*Ugh, the man’s a fool… /grimaces…*
*/rolls eyes… Enough, I don’t need to see it again..*
*I said enough, Clicky…Wait… /flicks ash… Hmm, purple is my colour…*
Today is my birthday, Dear Reader, and I am now 54…
*Years old. Too fast, Clicky… /puffs contentedly… Xenon and xenophobia share the same root…*
I don’t have an awful lot to say on the subject of my birthday, so here is Cade Fon Apollyon, the Okie Devil from Text US, with a brand new missive…
What if…Eden happened…because time ran backwards.
Supposedly, when a species goes extinct, the population is whittled down until only a few remain, and ultimately, there’s only one left. Or maybe two, then one, then… two… then…
Might indicate there is some creepy fucker lurking in the shadows.
There’s a lot to think about there. What is primary on your mind tho is probably what I meant by “some creepy fucker lurking in the shadows”. Well…why don’t you yourself give it a think. We are supposedly smart, sentient beings, and even tho our planet will likely someday end, our universe is supposedly infinite, so why don’t you think for a moment as to what it would be like if time ran not only forwards, but backwards. Or at least, downwards? Then maybe backwards.
I’m not being fatalistic here. What I’m thinking about is more the birth of the Universe than the end. There are those that believe that not only have we been here before, but we shall be here again. I’m…not exactly on-board with that theory, but I understand it a bit. And the mechanics behind this theory is kinda where I started this post with respect to Eden happening because time ran backwards.
Question is, does anything ever change through the iterations?
Singularity, Big Bang, Expansion, Contraction, Big Crunch, Singularity, Big Bang, etc., etc.. Does such a loop really imply some sort of precise exactness in the iterations?
Welp, I’d say no. Especially if decay is a thing, or even if change of any kind is a thing, or even if…addition is a thing. Any sort of change or annexation of matter from the previous iteration would, I’d think anyway, result in some change or changes. And of course if the exact same amount of mass was arranged differently in an iteration, I’d think that too would result in some changes between the previous iteration and the current. Might also affect future iterations unless of course there was some “master” something that kept track of the iterations. That’s a mind-bender in and of itself.
Where would such information be stored?
I dunno if I’m looking for a master here, but there sure as shit seems to exist some mastery.
!!!HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROOBEEDOO!!!
Yep, Roob is 101 or so years old today
(give or take)
Many happy returns to her.
I dunno how to add a song here without getting too mushy, but she’s almost certainly a lady, and I’ll just go with the first song that popped into my head.
This rather short something was started back on April 27th of this year, and as you can tell, I didn’t get very far. Life sometimes intrudes, the now has arrived, and I think I’ll keep this one simple and just stop here. Sorry for appearing lazy, but I don’t want to burden Roob with some massive rambling something for her to have to format on her birthday. You’re just have to pick up the slack for me by leaving a load of comments and possibly engaging in discussion.
Have a lovely Towel Day, Dear Reader and… Have a Song… ❤
*Nice! Good choice of Song to start, Clicky…*
Dear Reader, I had a dream this week in which Cade Fon Apollyon told me something. Something important…
*Oh shit! That was the soundtrack to that dream, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… I woke up humming it…*
*Phil opines? …/taps ash… Who’da thunk it?*
… What I didn’t do at the time, something that I always do, was to visit Etymology Online to find out if ‘lucuna’ had a meaning and how its root had developed in time…
“blank or missing portion in a manuscript,” 1660s, from Latin lacuna “hole, pit,” figuratively “a gap, void, want,” diminutive of lacus “pond, lake; hollow, opening” (see lake (n.1)). The Latin plural is lacunae. The word has also been used in English from c. 1700 in the literal Latin sense in anatomy, zoology, botany. The adjectival forms have somewhat sorted themselves: Mathematics tends to use lacunary (1857), natural history lacunose (1816), and lacunar (n.) is used in architecture of paneled ceilings (1690s), so called for their sunken compartments. Leaving lacunal (1846) for the manuscript sense.
