Wednesday, 30 January 2013

Lucretia's Legacy



“Rape is a type of sexual assault usually involving sexual intercourse, which is initiated by one or more persons against another person without that person's consent. The act may be carried out by physical force, coercion, abuse of authority or with a person who is incapable of valid consent, such as one who is unconscious, incapacitated, or below the legal age of consent."  from wikipedia


When I was 18, I took a girl I hardly knew, because I wanted her that much; and she adored me, and we were together until adults split us up a few years later, in bitter envy of our love.

When I was late 20s, I took a girl I hardly knew, because by then I was desperate for sex, and she had put herself in that risky situation; and she adored me, and I couldn't get rid of her.*

I took none of the other girls I have known, and none of them stuck around, except one exception;**

When I was early 30s I met a girl and told her this, and she hated me because she thought that I didn’t want her that much, because I never took her. She challenged me to, both before and after we separated.

*This girl dumped me because I was not hard enough. The guy she left me for is now serving a life sentence for manslaughter after gang-raping a woman with his mates and leaving her to bleed to death.

**this girl got me pregnant and then she took me to court for custody of our beautiful son after she dumped him on me and disappeared. The court gave us 50/50 residency of him and I now see her regularly; because that’s how much she wants to keep me in her life, although we are never going to be sexual partners again with any luck. After 2 years of psycho hate attitude at me, she seems finally to have stopped being abusive and manipulative toward me.

In my late 20s, I was accused of sexually assaulting a 14 year old, after I had said no to  her wanting sex with me, on the basis that she was under-age, although it was tempting. She did not have the patience to wait 18 months; she desperately needed it. I rationalized that if I had slept with her, although it would technically have been statutory rape despite her willing consent, that she and I would both have been happier, and I would not have been accused of sexual assault as a revenge for turning her down. Also; what would it have to do with anyone else anyway? Her alcoholic mother had also consented to me taking on her daughter as a positive role-model in her life!

In my early 30s, I was accused of sleeping with a 16 year old, by my mid-30s girlfriend who was jealous and saw a possible risk to our fledgling relationship, because a clever younger girl wanted me enough to break us up by lying about me; which worked.

When I was 14, I was dragged into the girls toilets in school and sexually assaulted by three older girls who I didn’t know.

When I was 15, I was dosed and taken by a guy I had repeatedly told NO to, because I am heterosexual.

When I was 16, I was taken by an older woman I hardly knew, who got me drunk and tied me up.

When I was 16, I was blackmailed into sex by a suicidal 14 year old, who confessed to me as "the one person she trusted" that she overdosed on pills because the other girls in her class were bullying her for being the only virgin in her peer group (and the prettiest). I believe I saved her life.

When I was in my mid-late 20s I was dosed and sexually assaulted by a woman I know.

Most of my adult life I have lived alone, as an insomniac, highly reclusive, some say paranoid although I dispute that, it is that I am aloof and misunderstood, an easy target because I refuse to mix with wasters.I do not know how deeply the relationship between my anti-social behaviour of 'the urban hermit' has to do with my sexual experiences. I have not analyzed it enough to comment much beyond recognizing that there is a connection.

Knowing a persons attitude toward their own sex (by which I do not mean gender), is a deep insight into that persons psyche.


The ones I took, or who allowed themselves to be taken, felt secure and the relationship lasted until external forces destroyed it from outside. The ones I refused to take were angered and lied about me to get me in trouble. All the rest were mediocre and didn't last.


Women know that they are wanted if she lets you take her and you take her. It settles a lot of insecurities within relationships. This observation from experience. Women get frustrated and move on if a guy is regarded as less than alpha-male enough to be forceful, dominant, to take her.

For a man to take a woman, he is telling her that he wants her for ever. A man who takes a woman and then discards her, is going to leave a fuck-up for some other guy to deal with, and is an abuser. Know the difference; trust your partners instincts but mostly trust your own. Why sleep with someone who disrespects you?

Some women feel confidence over men if they can take a man, usually these are women who have some level of sexual abuse in their past, resulting in man-issues and sexual frustrations. It is a power-control issue on top of a personal-evaluation issue. By way of lack of open discourse with safe partners, the genders remain alien and the animal relationships are all there is, the common experience, to be expected.

Whatever words and agreements and mental agreements exist, are a smokescreen to cover the real animal passion that we are socially programmed to be embarrassed about, and disfunctional about. Usually women say No when they mean Yes. After discussion of this with quite a few people, women also mean No when they say No. It's a risky business either way.

