*Ha! I saw your spoiler post in the week, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… You are really enjoying this US election, aren’t you…*
*Eww, that’s what that smell is… /wrinkles nose… Go and have a bath. I’ll take it from here…*
Happy Halloween, Dear Reader 😀 Today we are delighted to present for you my short story from Underdog Anthology XII: Mask-Querade…
… called ‘What Time Do You Finish?’. Now, if you like it, Dear Reader, you might want to invest in a copy of the anthology, as it is chocked full with stories far creepier than mine. Enjoy! 😉
What Time Do You Finish?
By Roo B. Doo
It is said that Halloween is the time of year when the veil between dimensions is worn at its thinnest. In the year 2020, when a global viral pandemic, violent rioting and supermarket socially distanced queues dominated everyday life, that boundary thickness could be considered as flimsy as paper medical face mask. Why, an errant finger could easily pierce it.
God adjusted the mask across her visage, hoping no one would notice the ragged hole, and also that nothing too nasty had fallen through the breach on her sweet breath.
“How the hell am I supposed to know when we are?” Death snapped and glared up from inside the impenetrable blackness of his cowl at the three ominous figures surrounding him. They stood huddled at the junction of Great Russell and Bloomsbury Streets in London’s bustling West End. It was night, it was cold and, save for the motley quartet, the streets were completely deserted.
“Becoz yur Death,” the first figure hissed and bared vampiric fangs. Famine appeared tall and angular, dressed in a tuxedo, silk lined cape, and with a countenance so pale, it could only have been achieved by avoiding sunlight at any and all costs.
“Because you have the contraption,” the second figure added angrily. War appeared to be a smart businesswoman, confident and aggressive, in horn-rimmed glasses, sharp suit and infinitely sharper stiletto heels.
“AAAAAAAGH!” the third figure groaned as a fat, black housefly zig-zagged across a sunken cheek, before disappearing into a filth-caked nostril. Pestilence appeared to be a zombie; slack mouthed, grey decaying flesh and milk white, opaque eyes.
“No, Pesto, I don’t know what happened to the horses,” Death answered his rotting companion. He pulled himself up to his full height of three feet and three inches, retrieved a battered Psion organiser from beneath the folds of his robe, and unsheathed it with a satisfying pop. “I don’t understand it,” he cried, “transport’s always been laid on before.”
War, Famine and Pestilence stood in silence, watching over the diminutive but perfectly formed grim reaper, as he punched the keys of the electronic organiser with a gleaming phalange, and waited.
Click. Click. Click, click, click… click.
“Well?” War said impatiently. “We’re in London, that much is for sure. The British Museum is over there.”
Pestilence’s body did not move a single rotting muscle, but his head turned an unearthly 180° to follow the direction that War’s crimson painted talon was pointing in. “UGH WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Ve don’t know if ve are zupposed to go zere.” Famine reached out and clasped either side of Pestilence’s head, twisting it back into a front facing position. “Ve don’t know vy ve are even here. Death, vot iz taking you zo long to find out?”
“Wait…” Death did not look up.
Click. Click, click. Click.
Death peered hard at the tiny screen on the Psion, before shaking it hard. “I dunno. It’s not working. Maybe the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Net is down again,” he said with a shrug.
“Argh!” War howled. She reached down and grabbed Death by the front of his robe and lifted him up to face height. Behind her glasses, War’s eyes blazed with fire. “That’s just brilliant! Ace! Fun-fucking-tastic, Death! What are we meant to do now?”
The dead weight of Pestilence’s arm slapped War on the shoulder. “WAAAGH UGH!”
“Yez, yez, yez, ve should all calm down,” Famine said smoothly, pulling Death from War’s tight grasp and setting him back on the pavement. He plucked Pestilence’s arm from War’s shoulder before she could rip it from its socket. “It does no good for uz to get agitated. Ve need to zink vot haz happened.”