*Sign language? Interesting – I think of synchromysticism as sign language for the def…*
… Then yesterday, a new missive arrived in my inbox! No. #168, one that Cade wrote on the 13th January 2021, but only sent yesterday. He explained his reason for the delay, butt I shall not divulge it here…
*’Cos it’s no one’s fuckin’ bidness, butt his own, Clicky…*
… Four missives from the Okie Text US Devil have been posted at the LoL in meantime, however…
… Doo go take a look. Or not. As always, Dear Reader, that decision is entirely up to you. Now here is Cade’s lacuna missive.
Greetings fellow humans, humanoids, and other assorted entities residing in gravity. My name is Cade F.O.N Apollyon, and I would like to welcome you to this edition of “Missive From ‘Merica”. My co-hosts are RooBeeDoo, her assistant Clicky, and by the time you read this they have likely formatted and polished this particular writing of mine to a high shine.
You should know from the start here that I have made a decision to take the writing in a different direction today, as it would appear that some consider my writing as terse. Acerbic. Vulgar. Dirty. Offensive. Racist. Misogynistic. Disrespectful. Blasphemous. Too forward or too direct. Too cluttered, disorganized and sloppy. Too happy-go-lucky and freewheeling. Too loosey-goosey with the rules. Too non-standard, abstract and misty. Too vague. Too distant and nonsensical and even pointless. Too…
For your own personal peace of mind, I would like to remedy this. All of it.
With that in mind, I, today, shall take my first baby-steps into a new world. No longer shall I endeavor to write in such a way as to inspire you to think with your own mind and leave you with your own thoughts to make your own decisions; I shall now strive to dictate your thoughts and your thinking for you. I will strive to find all your answers for you, and then deliver them to you. I shall strive to add my own voice to that of the echo chamber. I shall join the resonant drone so as to add more power to the socially acceptable mantra(s). Perhaps my finally joining the throng will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and this whole mess will, finally, and completely, self-destruct.
Thank you for putting me on the path. Thank you for showing me the light. Thank you for saving me from myself for your own benefit.
– – –
Last night’s dream was terrible. I could get nothing right. Everything I did was wrong: was clumsy, was awkward, everything I touched ended in complete disaster. The worst part about the dream though? I remembered it when I awoke. I already get everything wrong in my waking life. ‘Tis a shame that I am now getting it wrong in my dreams.
No stranger to dreams here. Dreams are a regular part of my life, dreaming is a regular and frequent occurrence, and they are always strange in that they always seem to be completely detached from reality. There are very real things in them sure, but they always, I mean always, take a strange turn that is so completely unexpected that the reality within the dream is shattered.
I have been dreaming every night, without fail, ever since around July/August of 2019. The thing is, I’ve started to not remember my dreams very much, which is highly unusual for me personally.
Alas, I must bail out of this section. I must digress and write something else.
I was going to regale you, the reader, with the all of the details and specifics of last night’s dream, but I have completely lost my nerve. My shyness has kicked in, self-preservation mode has been activated, I’ve lost my train of thought, and I’m far too fearful at this point to share my dream with you for fear of being thought of as a complete freak. My courage has left me.
– – –
Should dance be considered a martial art? Strange question, but I must ask it. It would help some if you, the reader, has an understanding of what a martial art is.
Martial arts are codified systems and traditions of combat practiced for a number of reasons such as self-defense; military and law enforcement applications; competition; physical, mental, and spiritual development; entertainment; and the preservation of a nation’s intangible cultural heritage.
Disarming. Dance, dances and dancing are disarming. There are a great many people, in the world, right now, doing dances, in order to disarm people. Making an effort to get the masses to drop their guard or lower their weapons. Molding the hearts and minds of individuals, in the moment, so as to get them to behave in a way that is more conducive to that which suits the dancer’s purpose. And that is the purpose of the dance: to focus a certain specific energy in a certain specific direction.