Friday, 25 January 2013

An Hidden Discourse

An Hidden Discourse is the preferred title to;
Layers Of Meaning; Outside The Box; Go Go Gobbledigook; ReAssociative DisOrder; Cognitive Spanners, Bad Nut Jobs; They Target Our Children; Radio Mass Psychosis  and of similar ilk;

it abbreviating to AHD which itself alternatively means Attention (Deficit) Hyperactivity Disorder, a common diagnosis for kids (although it affects adults too) who are not given enough very early formative Positive Parenting and also for kids who are allergic to mercury based vaccinations. 

Behavioural psychologists recognise symptoms to involve unruly behaviour and non-responsive to adult stimulation, an impossibility for parental figures to control kids who do not relate to them. While regarded as usual in teenagers, an extreme form of this behaviour in younger children is alarming as is the increasing numbers, as is a distinct lack of specialist facilities and training. In the town where I live, one single mother very recently told me that the Social Services have advised her that if she voluntarily signs her ADHD child over to a foster parent, he will get every type of help he needs funded by the state, but if she does not then there is nothing they will do about it. 

Beware the Gobblers!
Fostering is a Growth Industry  in UK even during this time of controlled economic depression (a tv news bulletin today 25.1.2013 used the phrase 'a 'triple-dip' economic decline'), largely due to Forced Adoption Policy of a highly suspect QUANGO Anthony Douglas CBE BOTH the "Chief Executive  of CAFCASS (Children And Family Court Advisory Social Services) AND Chair of the British Association for Adoption and Fostering (BAAF)."

Interestingly in a nameless and remote African village where detailed school records were kept, it was discovered that of three categories of children; 1 school-attendant, attentive, high-grade students, and 2 middle-mixed students, and 3 school-refuser problem-children; that when a plague swept through the region, the only survivors at all were those of the school-refuser problem child category; because they had not been indoctrinated into civilised behaviour and knew instinctively how to fend for themselves in the wild; because 'they had no concept of the normal social rules'.

Sometime during the past decade I spoke with a friend whose ASBO badge of honour accessed her a free pass funded by the State during which her rebellious teenage nature was re-directed to a rather more socially constructive and exciting activity of working in a radio station established by social workers and police in the UK South Wales town of Pontypool, a facility where reprobates and deviants were given another chance at conformity and an incentive toward social awareness by playing their favourite songs (at the time this was blatantly the Goldie Looking Chain whose lyrics about dope smoking unifying the South Wales gangs into a community known locally as the Massive actually had the desired effect) and doing interviews about how the youth of today feel about life, what they do with their time here on the planet, etc. It was all going very well indeed until un-named reprobates stole the radio station equipment and sold it on the underground to raise money for their dope smoking. Another genius incentive by The System.

The potential, alternate titles for this blog were developed from contemplation of my interests and themes throughout these blogs, following from watching the classic cult movie PONTYPOOL by Tony Burgess, the first to be filmed in a trilogy based on his 1998 novel Pontypool Changes Everything

Sometime during the naughty noughties of the 21st century, a government department allocated me a regular slot in a music studio called 24/7 in Pontypool, a few A-roads deeper into the legendary SW Valleys than my Zooport city conapt.

In 1999 I had read Anthony Burgess literary classic 1962 novel A Clockwork Orange, which deals with language, literature, classical music, street gangs, degeneration of society and mockery of morality and order, ultraviolence and Mind Control. A Clockwork Orange is a novel within a novel, something akin to Philip K Dicks (also 1962) The Man In The High Castle

One thing I appreciated about ACO is that it is written entirely in a streetspeak which initially confuses the reader for several pages until, immersed into its world through an educational narrative, the language gradually becomes comprehensive; until by the end of the book the reader is fluent in [it].

"Nadsat is a vibrant, spontaneous mix of derived Russian, modified Slavic words, Cockney rhyming slang and hybrid words of Burgess’ own creation." chumble

Comparison between the readers shift of consciousness and the main protagonists eventual re-education as he is indoctrinated by state mind control technologies (reminiscent of the 1985 Terry Gilliam movie Brazil) is a direct contrast. This is also evident in the 1971 Stanley Kubric movie adaptation of the same title.

The writer of Pontypool Changes Everything (novel) and Pontypool (Movie Trilogy scripts)  took his pen name Tony Burgess from Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange). This speaks volumes for the literary pun's involved not only in the story itself as scripted, but the general surrounding themeology necessarily involved in such an examination of "understanding" the 'originally intended meaning' of a phrase, word or concept. Although the movie does not immediately go into it, we are dealing here with abstract memes and auto-suggestive programming. 

Pontypool (movie) deals with some serious issues, which regular readers of my blog will recognise to be amongst my fields of interest. Its opening speech made by the radio star Grant Mazzy...

