Saturday, August 12, 2006


Last nite was one of those special micro-magic evenings that reminded me why I love The West Country sooo much.

Zoe looked amazing. Just totally glowing w/ aetheric energy in the cool balloon of evening.

We went up the hill, 8 or 9 of us, away from parents and children, giggling like naughty schoolkids w/ a combined age of 300, as we smoked Wedding Cigarettes under a hazy lemon-tinted sky. Someone was playing a squeezebox in the garden. South Petherton evaporated into memory and personal quantal-myth. That moment will now exist forever; it cannot be erased. Distant hubbub, voices melting, blending into faint birdsong. The scratchclick of crickets.

Bats swooping down past the garden shed in the slow creep of twilight, spinning and twisting along the concave flightpath of their own echoes. "Good job I straightened my hair," said Chris, "The fuckers can't nest in it now." Steve's playing swingbat w/ the kids.

I can't remember the last time I saw Mr. I Snr. He used to work for NASA; he's a total fucking dude, just like his son. One of the neighbours is so pissed she has to be helped home.

It gets dark and Mr. Lee joins us, barefoot on the grass, for more Wedding Cigarettes. We compare our ages. "Old Men! Old Men!" He laughs, pointing at us and at himself, laughing. He's cool. Almost as cool as Mr. I Snr.

Bren-W is there...Trendy Brendy, former guitarist w/ Red Factory and producer of the Void Jazz Work-Out Tape. I'm so stoned that I keep thinking he looks like Sean Penn. He's talking about some amzing UFO footage out on the net, but I can't remember any of the sites. Later, he speed-tunes a gtr. He's a fucking geezer.

Bren and I remember a lost 2am moment involving a police land-rover and an Alice Cooper tape. Ultraman-O Glitch sits on his father's lap. For the briefest of seconds, the world peels away from us and stillness prevails.

Time moves thru this world like a silent wind. Every moment leads to this one and the one beyond it. Some moments are more perfect than others. And those moments have surely been kissed by The Buddha.

Bless you. Bless you all, every single one of you.

Life is good.


Okay, groovers, the first in an occasional series of mp3s. I'm gonna ease ya in nice'n easy w/ this one. Nothing too terrifying.

It's an old one from a few years back, but those of you who've heard the unreleased "The Continuing World of Kid Shirt" LP will be familiar w/ this already.

The track's called 119, Farrington Road, London, SE13.

Music to undress yr wife to.

Or husband. But it's qute short, so get yr skates on.


MOTHRA! Specially for Dom:

Dom nearly had a v. bad trip once because of a beligerent young woman who had no understanding of drug etiquette, some jelly and the film "Godzilla Vs. The Smog Monster"...

It won't surprise anyone to learn that I collect crank UFO conspiracy-theory books from the 60s/70s, and I loooove "The Mothman Prophecies" by John Keel. My own copy is a rather shit recent edition republished on the back of the Richard Gere film, but check these beauties...

Needless to say, if any of y'all spot those editions going cheap on yr travels, let me know and I'll recompense ya for yer troubles..."The Mothman Prophecies" is one of those eerie, weird stories that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my The Allende Letters saga, the hollow earth Dero stuff and some of the stranger Men-In-Black anecdotes, this stuff is completely made up but it freaks me out far more than any contemporary horror fiction writer (horror novels just ain't scary, but this shit is...)...there's always that weird reptile-brain notion of what if it actually were true...and that's what sends the shiver up my spine. The fact that someone actually took the time to fabricate this oddball pap to get a book (and eventually a film) deal is a fantastic concept in its own right. This stuff exists outside of all the usual rigidly-conventional SF/Fantasy tropes and drills down into primal fears of otherness, tapping into mythic notions of lost Lemuria, invasion of personal neural-space, all good conspiracy theories, it chips away at all our pre-supposed ideas about how the world really is. That's why all the best crank.lit mythoses, like this, still persist. I t-truly believe that these books are the true inheritors of the Weird Tales/HPL/Clark Ashton Smith vein of Wyrd Dark Fantasy...Keel's stuff completely freaks me out on some deep/dark s/conscious they said in The X-Files: I want to believe...

Like me, Neo-Pop Artist Shaky Kane/Shaky-2000 is a Mothman obsessive, and he once did a Mothman story for 2000AD, but because he didn't have a word-processor, he dictated the entire hand-written script down the phone to me, which I typed (and tidied) up for didn't come out too well in the end, which is a shame; I wish we'd had more time to work on it...but I think there's something in that whole Mothman Mythos that is soooo otherlike that it lifts it head-and-shoulders above most Modern Urban Folk Myths, so it could be worth revisting one day...

Fuck, I miss Shaky...he's a great bloke; I wish he lived nearer, had email, etc. Damn, I'm gonna ring him tomorrow; I miss the big lug...

Another John keel book; this one's pretty creepy too and also contains, I seem to remember, some Mothman-related none-sense: