Z Minor and Vanilla Somethings

It was intense, I suppose. The look which was meant to be sorrowful and Holy became one of sympathy and a mild disgust. Outside the window the World turned in it’s heat as she plussed and pulled at the day with those darting hand gestures she used. She was catching imaginary Birds. Hands also flapping as she called out to whatever Gods she had. Whatever strange beliefs she clutched. The Cars outside the house discordant Summer tickover. Injected fuels forced under pressure. Oil lubricates and smothers heat for movement. Mass energy control. Engineered wants, advertised movements, budgeted empires bleed a blacker blood than us. She had artificial angst and made targets for her anger. These targets a spread of passionate media grift, Political polarisation and hand movements jitter to a stop and float for a moment as a fragment of confusion passed over her face for a short second that fell between us like a heavy weight.

IT WAS ANTI-SOCIAL. Eyes blind, Corpse rains and stones of old. The heat rolled in and I sat down on an old chair she had saved from the Landfill just down the road a little, past the Coal place and the Foundry then left, bear left, hang a left. Past the abandoned things. The Chair was ugly. I spoke through the filters and then she would listen a little. Then I would filter the view and it was a beautiful Summers day and someone was playing Dub through a few loudspeakers. It wobbled on the heat. The notes and the Bass. It frittered away at nerves rolled between nicotine stained fingers. A memory I suppose, one that hung on. We can hold onto them of course, maybe by fingertips and maybe through a hard grasp but they flutter away in the end and become weird shattered narratives that squeeze between the filters and become as pressed flowers in the leaves of a Book soon put back on the shelf. They have no identity except that which is manufactured for them. They wear it proudly of course and become Memetic and frazzled.

“…and fuck the Tories” she exclaimed before violently turning on the cold tap to fill the kettle. But we had no sugar and I’m not drinking my tea without Sugar. She and others have been ‘fucking’ the Tories for a long time and still haven’t worked out that they are the ones being fucked. See the filters? See how they work? They pull you in if you aren’t careful. They pull you in and you get chewed up. The first thing you notice are the subtle tang of excitement as the idea that you are communicating effectively fill your being and you think it’s like being the same as them. But you aren’t and you are not special either. Just an emanation. A dribbling psychosis of sorts manipulating your way through the Eigen. Even the filters lie in the end.

What do we do as the Kettle boils and twists? We navigate. We find ways to move through it. Sit and be quiet. Everything is worth nothing. My hands older have scars uncounted or measured but look disgusting on softer skins. It’s nothing absolutely fucking nothing. Nothing is real, there is no fucking deal. What’s the point? When is the end? What’s the deal? Nothings fucking real except fucking and fucking around. Pleasure beaters and our own litanies, our own lies mirrored by theirs. You build your own walls you know. You build them high, too high to climb. Sunblocker brickwork. Clouds that are simply walls. You move past me and I smell you. Vanilla something.

Everything is real but the pain

It comes again and again

It drives you fucking mad

It drives you insane insane.

The landscapes heat is sick. You roll and swerve through it while the rolling smothers whatever words you had. People dance to music that has no origin in love at all. Smashing notes jar, intense rhythms bleed. Take my flash and encase it in arrogant plastic. Tear the sinews out as ropes. Bring audience to watch and learn. Frozen muscles slathered in Ice. Bring notes from Elders twisted and sick upon beds. Pull the sinews from deep places and knit them into what we are. Annihilate the blinded eyes. Grasp the hidden jokes, the pyres of intent and the sticky afterbirth of your means. What laughter from the rains from a long time ago. Months possibly. The cold splash of a raindrop as we lie still and listen at the beating on the dust covered windows. The Bananas slowly turning black in the bowl. What you are is hated. You are Mouth and digestive system. Mind alive to sure finance. What you are is nothing of course. Isn’t there evidence here for this? For if there is evidence there is existence of an act. Extrapolation of evidence leads to a narrative and the narration soon becomes dogma and litany. We build fake House and artificial roof, we fling up walls and make doorways and those words will soon become built and real. To collect Moss and algae. To become and melt at the same time into the bleached out places we live.

Gods eh? Trundlers and loiterers. Us, small things not worth a thought. Passing through and travelling. Always Hate and Hating. Always murk.