Typically, I’d think a dancer would want anyone watching to be pleased. Sure, the dancer wants to express themselves, and dance is the art form they’ve chosen as a medium for this expression, but they are going to want others to like their efforts. They are going to want to be accepted and garner approval from others. They are going to want to know that their time in learning to dance has been well spent. The audience has fallen under your spell, and will now behave according to your wishes.
With that, I must question that which is a martial art, which is typically not considered a martial art. Question those things that allow an individual to command and control a situation. Why? I’ve began to ponder the idea that if dance can be considered a martial art, so too can theatre. So now I must question the nature of theatre. I must question my preconceived notions about what is and is not theatre.
Is a street performance to be construed as theatre? Is a public gathering to be considered a street performance?
Is a riot to be considered a street performance?
Is giving a briefing outside of 10 Downing Street to be considered a street performance?
Is “a mass shooting” to be considered a street performance?
Is a reporter reporting from the site of some event to be considered a street performance?
Is all of that theatre? Is any of it?
Is the point of theatre to titillate, excite and entertain? To rouse and/or stir emotion(s) in their audience? Furthermore, is it the point of the theatre company and players to swing these emotions for their own benefit? What does the audience get in return, and do they get their money’s worth?
Is that what this is all about? Money?
Oh my, that does not look like writing that is going to please an audience. I am putting entirely too much pressure on the reader’s shoulders. I should be giving answers instead of asking questions.
Pardon me whilst I digress to a something that maybe I can hold a thought on.
– – –
Not being fond of being told what to do, there are only two possibilities…
Uno: The person telling me what to do knows how to do what they want done, but they see the task as beneath them and they have better things to do anyway, so they farm the work out.
Dos: The person telling me what to do does not know how to do what they want done, so they farm the work out to someone else in the hopes that this other individual can figure it out.
If número uno is the case, and the person you unload the work on does not yet know how to accomplish the task, I have to consider exclusivity and mentoring factors. Does the assignor assist in the task? Or are they throwing the assignee to the wolves.
If número dos is the case, and the person you unload the work on does not yet know how to accomplish the task, you now have not one person who doesn’t know how to do a something, but two. I have to think about how many more “non knowing” individuals may be drawn into this endeavor in order to complete the task.
What I am thinking about here is the nature of enterprise. What lifts up, and what pushes down? And I must, must, consider time.
If someone assigns me the task of completing and proving the GUT (Grand Unified Theory), is it a something that can actually be done? Are we humans actually capable of both understanding and explaining the Universe in its totality?
Or is this just a time sinkhole meant to keep me occupied whilst others go off and do their own thing? A distraction in which the assignors have no real investment in the dangerous aspects seeing as how I am the one who will fail, hence all blame will rest upon my shoulders. I am inept, not the theory.
To be completely truthful, I, most of the time, do not have a problem with being told what to do. In fact, I tend to operate best in environments where I am told what to do. If I have to be self-reliant in dreaming up work for myself, I am most certainly going to be out in the fringes working on abstract things that others are likely to deem to far too distant to be relevant within the current time-frame. Leave me to my own devices, and the realms of the negligible is where you’ll find me. Splashing along the shoreline in the waters upon the far shores. The long odds. The impossible. The unknowable.
In order to be understood, I want, and perhaps need, another to tell me what to do.
– – –
We are only just now starting to see a lot of things in our world. Things that have existed for very long times, we perhaps have heard of them, but they so stretched the imagination that we could not comprehend that such things were possible. As such, we relegate these thing to the world(s) of myth and legend. Fantasy. Tall tales. Some real something that has been so embellished upon that it doesn’t actually exist, and certainly is not as advertised.
Not so anymore.
We can fire up our own personal communication devices of all kinds, and know almost instantly what is transpiring anywhere in the world. We can also know things that are happening in our solar system, in our galaxy, and even around the Universe. Perhaps not so timely with those last three, but we can certainly know more, and quicker, than at any point in our known history. We can be told, by others, what is going on, where, and maybe even why this something is happening.
