Caterpillar Dub Dasson Blabbers On Regardless

If the glint in your mind is the myriad bubble of laughing awareness don’t stop.  If the rise in your heart is the vision of vast all-one-nothingness-consciousness then the blades of grass shall ring true and birds and fish swim rightly through the elements. When the echo of laughing days of golden summer is etched into memory’s tablets of bronze then the myth can live on and reverberate down the hills, halls and hulls of time. If all these things can be, then what other things can be? 

The Carapace fluttered and shimmered, glimpsed and glimmered brief ere erstwhile shroudy fog beclouded the mind of man and hampered the looming-up of dazzling brilliance. Slick scintilla continued to zoom, exuding forth like froth, extruding still in continuum, sliced.

Again I lurked in the phone-box, awaiting the hour.  Again the Carapaced Caterpillar made a showing and beamed his elaborate yet simple and jestful zest into the zeal-befogged and moon-struck spark of a mind as possessed by your intrepid reporter, I the undersigned. 

Consisting of Cuniform and Linear B tablets which he advised me to take regular with meals of many a cultural flavour; wax rolls; cylinder-rolls; piano-rolls; shellac 78s and vinyl 45s; casettes; 8-Track Cartiridges;  lost and supressed manuscripts by various raving lunatics, heretics and lizard-lickers; fragments of tapestry – medieval and musty; texts of rare Persian wisdom and Chinese poetry; papyri; acrylics and lyrics; myths and lyres; music, song and dance;  rolls of micro-film and other anachronistic devices from the colourful world of espionage; secret-autobiographies of previously utterly unknown mystics and sage, far-seeing prophets of the age; archives of cultural flim-flam and film of cults of flame; these and vast clouds of other things were condensed and sent, encrypted in the eclat of the eclipse of the whirling, wise antenna of The very Caterpillar his-self.

Well phenomena arise, continue and then dissolve. Other phenomena change their modes, patterns and ways of being. All is restless change and upheaval.  The Universe is still infinitely young. Consciousness is posited as a continuum; though lacking substance, its basis of existence is a former moment of consciousness.  All of which is by way of saying that The Caterpillar (and its Dub echo,) which date back to 2008, is also undergoing a fundamental change and going from monthly production to occasional production. This is mainly to allow me to concentrate on finishing the books I’ve started writing and trying to bring some of them to publication.  If you haven’t already read my novel, The Kramvil, you really should.  It’s available in my anthology – The Horned Whale – a unique book of surrealist treasures. The Kramvil started out as a serialized story in The Caterpillar in January 2011.

I still aim to publish The Caterpillar and The Caterpillar Dub from time to time, but by releasing myself from the monthly deadline I think it will be a better magazine when it does appear.  And of course with 124 issues of The Caterpillar and 124 issues of The Caterpillar Dub, that’s a back-catalogue of 248 issues to trawl through if, by rare chance, you are partial to the ghetto-collage style of the visionary tabloid that seriously questions its own existence…  Ideally, the best thing to do is start your own magazine to put out your own message into the aether around us.  Well, thanks for reading and I am sure we will meet again.

*

A gleaming bead of dew runs down The Horns of Consecration as dawn rises over Knossos. Reflected in the bead is all the culture of the ancients, all the mystery, romance and dream-idyll-reverie of ancestral echoes from the dream-days of long-gone previous millennia.  Before evaporating, the bead drips onto the drowsing brow of the bard who slumbers’ neath the Horns.  It wakes him groggily and his hand reaches out for his lyre and brown fingers bring the strings to life in soaring trancing tones.

Who are you? said The Caterpillar...

An Gath Vlewek Gortheren ha Gorwir

I lit a new lamp in my garret. The old one had burned too dim. I loved the light from the brand-new lamp that flooded the flat and showed it to shine, but that was as nothing for this same night I’ve seen the almost-full Moon through a glass and it’s a sight to stir the psyche to euphoric rapture and slide into blissful glissando white lunar reveries of infinite peace and silence, courted by bright Venus, so clean the craters and cloud’s rag-shadows racing over flicker the face of the great moon and cast a vast spell of great nature’s power and airless luminous silver mystery, also thrown upon the face of the waters in the glistening shivering merriel meniscus on the wet silver fishwaters of the shores of old Newlyn Green. Flatfish teem and eels in countless thousand myriad shoals and schools I thought, churning and churring, just below the surface, teeming, pulsing and beetling they shiver and rattle the water to glint back the moon’s borrowed glow of the Sun, who’s hiding round the other side of the drowsy night world, yawning and stretching, dreaming under the diamond myriad skies of fishwet night. All asleep and drowsy deep the sea, the light, the flickering scintilla that struck with rapture shiver and gape in sheer naked wonder at the course of the stars through the heavens and the bronze colossal archaic structure of time’s very veering as it looms from nothing to nothing, blazing meanwhile in full effulgence humandivine. Searing sideways the moon’s light slithers gelatinous yet crispy-dry, pulsating and pullulating yet uttering an ever-deathly stillness to the dark night of another transient eternity. 