2099d

It felt like a task. It felt like a ‘job to do’ but there again. The stupidity of the system is overloud and visually confusing. The system today is ‘number’ and also grief. It patterns over the bars on the windows, the steel doors with what seems like quintessential early 21st Century British Social Housing built in the 1950s. Amazing body of work. There also seems to be Vehicles and people that shuffle around doing Jobs…and these jobs I have no idea about. You see, you can get on your knees and quickly rub your hand upon the concrete slabs and underneath the mirage is the eight sided cut stone Granite of the fucking BEE EYE PEE.

Actual interactions are possible too. You can speak to these Hollow things and in a fashion speak with them. They have things to say of course but even they are trapped as well I suppose but they will never know it. You see…they left me here. It’s not the other way around you know. It’s not me. It’s them. There is an element of alienation which is amusing. You can see his friends either side of him if you like closely enough. But you can flick them off with a simple flick of a switch. I suspect that I can do that too so I look either side of myself and I’m afraid I don’t have anyone as someone has already flicked the switch. I think it was me but I’m not sure. You see the deeper I go the more the fucking BEE EYE PEE kicks back. It’s like an effect or a thing, it smothers at it’s worst. The Rubber Men with their wet blankets that they cover you with until only your Nose and Mouth is uncovered and then the pale clammy hand that’s strong also. Nasty. That pinches your Nostrils shut and covers your mouth while the wet blankets coddle and stupify your own system into suffocation and a death or sorts. But you never die here, you know that.

Their hands are wicked because they have no emotion or love to bind, only a hatred and a need to make you suffer. Blasted Heathland. Ragged Winter vegetation and everything is dead of course. What soil can support this? My hands in the dirt trying to wipe away the Heather and Bilberry to see the pavements underneath. To get back to that particular fantasy and fail again. You left me here. You know that. I plunge my hands into the soil which is now the eight sided Granite of sub section 2099d and break three of my fingers. I scream and the others scream also and before long it’s just a cacophony of noise that starts on 2099d and works it’s way up through the levels. It is like a diesel engine turning over slowly and then it catches, starts getting louder and even the fucking Clowns have to cover their ears up as I laugh and show them my crippled hands and broken digits.

I’m the Leech, the bottom feeder. Follow my lead. Follow my feed. What’s the point in my existence mate? My Spirit, My Soul, all fucking fake. The Prison sucks and feeds. I sit to die and bleed. Fake thing, invented and manufactured. I am more and more tired but I’m not supposed to talk like that because they will listen. But I would like to talk. Even if it is to an invented thing, a fantasy creature. Fantasy made up friends to feel safe for a while. I digress, there are insects running into the cracks in the Flagstones black. Squeezing themselves deeper into the system. I pick one up and look at it closely. A Black Beetle with a human face that screams at me as I look upon it. Then I am high on the Parapet of the Prison about to fall into the jumbled confused courtyards below. Above a pale Yellow Winter Moon in a very flat grey sky. The wind hot for a moment and then bitter cold. The smell of the blasted Heather, sweet and then the stench of Human shit from below. I reach out my hand for someone to hold it but there is no one there to do it.

Most people will be aware that most of this blog is concerned with Remote Viewing or ‘RV’. I wont go into the technicalities of it but the words have caught a few people in the net so to speak. Especially among the RV community, which is quite small. Often we exchange certain little bits of information between each other, especially about the UAP problem which has been in the news lately. My friend (oh nameless one) has shared an email he received from one of our mutual workers in RV and is discussed on the Dark Web RIT page. I’m going to share it because it is interesting at least from a Remote Viewing perspective.

In relation to our previous correspondence I have brought together a few pieces of information regarding the UAP Viewing that a few of us have performed over the past ten years when the Triangle Working Group was formed by RS and TA in 2009 and actually started work in 2013. Most of the available information is on the RIT page but I have summarised most of it in a kind of Precis as follows.

