Glorious Tewlwolow Vision

Ten luminous Earth-years rumbled by as the transmissions continued to emanate from the abstracted whirling antennae of the larval and carapaced entity known to me only by the nomenklatura of The Caterpillar and these atom-rippling mysteries did indeed sparkle bright and glitter ever before me - enticing me on to realms of glittering light - of shining harmonies and districts of molten energy that lurk in those unimaginably vast and unfathomable gulphs between the atoms of structural matter - 
On other and many another divers voyage across the watery globe in pursuit of the shining waters and the shimmering seas and all that they hid and held hasped in their samfire-grasp I wandered forth distracted and dreamy-footed I stumbled out upon the Spanish Main to chew cactus-buds with vultures for my companions and spit the golden pips at the bones of the bleached buffaloes wallowing in the dust of nothing on a blistering day of droning flies and rippling glistening heat - As such I followed my feckless feet and set pen to ink and paper to fire in a frenzied attempt to warm my gelatinous skeletal frame - I clutched at a spy-glass with grizzled hand and spun it out towards the land - the land I saw was golden dust with glimmering hedge-rows of autumn-s rust - I rattled on in country-clogs and ate the miles up under me - 
I thought I could make out the Caterpillar scuttling on ahead - always ahead - and ever disappearing round the next corner or behind the next tree - 
I-d been on the trail of that glorious beast for many a year now and had had only but the fleetingest and most ephemeral of encounters with this great abstract being - this conduit of cosmological diamond-dust - I was determined to catch up with the rattling crustaceous body of him and find out what the blazes it was all about and all!  
Well way back in 1911 The Caterpillar transcribed the journal of Elias Gillpington which in turn mutated into the Gothic novel The Kramvil which is itself the root-cause of The Buxtereide Prize For Literature - one of the most far-reaching - successful and well-known literary prizes in the entire world of West-Cornish Surrealist Collage-Journalism - 
Well - with a track-record like that it only now remains for me to introduce yous to The Caterpillar himself - but that-s just the thing you see - I can-t - because he-s flittered off again - doing a runner on his innumerable scuttling rattling clod-hopping gutter-jumping square-toed diamond-buckled rhythm -n- blues (that-s shoes to you) so I-ll be off after the vanishing glistening footprints of carapaced sparkling mirth and see if he-s gone back to the phone-box - there-s just a chance he-ll remanifest out of the ephemeral archaic aether there in his aerie eyrie atop the midnight classical kiosk where many a jar of nature-nectar necked and knocked gnashing and dashing it to the floor as the visions spun in - 
A desert road - a leafy lane - a watery meadow - a dusty summer road through the slumberous country - eagles over the mountains and rivers spilling down into the rich plains where gypsy fiddles sing and pungent woodsmoke swirls subtle but sweet - moon sets and dawn grey paints dew glistening with diamonds on the cobwebs and the chattering of the first wren coming through the mist of a silvery day rising - 

Dizzy spins the Milky Way -

Stardust and jelly -

Fresh breeze breathes leaves and flows

Fresh breeze breathes leaves and flows - rustles greens and goes - something moving in the trees - something moving in the night - consciousness flickering to and fro - just the prana-wind that does blow - 

If I-s a lizard in the spring I-d hear the cuckoo sing -

Megaliths Menhirs and Tewlwolow Hollows

Snaking down from the hinterland the ceaseless ancient river furls long to the dark mor of ocean- pouring through the rich verdant pasturage of the tewlwolow valley and hollow hills of home - this very same waterage being the one that the medieval peasants of Buryan mistook for the River Jordan when they set off for the crusades a thousand odd and even years back in blissful past pastures and meadows of golden mind - 

Flickering the centuries and eons flit by and crones archaic pass by unseen by eyes of yourn - the old meadow ploughed again and again - first by hartshorn hand of Beaker bloke and Keltek folk with stick and spoke the clods he broke - finding it good he camped by the wood - deep and clear and dancing with dragonflies and you could drink your fill all day - 

