16 January 2020

The Tree Killers

I have discovered Barefoot Merlot from California, that's like a milder Ruby Port. The latter drink is useful for activating the psychic, and the former certainly opens doors. Yes, the transmissions, misty in horrocks, find more data, full circle premonitions. This new alcohol inspiration coincided with my finding the Clive Bush Audio Poetry Collection, a neat archive of mostly old school British Poetry (Rookery) Revival practitioners, originally recorded on audio-cassettes in various pubs and that. I hadn't heard much of Tom Raworth, cris cheek, Allen Fisher, etc., before, so it is good that I have now. There's also three somewhat obscure Iain Sinclair readings which was an especially puissant treat. I then came across two Stewart Home interviews that were new to me (here & here), which assisted the build, so I am now chiming high.

Riding the current, I had a look at the latest literary sceners, but was irked. There's loads of these psychogeographers, hauntologists, poets and pifflers, most I suspect at or fresh out of university, lusting for their big break in the Twitter circle-jerk, extremely online manicured minds scanning for positive reviews, conference invites, expenses, groupies in whatever form. It's cloying, and disturbs one's constitution like a cream cake OD, their product nicely designed but quickly forgettable, 96-page books for £12.99 plus postage, ticking the obligatory women, non-binary and non-white friendly boxes, their calls for submissions a submission to the Cryptocracy's alchemical processing. They seem earnest enough, but I can't stand them, baton drawn. (And why the fack are they so keen on html-paging each individual article of their publications? Just put them all in a single PDF for Thoth's sake.) You see, I have a deep streak of sociopathic misanthropy because of all the stupid people trying to tell me what to think and do as I was growing up, that bred a necessary survival/coping strategy of disdaining 90% of humanity. It is in a sold-out person's nature to try and sell you out, and they deserve all the flak. I'm on the other side!

15 January 2020

MXM Interconnects

I went for a walk, starting in the darkness, so when I arrived at my destination it would be light. During the peramble I saw many stars, and a shooting star, a sign of an unusual day, the cosmic entering the normal world. When it was still pulsing stygian I was tree-lined, following a middle-aged woman, her shoulders strangely hunched over and up, wearing a long beige coat that looked like shimmering shaggy fur. Just me and her on a private road, next to the church graveyard. I passed her and it and didn't speak or look back as I knew she was a spirit who did not want to communicate. Right on cue a hidden owl hooted, consolidating the horror film scene, eating each other's seed.

On the way a silver Peugeot stopped beside me. Its driver resembled Oddbod from the comedy horror film Carry On Screaming (1966). He asked me for directions, which I gave, then he offered me a lift, which I accepted. The inside of the car smelled of stark chemicals and a snarling plastic shark dangled before the windscreen. Staring at it as we trundled along, I picked up a telepathic conversation: "Is that the cliffhanger?" "No, the clingfilm," after which my heterosexual gaydar registered strong. As we passed a clump of sheep's hair caught on a barbed wire fence and burning stuff in the distance the driver exclaimed: "I've driven 4000 miles to meet you," then began speaking about other dimensions and that he used his vehicle as a "Masturbation Station" to map and travel to these realms. I told him that was none of my concern and as the star-hubcapped wheels slowed their spin when we reached the next road junction I opened the screeching door and exited stage left.

Through to town saw people doing what they do and realised I am very sane but not right in the head and half of my clothes are black. Stepped past The Cube nightclub for perhaps the 200th time and for the first time noticed the mysterious double-cube-sized room with boarded-up windows that sits atop the site (shown above), coding to the King's Chamber in the Great Pyramid of Egypt. AI mushrooms thrown into mouth by military money. They cook your brain to read it look up history. Searched round the chazzers (charity/thrift shops) and was made to find Charles Roetter, Psychological Warfare (BT Batsford, 1974) and Francis Rolt-Wheeler, Mystic Gleams from the Holy Grail (Rider, undated [1948]). Their pages seemed to merge, interweaved like playing cards. Still riding the current I visited a supermarket I don't usually frequent, and the girl who served me had a small blue snake tattooed between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. All the hills sing in unison, swishing their tails.