Viewing the UAP is not difficult initially. It seems that the problem always lies with ‘moving’ UAPs either in flight or manifesting. I use the term Manifest because it’s the best way to explain it. The current consensus is that the UAP isn’t a vehicle as we know it but a ‘Focus’ point and some will explain it as a ‘Cursor’ for further focus. Imagine the surface of Earth as a plane if you will or a screen and the cursor as a craft and you begin to get a handle on it. The UAP can manifest anywhere on the Plane and can manifest as quick as you move the cursor on a screen. This is why these craft seem faster than anything we currently have technologically. They aren’t actually vehicles but points. These points are then utilised to focus an Avatar of a NHI (Non Human Intelligence) which for the most part is a constructed ‘Puppet’ for the purpose of experiencing this dimensional plane. Now briefly I want to say that we have ascertained that the NIH is a focus for another dimensional consciousness and one we have absolutely no idea about as viewing the NIH will bring a sort of Telepathic Firewall, a shoving away of the Viewer somewhat like the opposite polarities of Magnets. It has been discussed that the Dimension they are focussing from isn’t a 4th dimension but more like a 3.002 Dimension. The location they are focussing from is indeed Earth itself. They just exist in a slightly different focus to us and interactions between the two dimensions (and others) is ongoing and Historical. Inside the ‘Focus’ or the UAP we see rudimentary control systems and in some, seating and what seems like Communication systems. RV Projects that involve Corporate locations that have recovered UAP systems and have watched the unsuccessful attempts to back Engineer these UAPs for some years. We suspect an Information breakthrough has been made in the last Five years or so by Iranian Scientists and Chinese state instruments judging by the increased RV Missions by the USA and Russian workers in these Locations. We are aware of other Viewers while Remote Viewing ourselves as the Views will ‘bleed’ into each other at certain points. More details are on the RIT page. I can’t cover all the points made in the previous mail out but can say this.

1. NHI’s are Avatars. Rudimentary Organic Life Systems or ROL’S and not Individual Organic/Conscious systems.
2. It is very difficult to communicate with them and we are currently trying to understand how to communicate.
3. All UAP Focus craft are abandoned after a single use. This is because it is impossible to reclaim the Avatar or the Craft after they have materialised on this Plane. These craft and bodies are usually dumped or recovered by States and hidden away for analysis. Often the craft will manifest in another dimension after use but not the 3.2d Space we have identified.
4. We suspect that after viewing Corporate and State location identified by RV projects that the US Corporate Apparatus has over 65 Intact UAP’s and over 650 Avatars in various states of existence. From pieces of Avatar to complete semi functioning Avatars. These Avatars that are alive are semi idiotic shells as the directing consciousness has been removed.
5. Through our work we have provisionally identified probably 14 ‘Dimensions’ which RT has described in his own work as Dim 3.2, Dim 3.3 etc. This partly explains the multitude of different UAPs observed and recorded. Each Dim will use a slightly different method of Focussing.
6. It is understood by us that the NHI is only here to ‘experience’ this Dim for Research purposes and any information gained goes back beyond the Firewall to the Dim 3.2
7. We suspect that the number of incidents or Focus events is increasing and is affecting a number of Global factors including Climate/Brain function/and general Cognitive abilities. Other workers have provisionally discussed a Genetic change to the Human Genome although this study is in it’s preliminary stages.

If I receive anything else I will post it here. Very interesting.

Zeit-Heist

It was a Zeit-Heist a flick off the Metaphysical wrist. There were changes in the system. It was more Judeo-Christian Beast energies that lapped at my feet as I walked. I could see it and feel it, the communications coming through in waves rather than subtle prods of the God finger. Yes, I could deal with the changes, we always do. Cast out and redolent again. Glow on. Big style energy that fizzled and cracked like a bad Transformer. Brilliant Light shining and always feeling that particular warmth through the vibe ends and the unravelled emotional threads that dangled over the edge.

In Harbourne the light was dim again. It had been many years since I had set foot around those ends. They were sick now with splashed bloods and even splashier urine pockmarking the evening cool pavements and the sick feelings that welt up and welt down the system of mine. Brilliant crimson lines that moved under the lights partnered with Box set audios and fat arse chair dwellers laughing at the Propaganda. You Leech, you fucking bottom feeder, follow the crowd and follow the Leader. Everything dead again.