“Exactly right, Famine,” Death injected in agreement. “Let’s look at what we do know.” He pushed himself free of the huddle and turned to face his companions. “We’ve got War, Famine, Pestilence and yours truly.” He began to glide, circling the trio. “The ultimate harbingers of doom and bringers of great tribulation. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse-”
“Sans horses, indeed. Most irregular. Literally dropped, without warning, in the middle of London-”
“Clos to ze British Muzeum,” Famine interrupted.
“Correct. So we know where we are but we don’t know when we are-”
“Late twentieth, early twenty first century, I’d say, from the smell of the air,” War joined in. “Plus it’s night time and it’s bloody freezing.”
“A winter’s night, yes. Probably accounts for the lack of any activity about-”
Death glided to a stop. “Your right, Pesto; there should be people about, even in winter. A big city like this produces lots of traffic-”
“Yez,” Famine mused, loudly tapping on his fangs in contemplation. “No motor vehicles hav passed by since ve arrived.”
Death nodded slowly, then looked up at the sky. One by one, War, Famine and Pestilence followed Death’s gaze.
“Nope, too much cloud cover and light pollution. I can’t see any stars to work out when we are.”
“I have a very bad feeling about this,” War whispered hoarsely.
“WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!” Pestilence groaned.
“I agree, Pestilence, my dear friend. It haz to be a mistake,” Famine said solemnly. “An accident.”
“Possibly. We’d better start walking,” Death said and glided away down Bloomsbury Street, in the direction of Covent Garden.
War, Famine and Pestilence looked at each other and muttered darkly.
“Hold it, short-arse,” War barked. “Where exactly are we walking to? I can’t go far in these heels. They’re fucking murder.”
Pestilence dropped a shoulder and lurched awkwardly after Death. “AAAAAAAGH WAAAGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Seriously? You’re going to follow him?” War shouted after the hunched and shambling figure of Pestilence. “You’ll disintegrate before you reach the end of this street, you noxious pile of pus! ”
Famine took War’s hands between his own, bowed deeply and lightly kissed her clenched fists until they opened. “Don’t vorry, my dear lady. I vill speak to Death.” Gently, he tugged on War so that she tottered forward with unsteady steps. “Please, come. Valk slowly. I vill talk to him.” With that, Famine turned into a giant bat and flew off in the direction of Death.
War roared with frustration but continued to follow the others. “I have Birkenstocks, you know. Why couldn’t I have manifested in my fucking Birkenstocks…”
Death heard wop-wopping wing beats approach from behind, and felt the change in air pressure as Famine flew over his head. He glided slowly until he reached his suave compadre, who stood in the middle of the pavement, arms wide, cape billowing and fangs bared.
“Death, stop please,” Famine pleaded. “Vor and Pestilence are in no fit state to valk far. Look.” He gestured back to the way they’d come. Pestilence jerked along slowly in the middle distance, with War following on behind, daintily sidestepping the trail of fleshy ooze left in Pestilence’s wake.
“Death, Death,” Famine cooed, “You know ve vould valk to the ends of ze vorld vid you, but you must tell us, vere are you taking us?”
Death paused and looked up, appraising his companion – Famine: always hungry, never sated, forever empty; his vampire appearance was more than apt. Pestilence, too, in zombie form was unrelenting, poisoning everything, even the very air. War, however, was a puzzler unless she represented a battle of the sexes. Should War shatter the fabled glass ceiling, Death was certain she would then set about slitting every available throat with the deadly shards.
What about me, though? I’m exactly the same, I haven’t changed, Death wondered. The inside of his skull began to itch. He sighed and shook his head. This whole situation was wrong and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something big. Something important.
“Death?” Famine snapped his fingers rapidly. “Vere are ve going?” he demanded.
“To the Embankment, Famine. To Cleopatra’s Needle.”
“Ov course!” Famine slapped the palm of his hand against his widow’s peaked forehead. “Ze ancient Egyptian Obelisks of Time! Ve can return to ze hintervorld by way ov Cleopatra’s Needle! Zat iz super fine zinking, Death. No vonder yur the leader.”
“I-” Death suddenly cocked his head to one side. “Can you hear that?”