I wonder sometimes how well you yourself interpolate information. Not interpret – interpolate. Although the two do share some concepts, there is a difference between the two. Alas, because of my new paradigm, I can no longer provide links to definitions for your consideration. I guess I am, again, gonna have to digress, and you’re just gonna have to do all the legwork yourself if you wanna figure out where I was going with all of this.
– – –
With everyone being sick and tired of lockdown, one thing that it has achieved, which most may not think about, is that transmission by hand has almost certainly been curtailed. And I’m not talking about transmission of disease(s) by hand either, I’m talking about the transmission of data and information by hand.
Perhaps give a few short moments to consider the last time you saw anything at all via the press about any “terrorist” anything.
This is supposedly how most terrorist groups transfer their information…by hand. Circumvents all those electronic snoopers that have gotten so damn good at monitoring anything and everything. I’d imagine that lockdown has made any “terrorist” organization(s) have to rethink their information channels and adapt. And this lockdown has likely also changed the dynamics of leakers and how they operate. You may be able to still grab sensitive or classified info, but getting the info elsewhere on some physical media just got really difficult.
I’m sure lockdown has had the effect of giving surveillance networks some really unique insight as to how data moves/is moving when they have more or less of a monopoly on the information channels.
I just started to re-read that section and have noticed that I am, yet again, slipping right back into my old writing style. Putting that comfortable clothing on. Returning to my natural ragamuffin state.
Learning to express yourself in a way that is pleasing to others is rough.
– – –
Sick … and tired … of lockdown. The cure is the sickness.
I will be seeing you around.
Have a Song, Dear Reader… 😉
Happy Friday, Dear Reader 😀
Hot on the heels of yesterday’s missive, we have another from the Okie Devil of Text US…
*Yeah, and it has some wavy wikiwall pools for you to explore, Clicky…*
It’s Thursday December 3rd of 2020, and…fuck! Can you give me a sec? I promise I’m not ignoring you, just receiving a call, and I really need to take this. Mind if I put you on hold for a sec? Thanks. ❤
X: You’re about to open a can of worms.
Cade: I know.
T: You really think that’s prudent?
Cade: Prudence is a strange topic when you’re in the big middle of a shit-storm.
A: How so?
Cade: It occurs to me that, during extraordinary times, “prudence” would be measured in seconds, or maybe minutes.
X: Not days, weeks, months, years, etc..
Cade: Correct. If you’re in a trench in 1916, each and every thing that you do, whether prudent or imprudent, is gonna vastly affect your continued ability to measure and mark time.
X: Living one second to the next.
Cade: Yes. Do I raise my head up, have a peek, and hope no one puts a bullet in it? Or do I keep my head down and wait for a more opportune time.
0: You ever wonder what “an opportune time” would be in those circumstances?
Cade: Welp, I would think in that situation, one would either have to rely upon one’s own gut feelings as to how best to proceed, or maybe the instincts of a commander who is putting a boot in your butt irrespective of your own internal inclinations.
X: In one set of circumstances you have a choice, and in another, the choice is not yours to make.
Cade: Yes. Just thinking that “prudence” can get lost in situations where the consequences are much more immediate and dire.
Z: Almost opens one’s self to being a scapegoat.
Cade: Or at least a tool or some kind of leverage for another purpose.
X: Care to elaborate?
Cade: Well, just thinking that one could make a thousand “good” decisions…
Z: But it’s the one bad decision that you’ll be remembered for.
Cade: Yes. You’ve been on the line and hugging that berm for ages, peeked over the edge a thousand times, but the one time you look and your brains get dislodged from your cranium?
X: You did a bad thing.
Cade: That’s what I’m thinking. Your “prudence” is suddenly measured by that one event, and not the multiple events that allowed you to arrive there in the first place.
X: And how does this relate to your thoughts on the concept of prayer in the presence of a deity?
Cade: Or deities.
0: We get the point, get on with it already.