Spun the centuries as the world spins through space - blue the cowl against the ruddy jowls of the one-eyed wanderer and hail rattled and bounced off the icy puddles fore the leaf of spring broke the bud and the voice was heard from the beaks of the flock - Tattered cloak wrapped the huddled shoulders of the folk swarming through time and fields of golden grain - surging on - the people coming in waves - generations - a tumult - the people surge forth and the land gives them footage to run - trees loom dream and drop leaves eternal loaming the land with decayed sunlight resparkled next spring to sing again - crystal river soaks through it as a grete wyrm winds a way through lands of the singing silent sun -

Spinning sun hurls seasons to batter and caress the land juddering and sprinkling snows seeds pollens drops life-essences and hailstones - a twittering sparrow flits - flies buzz and drowze - the mead - the meadow - the dragon flie-a-drowze a-sparkle - drowzing off in the summertime meadow by the brook - by the river - the singing river of gurgle where wrens dance and hide secret in hollow nests and caves below the bank where the river turns and spins out slowly sending shales and sandbanks to break up the mosaic sparkling flow - 

Bronze children of your echoed past play here and splash in the river by the circle and play in the meadow and play through the trees singing and jumping off the great rock by the river 

Buryas Bridge Menhir

Gwidhen gwag yw ha idhyowek yn tewlwolow hunros - A hollow tree covered in ivy at dusk dreams - Trees tracery of twigs spread to the twilight sky in the valley - from out of the hollow flew a feathery old thing - it fluttered and flittered and flew back in again -

Nobody even saw it -

From the valley issued forth a vapor that sent me reeling hypnotized I spied my gull-quill pen and seizing a megalith for a rough Druidic table I scratched noisily at the parchment with brilliant quill dipped in dripping squid-ink - my propinquity-

Gulls rooked the crows and leafs dry spittle-brown sprinkle down and kommolek fog brews the Cornishe Sky to down-falling tewlwolow mist - molecules and myriads -

Ghostly riders troupe through the sky glimpsed only by badgers bats and lonesome crepuscular muscle-men creeping disguised as archeological overblown arachnid-poets of the blustering Western Marches -

You get a lot of them round here -

Vapors boulders flood-plains as the river-meadow shoulders a curve - dragonflies swerve over and when wrens flit kingfishers are sure to follow -

Ahead Of Thoughts

A baglamas and a travelling guitar balanced on a menhir - a fallen and ravaged menhir - tewlwolow dusk on Halloween -   just an everyday scene in the Shyre where the ancient past is right there with you to help you along your way - 

Ο ψαράς - O Psaras - The Fisherman -

and awareness is right there in your hands - - -

Thoughts Of A Head

I raise my soul I raise my fist I raise my lips for the gods to kiss      a mortal man I fade and die and melt back conscious to the sky

Stratos Pagioumtzys - O Psaras - The Fisherman


Hingala - here is a recording I came across over 30 years ago - back in 2000 my band Eastern Green used to play an instrumental version of Hingala -


A Life-Changing Album for me when I bought it second hand from a shop in Shepherds Bush Shopping Centre in 1982- a magic moment for me
Τραγούδια Και Χοροί Της Στεριάς 2 - Songs And Dances Of The Greek Mainland
introducing me for the first time to tunes like this:

ΤΑΣΟΣ ΧΑΛΚΙΑΣ -

Ο ΜΕΓΑΛΥΤΕΡΟΣ..Ο Λ Ω Ν

Μοιρολοι με γυρίσματα * Πετρολούκας Χαλκιάς

Or wander up to Romania and hear a world of amazing music from a magical land

Our laughter rings around the world a turquoise banner bright unfurled our love shines out to people far and near beneath the shiny stars -
Well I guess that just about covers everything - don-t forget to tune back in for the Dub Version - - -

Pathways of the Celestial Bodies Inscribed on the Keltek Landscape in Antiquity

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.  

Lives of the Unknown

Many another life has brushed against your own - self and other appearing separate, most of the time, not always- 

merging-