I put my hands on the brickwork but there is no knowledge here any more. Babalon has gone as she always does when the shit gets too heated and Jesus hands are placed on soft innocent heads. Do they see now? I’m not sure of course. They will use cut outs now. Two dimensional fuck beasts with 1% arts and 99% power to talk about it. I enjoy this, it means it’s good to be alone again in the Bland Dunes feeling the breeze of a non existent sea through the rubber skin of an existential body bag. Was it as simple as it was? John still sits on the Dam wall watching the trees below and the Angels dancing on the Mountain tops but he still feels the weight of the Browning 1911 at his hip. Still feels it dragging him further to the floor. Maybe he should be given a Holiday from the Vibe Ghosts and the TikTok slags but John doesn’t listen to the vapid ghosts that surround him. He knows they are exhaled things, just breaths on the wind, a hair over the eyes caught by the light for a moment then dismissed. The light shining on it….elegant maybe this twist of energy, who knows?

Bring out the dead anyway, cast them onto the paths, the dreams you see….awful. Corpse rain, stones of old, inhaled griefs, pockmarked and cratered souls, gone and dusted. Molested and thraped.

Ghosts never listen, they just talk and I listen sometimes, but not all the times. Often I will just let the whispers tickle me and I laugh. In the dunes of course, no Ghosts. They fritter away their energies in the face of firm decisions, the tupperware box, trembling fingers opening the lid, the wonder about what happens, knowing that it’s either darkness or more Hell. The North light faded and pale, the wind always cold this far up and even the sea tends to stay away from this moment. Acrid volume, faded and bladed, inching the way in slowly without tenderness, without anything but entry.

(unpublished excerpt from Placid Geometry)

Phobic

It was a bad Dog. You could tell. I could anyway. The other walkers just walked past it as it sat by the side of the track. They didn’t see it. Only I could see it. Sitting here in the quiet as I was, bundled in the undergrowth amongst the snow. Cold it is here, yes. Cold. Damp too, seeping through my bones a little. Making that ache that never goes away just a little more in focus, just a little bit more angry. Bars in the sky or clouds. Cold concrete or ice, I don’t know. Cold battles that took place among hotter emotions. Small victories lit large by agoraphobic insanities. We preach and we tell our stories don’t we?

Battle on angry Dog. It’s drool lapped the snow underneath it as it growled. I couldn’t care less and splashed rigid Vermillion over the paper. An angry swash of RED. Bar the gates friends. Darkness is always a little too close for comfort and even the Dog at this moment just becomes a blank empty space on the page in front of me. Just as it posits an empty space in reality too. How many years now? Too many I think. The placid geometry now fallen away to leave the violent stripes of angled displeasure. No geometry like that for sure.

Pick on the wound if you like and tease it’s edge. Lift and succour softest blood. It growls in a strangled gasping way and moves closer. I see it from the corner of my eye but I will not look directly at it again because it’s boring now. What vicious jowls can it offer that were more horrific than the previous? It is not boring, I’m sorry. It’s always interesting.

Failure in everything I attempt. Interesting failures to forensically sift through to see if one can find an intial cause or a beginning so one could travel back and make sure that the point where it all went wrong was adjusted and fettled into something that was right. But what would I do with success? Wallow within it, placate the ego with kind words. Keep them precious and dote upon them?

Encourage your bleeding

by breathing heavily

to allow the blood

to fall

The Dog is inches from my face and silent and it is staring at me. It smells of soil, wet dirt, and something else like an electrical fire perhaps. It is staring and I am not looking at it. My skin is crawling and I slash more watercolour on the paper. Raw colour, bright greens, vibrant umber, the Vermillion again here, across the diagonal. My hands moving faster and faster until the paint splashes on the bright snow that is turning blue as it freezes. The Dog is inside me now and is gnawing on my internal organs, the heart licked, the windpipe gnawed and the ever pressed Lung dragged from it’s cavity and mauled by mud encrusted paw…

We are not saved

but graved

Not alive, but existed for no choice offered

Bella in the Limlight

Petalengro

The areas unseen and the places forgotten. Litter blows everywhere but they just look like Ghosts really. In the corner of your eye. If you have an eye to spare. Spaces. Places. But listen, in a crowd, when everyone talks and you occupy a space by yourself as they chatter and all of a sudden things go quiet and you can’t hear them talk and their mouths just move gently dribbling and spitting. Vehement love there, and anger, hilarity and sadness. They talk and weave rich patterns for themselves in the greater tapestry. But yes. Talk and wonder about things. Place yourself in the arena and partake. Unless Liminal.