Cade: Just occurs to me that “prayer” is an odd concept to entertain when one is in the presence of one or more deities. Seems…oddly self-serving. Fucking hell, I dunno, just a weird thought I’ve danced with for a while.
Z: Can you elaborate a bit? Even I’m lost.
Cade: Let’s say one is given an audience with God and their merry pack of miscreants and hooligans. You’re standing around chatting about the weather and fashion trends, and suddenly, it occurs to you that you have a friend back home who is sick.
X: Your first impulse is to…pray, for that someone?
Cade: Yes. I’m just that dense.
X: Standing in the presence of The Creator & Co., and you have the desire to pray for someone else because you thought of them. Interesting.
T: You think maybe instead of praying, you could…I dunno, ask?
Cade: That’s not as straightforward as it seems.
0: It isn’t?
Cade: Hell no it isn’t. I’m a human being. Being in the presence of all the Universal big-wigs doesn’t mean that I abandon who and what I am. Also doesn’t give me license to clear my own personal wish-list just because I have their ear.
Cade: I was gonna say that.
Cade: That’s…yes…I’m thinking of that.
Cade: But I’m also thinking of the fact that “prayer” in this instance could be construed as me trying to secretly communicate a something to the Almighty, even tho I’m in their presence and the fucker is right in front of me.
0: Wait. Wait, wait, wait…wait just a second here. Prayer, whilst in the presence of God, is secret communication?
Cade: Way to put words into my mouth.
X: I think they are just trying to understand.
Cade: That makes two of us.
B: May I interject?
Cade: By all means.
B: You are saying that, just because “God” can hear your prayers, the others cannot?
Cade: I have no idea if that is the case or not. But I have thought that this may be the case, yes.
B: So you are concerned about having a side-conversation on the sly, with God, whilst you are in the presence of not only God, but also all these other higher-ups.
Cade: Correct. But I also don’t want to sperg and verbalize just because a thought popped into my head, and now might be an opportune time to bring up the subject considering where I am.
B: Because you are in the presence of the gods.
Cade: One would figure at least one of the fuckers might be able to do something about it.
B: And if they don’t?
Cade: That’s the rub isn’t it. Since when is any god or deity or some other ethereal entity mine to command?
X: Sounds like a prudent course.
Cade: When I was younger, sure, “the gods” are my own personal ATM machine from which to dispense funds whenever I demand it.
Z: Do you even have an account at that bank?
Cade: Good fucking question. I have no answer for you tho. Christianity sure seems to think that you have to be a member of the guild before blessings will be dispensed.
0: And if you aren’t a member of the guild?
Cade: Luckily, there are two. You get defaulted into the shit-show, and you have to make a conscious effort to join the winning team.
X: You join a team, simply because they are the winning team?
Cade: That’s what it says in The Book. The game is rigged, the fix is in, the match outcome has already been decided, now it’s just a matter of going through the motions. If you want to be a winner, put your money on the Christians.
0: Sounds as if it is prudent to sign up.
Cade: Here on Earth/Terra, it’s very frowned upon to stack teams, simply because you have the money to do so.
Cade: Yes. The deep pockets can afford the primo players, which means they can tip the scales in their favor in order to better increase their odds of winning the big games.
Z: The house always wins.
Cade: In gambling, yes, but I see what you are saying I think.
0: “The house”, is those big-wigs.
Cade: Rumor is, they created it all, they own it all, they can do whatever in the hell they want with it. But now I’m thinking about the “houses” in Astrology, and I’ve completely lost my train of thought.
T: Maybe you should pray.
Cade: Sounds prudent.
0: Is it prudent to keep writing?
Cade: No idea. I have less than two years to get the fuck outta here, and currently, things look quite glum.
0: No, I meant all the stuff you are about to write below.
Cade: No idea, but I’m gonna do it.
X: You see what you see.
Cade: I wrangle over what to write or not write more than most prolly think.
X: You see.
Cade: I see what I see, and share it. Me actually understanding a something is an exception, not the rule.
X: Big game.