There was a low rumble in the distance but it was gradually getting louder, moving nearer. Death and Famine watched as at first, War turned her head to look behind, following the direction of the sound, then Pestilence slowly shuffled round to see what was making the noise. Further back in the distance, Death could just make out a dim rectangle of orange light, floating closer through the darkness, getting brighter. War began to wave her arms and shout.
“AAAAAAAGH!” Pestilence bellowed.
Death and Famine glanced at each other before racing back towards Pestilence and War. “Taxi!” they shouted in unison, tinged of relief.
War, Famine and Pestilence sat in abject silence in the back of the taxi; the three separated from Death and the taxi driver in the front by a transparent sheet of plexiglass, with only a narrow slot cut into it for the exchange of money.
Excuse me while I light my spliff…
“Spliff,” the taxi driver sang along to the bassy sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers coming through the speakers.
Oh God I gotta take a lift…
“Lift.” The taxi driver turned toward Death and gave him a beaming smile.
From reality I just can’t drift…
That’s why I am staying with this riff…
“Riff.” The taxi driver chuckled and tapped his hands on the top of the steering wheel, in time with the music. “Easy Skanking. Hell, I love this song.”
Death looked out of his side window. The feeling that something was wrong had only intensified as the empty London streets rushed by. He cursed the broken Psion organiser tucked inside his robes. Bloody useless technology. Give me an hourglass any day, he thought sourly.
“Good party, was it?” the taxi driver asked.
“Huh?” Death replied, perplexed by the driver’s question.
The taxi driver laughed. “The fancy dress party. Your costumes are sweet. I thought the government had cancelled Halloween because of the Rona.”
Death stiffened and the itching inside his skull increased. “Halloween’s been cancelled?”
“Yeah man, Christmas too if we’re not lucky,” the taxi driver replied.
“What year is… it?” Death asked slowly.
The taxi driver sucked his teeth contemptuously. “What you mean what year is it? It’s 2020, child. Where have you been?”
A burst of realisation exploded through Death’s train of consciousness: It’s 2020: the year anything happened! The year when pandemic waves of Coronavirus and Karenitus swept the globe, resulting in lockdowns, economic disaster and civil unrest. Things are starting to make sense now! Even so, the itch continued to irritate the inside of Death’s skull.
Cigar smoke suddenly filled the front of the taxi. Death coughed and tapped on the sign affixed to the console. “That says ‘No Smoking’.”
The taxi driver grinned at Death, a smoking cigar butt jauntily perched from the corner of his mouth. “2020, child. Donch ya know the saying? ‘A smoke a day keeps the Rona at bay’.” He laughed heartily and bounced up and down in his seat with mirth. “Besides, who’s gonna stop me? Look about you, my small friend. There’s no one around to say shit about it.”
If Death still had eyes, they would have been rolling round his ocular cavities. “Hey guys.” He shouted to the others through the slot in the plexiglass. “Problem solved: it’s 2020.”
“Tventy Tventy! Hellz Bellz!” Famine exclaimed.
Pestilence gave a guttural groan. “WAAAGH UGH AAAAAAAGH!”
“Yes, but what’s the date?” War demanded nervously.
“It’s the 31st October, sugar,” the taxi driver called back. “Happy Halloween.”
The taxi stopped at the end of Temple Place. In front lay the deserted Embankment. Along side it, the river Thames flowed swiftly past, glittering lights shimmered on its rippled surface, as above the clouds began to separate, clear, and finally reveal the celestial occupants of the night sky. The taxi driver nonchalantly flicked a switch on his dashboard, locking all the vehicle doors with a loud clunk.
“Oh no,” War murmured gravely and pressed her hands hard against her stomach. “No, no, no!”
“Vot iz it, Vor?” Famine asked with rising alarm.
A shaft of moonlight hit the taxi as it slowly pulled right out of the junction and onto the empty Embankment, illuminating its interior. The Moon was bright, it was clear and it was very full.
“It’s my monthlies,” War whined, sliding off her seat and onto all fours. Her jaw elongated and wiry tufts of fur sprang from her gnarly brow, knocking War’s horn-rimmed glasses from her face. “I don’t fucking believe this. Why nowOOOO!”