The spaces between the things and you become an inbetween person you know. Just a body that will lead to another living breathing person. We stand and allow it because that’s the best course of action. It is the junction of no energy given or received; it is liminal living.

The water dripped from the tree and was alive, I think. The period, the mathematics of the drip drop was sincere and alive. It was not a cadence. It was chaos. It blinks a little in the Liminal light but it’s there and we swell up with pride a little and shake our fists at entropy and the slow rhythm of existing.

Vomiting again with the depression. Puking up in the gentle LimLight. Vomit splashed rocks, dry heave, splatter and chaos again in the dry retch. And hold onto something in case you fall into the river that isn’t ours. Coarse twigs and branches twisted into portals for your humour. Fastened with Nettle strings. Held tight against each other the loops and shapes fixed onto the Rowan branch and if you look just right. In the Moonlight. The Badgers dance.

Retch Wretch. Wasted. Dirt under fingernails. Hair tangled. Release. Please. But no. What did they do to you……dear Bella. I would do anything for a sweet taste of a simple tear.

They made Roads for us you know. Star Paths. A way to travel and see what the Stars had made for us but only Bella has travelled it so far and she waits I think, for us. What did they do to you? Bella? Their roots hold the paths still and steady so we don’t just slip and tumble into the nothing. In my hands are the parts of the Prison that are now rusted and bent, the springs locked solid. The locks sprung eternal. The whole clasp unclasped and useless. The brick work of black hard baked clay is crumbled and underfoot. I take a handful of it, I make a hole and bury what I can find of the place. Underneath everything. Hidden away in the soil horizons where it wont come back out. In the fucking dark where it belongs. Liminal.

The paths make webs between the live stars. The ones that breath like us. Cold space air that nourishes them like nothing else. Heavy metal gas in some, in others a solid mass of mineral Sun. It is what it is. It makes what it makes. I have opened and seen this. Unfolded and opened up to absorb the maps and the hasty quick exhortations to go this way and that, when all you can do is fall, and that is good also. Fall my friends. Fall you castigated thing. Fall and learn the lessons in the Limlight. The spaces between things and the spaces between people. Lit with Star fire. Lit with pains.

Fractured

It was cold and my hands were numb. The pencil was a sick thing. Blunt, sharp. lead broken here and there. It was a fractured implement. The ground was damp and there were few insects. This was Podzol territory. Hard baked by fire soil horizon. Baked fucking hard. Fire swept by here. It was harsh heat redolent. I sketched and concentrated. Each blade of grass, the Bilberry, the Calluna vulgaris. Heated moon power. Soaked into the hard baked soil.

Sketch and record while the Cannock Chase aura baked you solid too. There were Ghosts. I saw them out of the corner of my eye. They didn’t ‘flit’ they just flickered in and out. Lines of though and lines of thin lead scratch the paper and make rodent noises. Burrowing through the paper in parts where it was wet from the rain that fell. The pencil was getting smaller, retreating back into itself. Not brave and sharp but blunt often and retired. The lead smeared. The graphite was fearful of the marks it was making. There was a Stag nearby, I could smell it as it smelled me. There was no one here of course because the weather was sick and wet. My arse damp. The rain catching in the fold of my coat. Marks made and laughter gone. Scratch the image and record it. The battle scenes of the ecology. The spires of fractured Spruce, the dealings of the grasses underneath them. The want of the Moss.

Treetops as erect spears. Battle smashed from Machinery. The Battle is endless here, for space, soil and light, for water, for area where roots may stretch out for sustenance. The light subtle through the cloud. Sketch and draw while you shiver. While you stretch. A sound, a branch snapping underfoot and birds erupt from the Heather. Flying to my left. Low and relaxed. Soft flight. Eternities greyscale drama. There is no place to flee as yet. Pencils move. Things in the Grass move. I sit still, a Bell rings.

Rat

Black landscape blasted clean

Burned flesh. Twisted nerve.