After an interlude reverie I passed an UNDOD Influencer transmitting down a leafy way (shown above). It's Welsh for 'solidarity', but I felt no such thing in the vicinity, only the denting. Turned a corner to black-ops chopper flying in an infinity symbol; voice-to-skull bird's nest clawed via bone-conducting headphones (fluoride psychiatry). Outward bounds, I shared my aloneness with no-one in particular, thinking back to that 1986 hitching down to London where the car was blocked in on the motorway by two large furniture vans at the side and back. In front was an orange MG sports car with 'MI6' as the central part of the numberplate. The stranger-driver was terrified, and a few hours later I saw a tieless Michael Caine (Harry Palmer?) in Mayfair, where the Leconfield House MI5 headquarters was located between 1945-1976. Couldn't sleep that after, cheap hotel, an unshared understanding, further patterns intersecting, masking the "all-colours tweak." Eventually entered a corridor nightmare of head transplants, its subjects digging tunnels. The dreamed dictions are ripe dispensed it, drumming a course through voyage forage wandering rude. A night thrill, lost in cloaks and hoods, never reply. Glean what you can.

13 January 2020

Black Glows & Manifestos

Black Glows & Manifestos is my newly-published collection of anarcho-gnostic rants, monographs and manifestos written between 2018-2019. It is available as a PDF for £1.25. Ordering details are here.

23 November 2019

The Base Arc

This static SSTV image was received on the Isle of Wight via amateur shortwave radio signals circa September 2018. I believe it to be programmic, seeping into the collective mind of the United Kingdom, invisible all around them, an adequate touring role. Ergo the visual ITC compilation by Keith J. Clark, founder of the iDigitalMedium Team. On the specifically audio front there be the fascinating atmosphere of the four EVP audio-cassettes made by British researcher Raymond Cass. Akin is The Portal real-time spirit communication device made by Steve Huff, that has a marvellously strange quality, in league with the online wide-band WebSDR radios here and here.

22 November 2019

Farmer's Wife Know Patterns

I've been sobering, gut feeling, needing a change in the weather, a roll in the heather. Flummoxed by two unsuccessful attempts to purchase my first-ever digital radio. Might have to shelve this particular desire, although it is quite a need. This and more sort of culminated into a quiet climax celebrated by Miles Johnston's Bases 3 video series about the Rendlesham Forest UFO weirdness, featuring its arch investigator, Brenda Butler, who is from East Anglia like me, so there is connexion. Especially liked Part 3, that gets pretty out-there, wherein Brenda speaks at length about the mysterious "Lizard Man" David Daniells (previously mentioned in Philip Kinsella & Brenda Butler, Sky Crash Throughout Time [Capall Bann, 2013]), whom she claims to have seen transform into a reptilian three times, appear/disappear and that. An internet search for him led to the 'invisible' Gresham College in the City of London and its massive collection of video talks, that includes an "UNUSUAL" section with a red unicorn head logo, which codes to a curious synch (Gresham Industrial Estate, 1 Eastern Road, Aldershot).

Some good dunno, continuing on. Texts are being written, often to the spoken-word sound of the Mind Set Podcast, paranormal- and conspiracy-themed with freeflow presentation, that I been really enjoying while avoiding type pastiche media smacks of middle-class surface wank only fit for turn-off, the seemingly bottomless well that bungles the trick, even in short bursts, not somewhat happening. There were some curious dream 'posters' folded up, each quarter a whole, and a book the colour images printed on the normal absorbent not glossy page paper which makes it like a canvas painting, something I was doing back in the day without keeping any. Blokes pub laughing, loving homely way, blood on the hands, mostly pointing to British Military bully-rape, Jesus Army stereotypical cult abuse and horseshoe comedy. The scanners, lurkers and baited parties spin into my message but the general populace bubble in droves, chomping on idiot boards.