“Now this is a great song. One of the Skipper’s best,” the taxi driver exclaimed, ignoring the howling and growling, and blood-curdling shrieks of panic coming from the back of the cab, as the previously smart and professional War transformed into a ferocious and carnal beast. He turned up the volume on his stereo and began to croon along,
Until the philosophy, which hold one race superior and another. Inferior. Is finally. And permanently. Discredited. And abandoned. Everywhere is war. Me say war.
“Vot? NOOOO! Get avay! Get avay!” Famine screamed and impotently fumbled with the taxi’s doors handles. They were securely locked, however; there would be no escape.
Death sat stock still, strapped in tight and listened in horror to the sound of Famine and Pestilence being ripped apart by the slavering jaws and slashing claws of a werewolf that appeared to be War.
“How’s you seat, child?” the taxi driver asked slyly.
“I’m not a child,” Death tersely replied.
“UGH!” Pestilence’s bloody fingers abruptly thrust through the slot in the plexiglass, twitched once, then lay limp.
“I know, I know, little man. No offence intended.” The taxi driver continued. “That space you’re occupying used to be for luggage, but times are hard and last year it was converted into a child seat,” he explained. “Good thing for you, eh?”
The heavy silence that fell between the driver and his passenger was punctured by the sound of wet chomps and crunching bone emanating from the back of the cab.
The itch in Death skull stopped, but the very fabric of reality now took up its cause.
“Scratch?” Death asked tentatively.
“Who else you expecting?” the Devil, who appeared to be a smirking, smoking taxi driver, replied. The vehicle slowed to a stop next to Cleopatra’s Needle. “Now hurry up and spit it out. It’s time for you to leave.”
Death paused; it felt like eternity. Finally he asked, “Why?”
“Why?” Old Scratch puffed on his cigar, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. “Why, Armageddon, little man. What did you think this is?”
Death was flummoxed. In his long existence, he had never been flummoxed before. It was a new sensation, but not one he’d ever longed for.
Old Scratch patted him on the head, then reached up to retrieve a folded piece of paper from behind the sun visor. “I got a letter last year, see,” he explained. He unfolded the page and glanced down at the childish writing on it. “From a sweet, innocent child. A touch dyslexic, but with the purest soul ever to inhabit a human body. What could I do?” He offered the letter to Death. “My heart just melted.”
Death took the letter from Old Scratch and began to read aloud: “’Dear Satan. My name is Molly and I have everything I will ever need. Can you please help everybody else in the world by ending hunger, pollution and war. This is my Christmas wish. Thank you. Molly Darling, age 6. P.S. I hope you are well.’”
“So considerate and polite,” Old Scratch sighed, taking the letter back.
All the stars in the heavens swirled furiously inside Death’s skull. He mentally grappled with the raging storm, searching for a handhold on his sanity. “War ended Pestilence and Famine, but War isn’t dead.”
“You sure? Can’t hear no breathing back there.”
Death swiftly unlocked his seatbelt and stood up on his seat. The plexiglass was no longer transparent, but smeared red with blood and gore. He pushed the dead fingers of Pestilence back through the slot and heard a splash as the severed hand they were attached to thudded to the floor of the taxi. Death peered through the gap and saw War lying naked and smoothly pale in the bloodbath. A chunk of half chewed greenish meat fell free from her lifeless lips.
“WooEE! That Pesto sure was ripe!” Old Scratch said, opening his window and flicking out ash from his cigar. “Bad meat. Never eat it. Always, always, insist on fresh.”
Death pulled away from the sight of the abomination in the back of the taxi and sat back down in his seat. “But how can it be Armageddon if War, Famine and Pestilence are gone?”
Old Scratch punched the numbers on the keyboard of the dashboard fare display. “With no hunger, there will be obesity, so humanity will become slovenly and fat, lazy and satisfied. No war means no competition, no goals to achieve, so mankind will lose its desire to better itself. And the elimination of pollution is a sure fire way of killing any human creativity. I give the species ten years, tops.”
“But there will be death,” Death whispered softly.
“Oh indeed, you’re still needed. You have a busy time ahead of you, little man. That’ll be six six six.”