Eightfold Dub

Never mind the other news - The Caterpillar Dub tells you all you need to know.....   Simply print, cut down the centre line (but not all the way!) and fold into your souvenir Alice book.... 

Eightfold Alice

Can Alice work out how to print, cut and fold the images into a coherent book? Not if The Mad Hatter can help it! And he's not the only baroque character out there trying to impede Alice in their own crazy way.

Awareness Flows Clear

Yes, that fluffiest of bunnies, that most albumenesque of pseudo-rodential, mythic trans-dimensional watch-clockers, the fabled and fantastical so-called and self-styled ‘white rabbit’ has been seen in the area – Beware!

If you are the punctual type, it’s best to keep well away from this curious little critter – he has a way of making people late.  Very late.  I’m talking of days and weeks, not minutes and hours, by the way.  It’s your call, but I’d keep away from the little sucker if I were you…

{I heard that! Quoth the White Rabbit wrathfully.} 

Flow Of Clear Awareness

I love to see the lights come on warm and golden in the evening’s misty damp grey.  These beacons of homely glow and cheer lure the weary home, like the disembodied souls of the universe flying home to roost.  This priceless golow glister that shines from a sea of earthly windows on the houses up on the hill, it speaks of the sanctity of home, of the beauty of warmth and shelter and also of the hint of adventure as your life crosses that of another. 

Lovers play in some of these lighted looming rooms whilst in others, solitary sit the solo, lost in thought and musing the universe through an eye to the sky.  Spangled light orange as barley and glowing from within, seeping and dripping from gambrelled windows and gable-pitched rooves.  Each window a splodge of golden orange paint in my oil-painting, my structure of dark blue brickwork against the city sky when I was youth incarnate. 

Casting away sorrows, the rebetis takes up an ancient lute and breaks into song.  Now let the light shine. 

P.S.  You might have noticed that The Caterpillar frequently comes out late these days.  For that, we can only blame the influence of the white rabbit.

Spirits That Rise With The Sun In Their Eyes

From out of the mouth of the gyni came forth fables and parabels - this was good - as long as the gyni never offends the sultan he is free to babble - but if the sultan gets too pissed off the gyni will have to hide in a jar until he passes or turn him into a camel...

he doesn't mind doing this.

Rising Spirits

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. 

The Time Of Claws

Conceptuality coming to get ya in its claws - Exoskeletal pincers pinch at calceous crunchy krogens and split them into elemental flakes - The Time of Illusions is running out -

The Claws Of Time

Osseous - brittle - carapacious - exoskeletal - keratinous - telechronological - clattering and clacking or mineralized husks - chattering teeth in secular skull with sunken eyes and the sands of time trickling - running through the jaws of fossilized throwbacks - 

An Gath Vlewek Dasson 119 Kommolek Tewlwolow Ha Bengalji Brae

Oh Globe - oh world - what are you up to now~  What in the world are you doing you jesting scoundrel sayeth the clown upon the throne of hay - thus it spun and thus forth it crisseth-crosseth the terrestrial territory - An tir - an mor ha ebbren yw -  Tramor gwerinieth ha yn Kernow gwerinieth Lemmyn - Kai styn Elada dimokratia kai manges xorepsetai zeibekiko kai fumaro xasissi pola - and so it was and so it was and spinneth the orb towards midnight -

Hey time - hey dust - hey consciousness - trickling mercury shimmers and glistens in the sun - let the people shine - let the light blaze - let the golden mirror shimmer and burn bright the light - the light -

