rivulets of sweat trickled Amazonian. A Victorian etching galvanized into life by a proto-physicist. This time he travelled a long way, and as I kept pace with him, I could not help but notice the singularity of his gait, a glide, a skimming, as of many feet.
Over the shimmering cobbles, the skittering of those shoes, all those shoes, muted only by tufts of straw from the horse-market sent swirling by a kind breath of breeze, sea breeze.
Turning yet another corner in that twisting and glowing labyrinthine towne, I saw my companion emerge suddenly upon the sea-front. Keeping him in sight, I quickly stooped to pick up some papers he had dropped without seeming to notice. The parchment was thick and smelled faintly of Chinese flower gardens. I would relish checking them later - must keep an eye on that Caterpillar - he was becoming remote again.
And then a strange thing happened, which I can only attribute to the extraordinary influence of that carapaced cornucopia. I saw him running, or gliding ahead, onto the rocks of the seashore, with great agility, and again I paused to retrieve some papers of his that were about to blow into a rockpool. The wind blew back a shred of his chuckling laughter - was he playing some kind of game?? I looked down again and was very struck by the beauty of the scene. The moonlight was casting a meriel glow on the softly rippling surface of the miniature ocean and giving silvery light to the fronds of seaweed and little shells within. The iridescent spiral shimmer of the periwinkle's shell. Red Strawberry Anemones and little Gorgons, so many tiny creatures at play within, bubbles trailing upwards from darting fishes and the tenacious settlements and hamlets of barnacles and limpets. All this drew me in, this little world with its beauty and its mysterious story..... I was becoming possessed.. A cloud passed over the moon. A long darkness ensued. My sesquipedelian friend vanished. Strangely, unbelievably, I was not to set eyes on him for an entire year.
When I eventually managed to extricate myself from that transyek shore of croggans and brennigenns, of glothach smugairles and slithering morsarfs, I did what I could with the few scraps of papyrus and crumbling shards of earthenware tablet in my possession, as well as the papers I'd gathered from the glittering sands of the moonlit cove the previous year. I had finished putting these in order and was starting to consider the case closed, when quite suddenly, a year later, the mist-shrouded one reappeared... Indistinct, yet there, a cool and laconic presence, as if sceptically questioning his own existence and finding the whole process an inexhaustible joke. Think he said he intended to antenna more jewels of vision my way from his multi-faceted eyes. The city was unfurled on a tapestry of spider-web. Roads and rails travelled. Dream-voyages embarked and awash aloft. Cycles of times traversed.
Well again he's departed, sailed for a land beyond my reach; only the channel is clearer now. The signal strongly established. He seemed to be happy with how the transmissions are going. And for my part, I was happy to assimilate his message and pass it on, in cuniform staccato archives, broadside all abroad. Dub Acetates will be pressed up and distributed by this and associated channels of Universal Rapport. So, as the Chryselephantine Bouzoukis play mad grasshopper songs, and Psyche shines singing like the rising sun over Eleusis, the fragrant pastel flower-petals are scattered tumbling to the wind, each inscribed with a tiny poem. And if you look right up close, you'll see riding along on one of those fragrant petals in the breeze, a little blue caterpillar.
Over the shimmering cobbles, the skittering of those shoes, all those shoes, muted only by tufts of straw from the horse-market sent swirling by a kind breath of breeze, sea breeze.
Turning yet another corner in that twisting and glowing labyrinthine towne, I saw my companion emerge suddenly upon the sea-front. Keeping him in sight, I quickly stooped to pick up some papers he had dropped without seeming to notice. The parchment was thick and smelled faintly of Chinese flower gardens. I would relish checking them later - must keep an eye on that Caterpillar - he was becoming remote again.
And then a strange thing happened, which I can only attribute to the extraordinary influence of that carapaced cornucopia. I saw him running, or gliding ahead, onto the rocks of the seashore, with great agility, and again I paused to retrieve some papers of his that were about to blow into a rockpool. The wind blew back a shred of his chuckling laughter - was he playing some kind of game?? I looked down again and was very struck by the beauty of the scene. The moonlight was casting a meriel glow on the softly rippling surface of the miniature ocean and giving silvery light to the fronds of seaweed and little shells within. The iridescent spiral shimmer of the periwinkle's shell. Red Strawberry Anemones and little Gorgons, so many tiny creatures at play within, bubbles trailing upwards from darting fishes and the tenacious settlements and hamlets of barnacles and limpets. All this drew me in, this little world with its beauty and its mysterious story..... I was becoming possessed.. A cloud passed over the moon. A long darkness ensued. My sesquipedelian friend vanished. Strangely, unbelievably, I was not to set eyes on him for an entire year.
When I eventually managed to extricate myself from that transyek shore of croggans and brennigenns, of glothach smugairles and slithering morsarfs, I did what I could with the few scraps of papyrus and crumbling shards of earthenware tablet in my possession, as well as the papers I'd gathered from the glittering sands of the moonlit cove the previous year. I had finished putting these in order and was starting to consider the case closed, when quite suddenly, a year later, the mist-shrouded one reappeared... Indistinct, yet there, a cool and laconic presence, as if sceptically questioning his own existence and finding the whole process an inexhaustible joke. Think he said he intended to antenna more jewels of vision my way from his multi-faceted eyes. The city was unfurled on a tapestry of spider-web. Roads and rails travelled. Dream-voyages embarked and awash aloft. Cycles of times traversed.
Well again he's departed, sailed for a land beyond my reach; only the channel is clearer now. The signal strongly established. He seemed to be happy with how the transmissions are going. And for my part, I was happy to assimilate his message and pass it on, in cuniform staccato archives, broadside all abroad. Dub Acetates will be pressed up and distributed by this and associated channels of Universal Rapport. So, as the Chryselephantine Bouzoukis play mad grasshopper songs, and Psyche shines singing like the rising sun over Eleusis, the fragrant pastel flower-petals are scattered tumbling to the wind, each inscribed with a tiny poem. And if you look right up close, you'll see riding along on one of those fragrant petals in the breeze, a little blue caterpillar.
No.2: MUSES DUB
Pastel foggy dewdrop cloudy kommolex evaporation entities Lime, Fern dripping pictorial recall - passing of books, glass slides and stale phonograph rolls of battered shellac. Vague entymological encounter resembling previous intersections - Did it happen? Swirling rich in gothick nature-feelings and saxon tapestries of yore- it happeneth all right - the connection was renewed and song-deities imbued appeared from Apeiron's play. Drowzy at noon. Grasshoppers sing and play. Minotaur mumbles in his Neanderthal Pre-Palatial maze/zone, babbling asleep as the Caterpillar crawls across the ancient sunlit rocks.
Issue Two: SONG TO THE MUSES
Between pastel foggy dewclouds and limegreen fronds of imagery I seem to remember a second manuscrpit pick-up. I don't recall how it came to be set up, I almost doubted that it happened at all, amongst that patchwork of impressionistic scintillating fragments and slivers of mercury reflections. Somehow the connection was made and the Ancient Muses were called again. The Carapaced One; I only hope he was happy with it, feasting his myriad eyes on glistening hyacinths in his warm Minoan levitation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