Death snapped his head back to face the Devil in the driver’s seat. “What?”
Old Scratch laughed and pointed to the fare metre. “Six pounds, sixty six.” He gave a phlegmy cough and waved Death away. “Just kidding. For you, child, no charge,” he said gleefully.
*Ah, that’s much better, Clicky… /stubs butt… Do try to keep clean…*
We hope you enjoyed the story, Dear Reader, and that you will consider purchasing a copy of the latest Underdog Anthology…
*”By the book”… /thinks… Who was the 37th President of America, Clicky?*
*/rolls eyes… Elementary, dear Clicky…*
… And may the rest of your Halloween we kenned be spooky. Have a Song… ❤
*An’ I’ll tell you wot else… /flicks ash… ‘Trailblazer’ crops up later in this post…*
Last evening, Dear Reader, Text US Okie Devil Cade Fon Apollyon and I indulged in a spot of remote viewing. I mentioned it to Leggy after…
*Now that I come to fink of it… /deep drag… Pesto’s reporting precipitated the fall of Northern Rock bank in 2007…*
*/plumes smoke… Pesto joined Twitter in March 2008, so ‘e wouldn’t ‘ave broke the story there. ‘E gets more push back now on the narratives ‘E’s peddlin’…*
*Fuckin’ ‘ell, Clicky! …/grimaces… Why’d you leave the ‘igh pitch bit in at the end? My ears are ringing…*
‘JPL is also building a new version of M3 for an orbiter called Lunar Trailblazer.’
*True man painter… /smirks… Trumania, Trump Mania. There’s a lot of that about…*
Although very different, both movies are really quite wonderful in their own way. Especially seen one after the other, if you have an interest in Sin-Crow-Mist-Eyes-Is-Sum. ‘The Girl With a Pearl Earring’ is understated but high in tension and simply gorgeous to look at…
*Yep, one of the first fings I saw this morning, Clicky… /lights up…*
… And ‘The Truman Show’ is all about experiencing synchronicity in an artificial world…
*/drags… It can sum times feel like that, Clicky, true…*
*What?! …/coughs out smoke… No, I don’t want to remote view ‘Sophie’s Choice’ next. I’ve seen it; it doesn’t end well…*
*Stoned or stoning, one of those…
*Far Right and Far Left? So close in ideology that you couldn’t separate ’em with a fuckin’ cigarette paper…*
*It has been a good afternoon, evening and night, Clicky, it has…*
… Now, if you will excuse me, Dear Reader, I have to go and write a story. But thank you for spending your precious time here with us at the LoL, lolling, so to speak. We all lol down here 😉 Have a Song…
Hello there, Dear Reader 😀 I know, I know, it’s been over a month, but the wait is finally over – a fresh missive from Cade Fon Apollyon is newly arrived at the LoL…
*Oh bollocks! You’ve got me thinking about how Iocane power comes from Australia…*
*Antipodeans are so fuckin’ needy to be seen as whirled leaders, Clicky… /drags… regardless of the direction of travel…*
*/streams smokes… When it seems that for all these years smokers have been building a tolerance to Covid-19…*
*You can say that again, Clicky…*
… So, without further ado, Dear Reader, get stuck in… and enjoy! ❤
Pay no heed to the above. Especially those first four letters and their ordering. Just doing some textual doodling whilst I was thinking about a concept. Amazing what one sometimes sees whilst trying to get their head wrapped around a something.
^Riot In Belgium – La Musique^
If someone is “on the fence”, I can only wonder how they got there.
Anyone have any ideas as to how individuals wind up on a fence?
Anyone have any ideas as to who says it’s a bad thing to be on a fence? Because I’d argue they’ve never encountered an angry stray dog or unleashed/unfenced dog.
They’ve certainly not encountered an entire pack of angry loose dogs.
Growling, slobbering, angry animals who want you off that fence so they can get a piece of you.
The only thing protecting you is that fence. Thank God that fence was there for you to jump on, eh?
Say, that reminds me, what are fences sometimes made of?
Trees sometimes work just as well as a fence.
Someone prolly gonna have issues with you being in that tree too tho’.