Cade: Sure seems that way. I’m not fond of that particular association tho.
X: Blood, sweat and tears.
Sorry, that call was a bit more lengthy than I expected. You now have my undivided.
^Love and Rockets – Mirror People ’88^
Anyone remember 9/11? Afghanistan? Operation Iraqi Freedom? Guantanamo Bay and all those pictures of “brown people” in orange jumpsuits?
Hey…don’t bitch at me. Its a busy planet. Lots going on.
^Butthole Surfers – “Moving to Florida”^
One of the easier ways to acquire real estate, or at least acquire an interest in certain properties, is gonna be via the/a banking system. If your country does not provide for foreign ownership, no problem…use a foreign funds to purchase said property and utilize intermediaries. You can tie up stuff in all kinds of red tape, and leverage the living shit out of it.
Debt = Power.
Sure there is risk, but the rewards are massive. Question is, how does one “foreclose” on an entire country. Especially if that country has claws.
A: Clause trumps claws.
For some it will anyway. I guess the trick is to position one’s self in a portion of the water column where you remain the apex predator. Sure, there are plenty of much more ferocious creatures in the sea, but they don’t swim in these waters.
^Nategawd, Flo Rida & Lil Jon “Take A Shot And Make A Tik Tok” (Official Video)^
All of this came of a personal sync this morning in learning that someone who I did not know, has died of a heart-attack at the ripe old age of 33. I knew of them, but I did not actually know them. Prolly played a video game with them, and may have even yelled at them a time or two on an Internet forum, but yeah, didn’t really know them.
It appears they may have worked in the mortgage industry, as did I, so we had that in common also. Would also appear that they were from Canada, and Canada has this weird kind of “ground zero” type feeling about it regarding synchromysticism. Dunno if the dude was into this tho, and they may not have been spiritual at all as far as I know.
Personal syncs are typically real easy to work out. They apply to you, and may even be specifically for you, but explaining personal syncs to others?
Dicey. Sketchy. Difficult.
Hardly anyone on this entire planet gives a flying fuck about me, and most people on this planet don’t even know I exist. So with that in mind, how do I, explain a somewhat mystical synchronistic event to a bunch of strangers? How do I explain to them that “HEY! This weird shit just happened, a bunch of tumblers fell into place, and this means something!”
Yeah, I’ve nothing specific, and I’m not gonna assign a bunch of predefined meaning(s) to this/these event(s) just so it will make sense to you, but I’m telling you…this means something.
^deadmau5 – A City In Florida (1080p) II HD^
No idea why I do this. I wrestled with the idea for quite a few years as to whether I should start writing or not. As to why I decided to give it a whirl? Simple…I wanted a return. I wanted some answers. Why is all this weird shit happening, why has it intensified now, and is there anyone out there who is experiencing anything similar? Perhaps if I open up, they will too, and maybe all of us can, together, figure out what in the fucking hell all this nonsense is.
But yeah also, I wanted to help.
Fuck it…if others are being tight-lipped because they are scared shitless, welp I understand that, but as for me, I’m going for it. Maybe someone out there needs to hear what I have to say. Poor bastard(s). If you are needing to hear anything I have to say, you must be in some deep shit, and I empathize.
^Slap Shot – I’ll be staying in Florida^
I am not a paranormal investigator. Certainly not one with any street cred as to a someone who goes out into the field looking for weird and strange shit in order to better understand it. Due to my personal situation, I’m more of a bookworm type. I sit and wait for the weird and strange shit to come to me, irrespective of the form(s) these entities may assume. And let me tell you, some of the shit that somehow worms its way into my tiny 10′ x 13′ cell can be quite diverse.
^This Is What F-22 Engine Startup Sounds Like^
This is not a challenge, nor is it a test. It’s a demonstration. Put “being right” and “being wrong” on the shelf for a moment, and maybe just be an observer/participant with no agenda for the next few minutes. Below is a video for a band called The Knife, and the song is “We Share Our Mother’s Health”.