Annihilate, eyes blind.

All Faith? Violent faith.

Corpse rain and stones of old

Pyre of shit, box of pain.

Shrouds for the living.

Dirt for the dead. Taken. Lost.

Glass Locked

Annihilation pressures for sure. I can feel them needling away on the tips of my nerves like biting insects. Burrowing creatures under the skin and skittering over the surfaces of the brain. Tingle nerves, endings not nerves, endings and beginnings or the awful tramping of the feet that belong to people you hardly know. Softer things. Delve and burrow further please. Because each play has an end, it doesn’t carry on does it? But she never says a word any more. Locked into the pane of glass, time locked and light locked. Glass Ghost.

Try and find a way though please, to inch further away from the surface and gasp for air. Try to fight and survive. They say. Do we listen any more? Sometimes, when the lights are brighter and the voices a little louder. But we smile and just laugh although the laughing, to be honest for once, is a little too loud, a little too bright. We grind. We wear down the substrate.

When Gods become Memes we suffer with them. We only 2D the groove and the vibe of God things. Little pleasures like little bites. We banish them now with disinterest as the horrors they threaten us with are nothing compared to the overtures the Great Clown throws upon our heads. Yet we are thankful for it. If not a little weepy for it. Hand on heart. The energy my friends is real.

Locked up and Lost. Broken and failed. Vision has gone. You can be free if you want if you take the choice and grip the wheel. Dread the day all you wish. Do your best if that really turns you on. Find a way to lose the fear and find freedom or let freedom find you. It’s not about me, it’s all about you. Try to find the natural hate and the hidden number is 8. Try to find your heaven in the number 7.

I have always been lonely and now that very fact succours my existence and my search for bliss. There is no helping hand here and no Knight to battle my enemies. For the enemies lie with the Knight and caress and fondle it. Yet my own hands stay still for to itch the scratch means an admission it exists. There are of course those I would curse and Hex. But that matter is best left alone for I wish no burdens to carry over that abyss I would cross eventually.

I sat and wondered about these things in the damp grass as she came down the path. She was carrying an empty bucket and had a pair of wellies on her feet, her hair was stuck to her forehead with damp sweat as further up the valley it was sunny and warm. Here it was cold and damp from the mornings rain. She never saw me in the undergrowth. I feel a large spider run across my face. Her breasts are full and unclad underneath her faded dress. Light blue with small pink flowers. Busy she was and there was no peace here after she disappeared down the track. I dug my hands into the thin soil and found bones. Animal bones. I dug deeper and they were numerous and large. Here one that had metal plates in it, screws, fractures healed. Another the same, an arm bone. Rib bones nicked with scalpel blades. Hollow and rotten from chemicals and damp. I assembled them as best I could into a complete skeleton and lay it out on the grass among the Harebells and Hawkbit. The skull leered, the jawbone without many of it’s teeth, polished almost. I removed some dirt from it’s eye sockets and looked within it but there was nothing there. Nobody sees me here tenderly touching these bones wondering what may have been and why. Above me a bird flew and made some noise and I pressed a shard of sharp bone into my neck so it would bleed me out. But my hands wouldn’t work any more and I pressed my face into the Moss and tried to sleep.

SHORN

Was it the last battle? I live of course due to your good grace but it was always an idle fancy and pretty much a fools disgrace and I am shorn and cut then you put your head over the shell hole and say ‘Yes, Shorn and cut’. What else would you say, about the world today, if you were here? A cold razor act, a simple fact.

The last fear in me flies away like a Coal black Crow, away to a place neither of us will ever know. You see? You are just a Clown like me. Puppet lovers and I am shorn and cut

We look at the fallen leaves now for Autumn is coming and a great change. The fires we had are embers and the cold storms just a passing breeze but we can still think just about, of the things we did. The subtle things. The night that was loud and we stood very proud and the medals they gave out were shined and brilliant. Cast out Demons and let them writhe on the cold floors. Let the branches grinch, let the light straps pinch. let the breathe we had just trickle out. Let everything turn and upsides are always downsides if the narrative is crooked. Fucking hell is there no end? No release. The oxygen again is low. The breathe laboured, my fingers deep in you. Your hand holding a trickling soft vomit.