No telling who may own that tree, and the owner(s) may have issues with you being in that tree irrespective of your own personal reasons for being in it.
And maybe not just and only the same rabid fucks who initially chased you up there in the first place.
You sure have amassed a metric fuckton of people who want you out of that tree or off that fence. Holy hell, you were only trying to save your own bacon…what the FUCK?!?!?
^Fischerspooner – Emerge^
People who say “they aren’t interested in material things” cause me concern. I am a material thing. I even have a few material things that are my own. Can only wonder if your disinterest in material things may cause you to trash me and my things.
^D’ya Wanna Go Faster? – Terrorvision^
Well, what do we have here?!? A question from The Whatever However Hotline!
Q: Cade, is it true that the USA has plans to invade other countries?
Cade: Wow…what a generic, yet completely off-the-wall type of question to ask of someone who is completely unqualified to answer the question. But, yes, the United States of America does indeed have plans already made up and ready to go to either repel certain invasions, to support certain allies in certain ways in certain theatres, and also there are plans to invade just about any and every nook and cranny of the entire planet and beyond.
I hate to tell you this, but whatever country you occupy likely has loads of similar plans. So do you. You make plans to invade financial markets. Grocery stores. Retail shops. Men. Women. Neighbors. Family members. Wasp nests. Dirty kitchens. Unkempt lawns or gardens. Roadways. The Internet. You have shitloads of your own plans to defend, invade and/or attack certain areas in order to keep what you have, or get what you want or need. Or maybe you just want to make a something look and behave like you think it should look and behave, so you organize a plan in order to get that done. Also, I don’t see what the big mystery is with countries and their governments having plans formulated and ready to react to a given situation.
That's what you pay them to do
^Whale – Hobo Humpin Slobo Babe^
Something that has troubled me for a long time regarding the concept of transmediums and/or mediumship is that once this connection is made, neither party exists. Both cease to exist. The medium or host is no longer themselves, and the interloper cannot be themselves within the domain of another as they are inaccurately represented. In order for this to work, I would think that any invading spirit would have to perfectly emulate the host prior to entry. But again this does not work because the spirit is no longer the unique being they were. They are now whomever they are attempting to latch onto.
All those thoughts aside, I would think that in order for mediumship of any kind to work, the medium themselves would have to be completely and totally neutral. In order for the portal or gateway to work, you cannot have your own opinion, you cannot make your own observations, no annotations, no embellishments, no interpretations, no corrections. You have to pass the data, as is, irrespective of whether it makes any sense to you or not. Doesn’t matter if it makes sense to the recipient(s) either. Nor even the sender. The medium is a diode. A switch. Which makes me wonder as to the mechanics of more servomechanism types of action(s) when information is being transmitting from one plane to another. Which lands me right back at in order for the portal or gateway to work, you cannot have your own opinion, you cannot make your own observations, no annotations, no embellishments, no interpretations, no corrections. You have to somehow exist in both planes, whilst simultaneously not existing in either. Physics is likely to say this is an impossibility.
BLOOPS! I guess maybe matter can have two separate/different states at the same time. But then again, why couldn’t it? Light is both particle and wave at the same time. Depending upon present company of course.
^Røyksopp – What Else Is There [Trentemøller Remix] FULL LENGTH^
We hear a lot about “great minds” getting together and discussing ideas. I guess the implication is that when this happens, “the smart” get smarter. But what happens when dumbasses get together and discuss ideas? Do they get dumber? When average people get together to discuss ideas, do they get more average? Not only that, but when dumb people get together and get dumber, do the smart get smarter by default? Like, the smart fuckers don’t even have to get together in order to get smarter, nor do the average folk need to get together in order to become more average.
^Culture Code – Make Me Move (feat. Karra) [NCS Release]^
Awoke this morning with the concepts of affection and being affectionate on my mind, pondered it a bit, but reached no conclusions as to the nature of affection. In order to be affectionate, one must be in proximity to and/or have reasonable access to a second party, and that second party must be receptive to the affection.