Phase One: play the video below, but mute the sound. This time through, we are just going to watch the video and see what we see.
Phase Two: Replay the video, unmute the sound, but do not watch the video. Minimize your browser window if you need, just make sure that you do not watch the video. Listen to the video only.
Phase Three: Replay the video, listen to it, and watch it.
^The Knife – We Share Our Mothers Health^
On #HauntedHour last night, the topic/poll was what kind of paranormal experience one would like to have:
D: NOPE! Fuck this shit, I’m out!
I um…I…ay yi yi…
how do I say this without being dishonest?
Um…I do not consider myself a paranormal experiencer. Yes, I can safely say that I’ve experienced a lot of weird shit in my life, but as to whether any of it is supernatural or not? No idea. That said, those experiences involving sound tend to be the most reliable as to being accurately indicative that something is amiss. Not only can you hear sound, many times, you can feel it. Sound is also going to carry much more data as to location, distance, intensity, and you can quickly and accurately form a picture in your mind as to your own position in space proximate to the goings on. If the sound repeats, you can zero on it quickly and accurately. I would think that one of the important things, as an investigator, would be to rely on your own internal sample library as to individual sounds, what they are, what they could be, and why these sounds would exist irrespective of whether a location is “haunted” or not.
^The Tucker Zone (A 3D Sound Experience) (Wear Earphones)^
The physical stuff isn’t likely to change just because a location is haunted. There’s likely to be walls, ceilings, floors, paint, pipes, sink or bathtub/shower fixtures, maybe electrical wiring, electrical outlets, carpet, doors, door hinges, door knobs, windows, glass, stone, wood, metal(s)…
you prolly get the point.
Identify the stuff in your environment, and know the noises they can make. Maybe when first arriving at a new location, wander around banging on shit for a while just so you know how certain things may sound. You are likely in a new environment afterall, and considering the nature of construction and construction materials and how these things can vary, banging on a hotel wall may sound completely different than what it sounds like banging on one of your own walls at home. Same with the springs in a bed, or maybe the water spigot in the bathroom, or that squeaky third drawer in the nightstand.
Now that you’ve acquainted yourself a bit with your new environment, you can better know what certain things may sound like, and you’ll also know whether or not you or someone else with you here in the physical realm is the trigger for a certain sound happening. If the top door hinge on the bathroom door squeaks, its prolly better to know that in advance. Know your environment in order to better interact with it, and to better zero in on and identify stuff that is…out of place.
Phase Four: listen to the below, watch the below, and see if you notice anything different in the video. It’s the same song as above, same band.
^The Knife – We Share Our Mother’s Health (Shaken-Up Version) Live At Terminal 5^
Certain frequencies can cause nausea.
I’ve read stuff about people having disorientation or maybe becoming nauseated when having paranormal types of experiences, and I’m wondering if maybe it could be related to sound(s) being present. These sounds are inaudible, but you sure as shit can feel them/your body detects them. Another thing to consider is that maybe the presence of a visual spectre, with a lack of secondary indications such as sound or touch. This, too, may cause nausea. I know that one of the problems that “virtual reality” has is that the eyes are basically seeing things, but the inner-ear revolts because there’s nothing to substantiate what the eyes are seeing. Just thinking that maybe a visual sighting of a ghost or whatever that has no accompanying secondaries, that maybe any resulting nausea is the secondary indicator/ is indicative that a very real something has indeed been seen.
All kinds of weird shit going on all the time, but we appear to have some filters in place that more or less blind us to some of the intricacies of the Universe. Having the blinders removed is…
^Klaxons – Gravity’s Rainbow^
A final thought would be that, I assume anyway, that paranormal type stuff is gonna be busting some veils. Or at least maybe making them wobble a bit. And what happens when you wobble a piece of film or a membrane or a diaphragm or whatever?
Sometimes, horns and trumpets happen. Perhaps not always Armageddon, but certainly something noisy.
Moving air...vibrating membranes.