Cool Orb Of Lustre Cast

Visions from the Ghetto - Mystical Raptures from the Council Estate -  Inspirations encountered in the Street - Just everyday stuff that-s going down right now - as we speak - as we stream forward through time and all that interstellar jazz of exploding universes and proton-storms - The corona of the sun was bottled but when was the last time you felt the bumps on the bottle of fizz huh~ Comic-book past and cartoon heroes - laughs echoing away down the halls of eternity - Rainbow bubbles rising and the pulse of the great life-force of the universe surging through your every cell and nerve - space-dust fizzing away merrily on the teenage tongue - Sunny cycles of time in the afternoon golden glow of universal joy - every girl and every boy - wake up!  The Dream-s End Is Beginning -

What end~ What dream so real - just so real - so very very real - down by the lemonade stand the sun shines on the street-musicians - finger-cymbals - tambourines and a gypsy sings - so real it was - Cool blue orb arc the zenith -  the sparkle of the that seen dancing on the moon-water at night -

Silvery Shineth Full Forth Slippery Fish Crystaline

As you slip and slide into slumber n ride the liminal line down to drowsy trance and the flow of rich imagery runs then you will know the realms and blissful tracks that the Caterpillar tacks and the meanings of hence where and whence he-s coming from and whitherfore whence he goeth forth hence – thoroughly spending spilled shillings and pence – thoughtfully though full-throated rough roared the guttural guitar throat of the hummingbird-shaggy-yak-thing as it spoke –

Trying to get to the other side of the city – crossing towns familiar imagined and spectral aglow – busing around the city and following symbolic streets through half-familiar thoroughfares and cobbled back-alleys muses and the tinkling guitars of the gypsies again -  Also a chalk hill – also a falling leaf – also a leaping trout – also the falling rain – also the rustling wind – also the trundling of wheels – also the clacking of heels – also the fringes of feels – also the movements of eels – also the running of feet – city streets a-throng and the river of time never pauses –

Singing the song of the irrational flow of unconscious gossamer The Invertebrate Press has also published the unique novel “The Kramvil” which is to be found in “The Horned Whale” by Jeremy Schanche -  ISBN:  978-0-9934909-1-0    -  The book contains two other stories plus some poetry and glossaries -    The Invertebrate Press also publishes The Limpet – a monthly journal of world-events -  You can find The Caged Crusader website here -

Tasting the moment – living in visionary bliss -    dragons draw the cloud-curtain back on jade-mountain -  Breathing in and out the hermit is fulfilled -  From the heart of the yogi flows the grace-wave -  Blessing and blessing innumerable beings -  Cultivating the mind of nothing -   Walking in silence through misty bamboo-groves at dawn -  Filling the water-jar -  Pouring the silvery tea -  Painting the rain over the mountain and forest-trees swaying in the wind-s blasting and rain like rice falling -  Keeping the mind of kindness -  Friendly to all – the hermit has a quiet heart -  The heart firm in love has no room for enmity – bliss only and the light of knowing -  The mind is not made of bricks and straw nor wood and sand – this sparkling mind you cannot hold in your hand -  It-s shape and colour defy the most thorough search or analysis – In short it is a butterfly which temporary meat-hands grasp not through rough grabbings-at but only through sagacious contemplations and thus sat the sage and knew not no rage for his heart he had cleansed and the rain washed his thoughts true and few -  Oh whistling wind aloft in the sky so close carry the great grace-wave of the quiet-hearted yogis afar scattered in realms of deep tranquillity quilted in natures originality and glimpsed in sparkling contemplativeness on loving-kindliness and empty-handedness – as in space and the blue wave of time that runs and ripples through it like the spark of feeling that lights the living flesh and life-s flickering fiery candle that burneth up bright – alive – alive – alive – and quiet sat the yogi –

Or even better:

ΣΑΝ ΕΓΥΡΙΖ' ΑΠ' ΤΗΝ ΠΥΛΟ  

ΣΤΡΑΤΟΣ ΠΑΓΙΟΥΜΤΖΗΣ - 1935

Crystaline Fish Slippeth Forth Full Shine Silvery

The Caterpillar is beamed to you from beyond the carapace of eternity in the shell of the infinite sky and the everlasting moment of golden sunlight and silvery moon–merriel on the face of the ocean at night -  

No wind-s whistling wild nor string-quartet-s smile can ripple the Caterpillar-s carapace nor alter his lepidopteral pace one inch nay give him grace for he is not of this world and cometh forth from deep realms of sleep his secrets not to keep but to spill forth sharingly unto ye frothy worlde of day upon which ye sunlight doth sometimes playe – oh yea – oh yea – lack a day ye lackadaisical daisy picker and sleek city-slicker – lack ye never a day I say!  For amongst ye The Caterpillar has come to play – 





Beyond the carapace - - -