What I also pondered was the concept of passionate affection, and/or, being affectionately passionate. One being a state of having a passion for affection, and one being a state of passion whilst displaying affection. I wondered about myself and my love for displaying affection. I’m not real great at being on the receiving end of affection(s), but I feel fairly confident in my abilities to dole affection out. Question is, is this desire to display affection a detriment? Moreover, could my yearning to dote upon someone be considered a fault? Again, another party must be present, and they must be receptive to any affections otherwise I’m subject to repudiation.
Things just took an unexpected turn
^Paul Jacobs – Soul Grabber part four – Motocross Madness^
Was thinking about the concept of “too much” with respect to affection in a relationship. If you and I are in a relationship, like a touchy-feely type relationship, and I try and rub your shoulders each day when you arrive home from work, there are likely days when you don’t want your shoulders rubbed. There may even come a point to where you appear to never want your shoulders rubbed, and I get the hint and stop even trying to offer.
Q: Will you notice the cessation of my advances?
You didn’t want me rubbing your shoulders, I complied, all parties should be happy. Or at least until you get it in your mind that “hey, I wonder why he never asks me if I want a shoulder rub anymore?”. It’s prolly because I’ve abandoned you completely and am fucking your sister, two of your aunts, as well as several of your friends. I even rub their shoulders occasionally.
Unlike you, they like it
^Kate Davis – Keep An Open Heart | Sofar NYC^
There’s prolly all kinds of residuals which collect over time and throw us into loops.
I personally am not one to immediately dismiss loops as bad things. Those seemingly repetitive passes provide one a chance to evaluate these loops they’re in. Maybe provide the time for figuring out how to best escape the situation. Maybe even provide the time to dismantle the very architecture you created which landed you in these loops in the first place. Find ways around, find ways through, find ways out. Before you know it, you’re on your way to wherever you want to be, you’ve likely learned a thing or two, and you’re now free to repeat the whole damn process anew on greener pastures. Loads of free space out there just waiting for you to fill it with more baggage.
^Irene & The Disappointments – Iceblink Luck (Cocteau Twins cover)^
And hey, since we are on the topic of baggage…
Q: How do you treat your own baggage?
Yeah, like luggage: How do you treat your own luggage as you travel? Pretty well I bet. It is important to you afterall. Even if its the cheap stuff or some knock-off of “designer luggage” like Louis Baton or Ralph Lorenzo or Samsonote or Amercan Tourastafarian.
But how others treat our baggage? Wheeeeeee doggies!!! That’s a whole other topic now ain’t it? Those professional baggage handlers who handle baggage all day every day better treat your baggage with the respect it deserves, eh?
Just thinking that maybe a lot of this “personal baggage” stuff sometimes centers more around how we perceive how others perceive/treat our baggage rather than what we ourselves think about our own shiz. We try and see what they are seeing, rather than seeing things as we see them. Hey, treat your own shit well. That’s the best you can prolly ever hope for. Others are unlikely to give a fuck. I mean, what the hell are they doing rummaging through your baggage for anyway? Ain’t they got their own shit to deal with? What are they, psychological customs agents? Are they even digging through your shit, or is it a matter of your opinions about someone else’s opinions about you and your shit?
What a fucking mess
^Leningrad Cowboys – L.A. Woman^
Hate to be the one to tell you this…
…but I don’t think “exclusivity” exists in the more esoteric realms. Not to mention that you, in any more commercial endeavors, want people to consume whatever you are trowling out…right? You want them to hear you, understand you, believe you, convert their way(s) of thinking to be more in line with your own way(s) of thinking?
However, when others hear you and your thoughts, and they in turn voice their own opinions on your thoughts, you suddenly accuse them of totally missing your point(s)? Of not understanding your elevated and miraculous wisdom in the way and ways you want them to? You’re giving pearls to the pigs, but they just…don’t…get it?
Must be lonely in that pearly tower of your own wisdom that appears to be primarily based on someone else’s wisdom.