^Klaxons; What makes them sound like that?^
I'd never heard that sound until a coupla years ago.
You know how I know if I’m depressed? If all I want to do is sleep, I’m depressed. I fucking hate sleep. Way too full of piss and vinegar to waste time on sleeping. I wanna be on the go, moving, doing something. Past coupla months tho? Sleep.
Sleep sleep sleep.
It’s all I wanna do. No idea why I’m depressed, but I am.
Catching up on some sleep tho.
^Soulwax – Gravity’s Rainbow^
Air is gonna be a buffer between life and earth.
Water is gonna be more of a negotiator between life and earth.
Fire too will be a negotiator of sorts, but between life and air.
Buffer. Repel. Repel and/or attract.
You’ll need to contextualize with an anecdotal something in order to relate.
A bath. A swim. A flood.
A fire. A fireplace. On fire.
A breath. A breeze. A gale.
A flower. A potato. Quicksand.
^Love and Rockets – Ball Of Confusion^
I’m guessing that the polyethelene glycol is added to allow the vaccine to be frozen while still preventing it from freezing. Maybe, as an added bonus, it’ll give you a case of the shits, post-vaccination.
I’ve already got enough autoimmune issues and allergies, and my DNA is almost assuredly a trainwreck. Do I really need to be even more fucked up than I already am?
Q: Can someone who is really messed up and requires all kinds of special considerations just to survive, really be considered “alive”?
Some conspiratorial fodder for you dystopian types to chew on.
Because I cannot participate in a majority of the activities available to humans on this planet, I am…dead. Maybe not dead, but certainly not alive.
Incapable of participating in and contributing to the whole in such a way as to justify my continued existence. A burden. A drain. A waste of space that could be better occupied by a productive someone who isn’t me. Seeing as how I’m not alive, it’s kinda open season on me and my ilk, and there are no consequences. Can’t kill/murder something that isn’t alive.
Hrm…now why does this type of thinking ring a bell?
^Devo | Beautiful World | Official Video^
^Vance Joy – Riptide @Live Lollapalooza Brasil 2017^
*/squints… Clausewitz trumps clause?*
*I know ‘vaccine’ comes from ‘cow’, Clicky… /yawns… I fink I’ll go have a snooze..*
Enjoy your we kenned, Dear Reader. Have a Song…
‘The longing for a distant place also necessarily involves a separation in time.’
*Connecting Veras? …/winks… Nice syncing, Clicky…*
Last evening, Dear Reader, Cade Fon Apollyon and I remote viewed an old movie from 1972. I hadn’t seen ‘What’s Up Doc?’ since I was a teenager, lying on the front room carpet, surrounded by family, watching it on the telly…
… It got me to thinking about John Lamb Lash’s Fallen Goddess Scenario, an how homesick the Aeon Sophia probably feels…
*Whether she was tripped, jumped or fell from the Galactic Centre, the Gnostics referred to Sophia’s fall as an ‘accident’, Clicky… /clears throat…*
… How many billions of years she would have traveled, and will still have to travel to reach her home…
*Oh yeah, Lashy mentioned a dragon… /stubs butt… Cosplay’s the thing…*
… And that she must get lonely sometimes…
*Did he say ‘alright’ or ‘all right’?*
*Pfft… /rolls eyes… That election was rigged as fuck. Blatant…*
… Ooh, that reminds me, Dear Reader. A couple of weeks ago, Leg Iron Books published all my Underdog Anthology stories in one volume…
… Currently it’s ranked 32,656 in ‘Erotic Literature & Fiction’ at Amazon…
*Jus’ free pence short. Yikes! My first ever royalties…*
… The Underdog Anthology, numero XIII is due out this weekend. I have a brand new story in there. It’s a follow-up to ‘What Time Do You Finish?’…
*And how! …/smirks…*
… And there will be a new Missive From ‘Merica from Cade the Okie Devil of Text US, here tomorrow. Woo Hoo! 😀 We’ll see you then and… Have a Song 😉
*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…*