^S.A.I.N Part Two / It’s Alright (Goodfellow’s Remix)^
I’ve never read Jung…
…I almost never write about Jung. I purposefully avoid Jung as best I can, and may never get around to reading Jung. But I’ve experienced synchronicity my entire life whilst never knowing what in the fuck it was, nor did I ever encounter anyone else who experienced such things. Even got to where I didn’t talk about my experiences because everyone I spoke with about these weird coincidences branded me a goddamn loon. Told me I was nuts. Told me they were just coincidence(s) with no meaning whatsoever and it was all my imagination trying to add some additional meaning where there in fact was no meaning.
When I later stumbled upon Jung and his synchronicity jazz, it was quite the revelation for sure, but I was already miles down my own path, figuring out my own shit in my own ways. You really think it would be a wise thing for me to toss all of that in favor of someone else’s methods and meanings?
I think not
When I later found synchromysticism, I’ve figured I prolly made the right choice in avoiding Jung and sticking to what I know from my own experiences. Wander around and hear what others think about Jung, then ease myself into Jung’s actual works whenever I’m ready, and then form my own opinions. This may seem a bit backwards to some, but to me it’s the proper path. Meet Mr. Jung on my own terms so I can be more understanding about whatever it is he’s got to say. Afterall, this is gonna be a one-way conversation: he speaks, I listen, and there will be no conversation nor debate. Just a shitload of questions, all of which I’ll be required to find the answers on my own.
Maybe walking alone through the synchronistic storms of my own life wasn’t such a bad idea afterall.
^Liberty City – Thats what i got^
Not trying to knock on anyone, but it does occur to me that even Jung’s stuff is an amalgam of other various shit from those who came before him. Were that previous stuff not to exist and/or not exist in the ordering that it did, neither would Jung’s work exist nor would “Jungians” be a thing.
Everything that came before was mutations of the shit that proceeded it. Jung’s shit was a mutation of the bits and pieces he gleaned from the whole mess, and Jung’s shit can only mutate further from there. Branch. The old shit is still there, the purists are still free to do their thing, there’s just gonna be a lot of new shit heaped on top.
^The Ultimate Seduction (Klubbheads mix)^
You know what? Pretty much all that bullshit above has been sitting on my hard drive for right around a month or so. Was it really necessary that I inform you, the reader, of that information? No idea. I’ve not a clue when this will be published, nor do I know when you are reading this, nor do I know who the fuck you even are, nor why you’re reading my nonsense. Might be a something you’d be interested to know tho.
I got lots more to write about, but ain’t gonna do it here and now.
I’m currently vexed by a thing or two.
I’m finding folds of skin that I didn’t even know existed.
I’ve suspected for a long time, sure, but never had any “proof”.
Would be quite something to find out how this is even possible.
Maybe even to find out some of what is behind it all.
And I really need to cut my fingernails prior to any involved typing.
I can type fair when they are short, I can type fair when they are long.
But when they are in that midrange stage?
Quite the challenge to type with middle-of-the-road length fingernails.
^DkA – Reborn^
^Lord Huron – Ends of the Earth (Official)^
*Ha ha… The Jung Ones… /stubs butt… Seminal, Clicky, seminal viewing for a teenager in the early 80s…*
Dear Reader, we hope you enjoyed Cade’s missive. As always, comments are open for any burning questions raised from the above, but in the meantime… Have a Song… 😉
*Of course, that’s a lie, Dear Reader…
*If the outside is the new inside, Clicky, then surely smoking can be accommodated via smoking areas inside hospitality establishments? …/coughs…*
*I know, a stupid question… /flicks ash… Wait, eliminating six million people? I’ve heard that before…*
Today, Dear Reader, mask wearing became mandatory inside public places in the UK. Less than two months after the World Health Organisation changed its mind on the effectiveness of masks…
… That’s fast work. So exactly how big is a Coronavirus (Covid-19) virus?
… In fact, the Covid-19 Coronavirus is so tiny, it cannot be seen with the naked eye. Which begs the question: just how effective would an everyday mask be at stopping the tiny, murderous monster from infecting you or anyone else?
*Glad vaping has some fuckin’ use…*
*Satire so sharp, it cuts… /final drag…*
*Dunno, Clicky… /stubs butt… Fuck it, I’m off to re-watch Deadwood with Cade. That’ll lift my mood…*