  "Mrs French’s cat is missing. The signs are posted all over town. Have you seen Honey? Well, we have all seen the posters, but nobody has seen Honey the cat. Nobody, until last Thursday morning, when Miss Coulettepiscine swerved her car to miss Honey the cat when she drove across a bridge. Well this bridge, now slightly damaged, is a bit of a local treasure and even has its own fancy name; Pont du Flaque.

Now, Collette, that sounds like Coullotte, that’s Panty in French. And Cousine means Pool, Panty Pool. Flaque also means Pool in French so, Collette Piscine, in French Panty Pool drives over the Pont du Flaque, the Pontypool if you will, to avoid hitting Mrs French’s cat that’s been missing in Pontypool. Pont du pool. Pontypool. Pantypool. Pont du Flaque. What does it mean?

Well Norman Maylor, he had an interesting theory that he used to explain the strange coincidences in the aftermath of the JFK assassination. In the wake of huge events, after them and before them, physical details they spasm for a moment, they sort of unlock and when they come back into focus, they suddenly coincide in a weird way. Street names and birth dates and middle names, all kind of superfluous things appear related to each other, it’s a ripple effect. So, what does it mean? Well, it means something’s going to happen, something big.

But then, something’s always about to happen.”
" Grant Mazzy

...outlines that something special is happening here, that our routine and humble zombi-like trance state of perception is about to be shaken into a looser, more random method of associating, than we are habitually used to; that this shake-up will resolve itself into a different mental process, a different way of thinking, acting, behaving; that we will effectively become different people after the event, members of a society that has moved on from its current stagnation. Symbolic of this is our approach to language, not simply through the words we use but by the underlaying structure of the grammar connecting these concepts, the synaptic trains connecting nodes in our brains.

The introduction speech of Pontypool uses the same method seen in the intro to the 1999 family movie Magnolia by Paul Thomas Anderson, which also explores the same topic of apparently random, unrelated events coincidentally conforming to some type of inexplicable syncronicity that most definitely connects them, with several storylines and components of those storylines following the same pattern interpreted from several distinctly different angles, yet expressed by the same symbols to describe the intricacies resonating throughout several layers of meaning.

(Pause for breath)

This movie was released in Canada in 2008; predating the Sandy Hook Elementary school shooting on 14.12.2012 in which 20 children and 6 adults were killed; an incident that followed from the Batman Shooter and apparent Remote Mind Control Victim Jamie Holmes, son of an American government agency whistleblower. Both incidents at a time during which the Obama office of the America Corporation are attempting to gain popular opinion regarding criminalizing guns so they can hasten in a Gun Control Nullification Bill, despite the Second Amendment of the Bill of Rights empowering the People to legally bare arms and form militia to remove any rogue government, such as one that is attempting to undermine citizens Rights, much less attack its own people, or any people for that matter.

As passed by the Congress in 1791:

"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

It is an interesting situation. I was recently asked my own opinion on gun laws and so I quote; "guns do not kill people; people kill people" and that despite my living in a nation where I can get a gun more easily than I can get a gun license, which I can also do easily; I choose not to own a gun nor hang out with those who do, for whatever their purpose.

In Holland where guns are available and licensed, and so too is cannabis available and licensed for recreational and medical use; in the past decade there has been an increased social awareness and collective effort toward looking out for each other rather than creating fear or attacking one another; this has purportedly been repeatedly reported by all levels of society, who universally claim the effect of cannabis 'toward a fear free society' to be responsible for increased peacefulness in the community; the nation is closing its prisons because there are decreasing number of criminals and increasing number of empty prisons.

In the 2002 Michael Moore documentary film Bowling For Columbine, named after that two guys went bowling prior to shooting up a school, the film maker goes into a Canadian bank that were giving away free guns to anyone who opened a bank account with them; he asks the bank clerk as he is given his free gun "what is to stop me from using this to rob you?

The clerk says nothing... 

Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star

Thursday, 17 January 2013



"Steampunk is what happens when Goth discovers Brown." anon 

For a moment I assumed they were talking about drugs. Their inexperience; I would have termed it 'sepia' and reminisced on fading photographs of an elder generation whose ambitions and the forgotten matters of vital importance neglected, have led us to this current predicament. Perhaps it was intentional. I sift, a professional sieve, through the detritus of meaning inherent and embedded in phraseology. While layered meanings and hidden codices spark lights in the cylinders of an antiquated auto-referal... know, I am almost certain, I can taste it in the air, like the flavour of a lovers kiss, the water of his or her body, the dna encodement my taste buds decipher; I can smell it on you, breathing your truth through your pores, the animal feral truth of pheremones, attempts to mask it with lazy perfumes and dressage... you recognise my meaning when I say that at this point the vision slides. The device, an auto-referal becomes an aut-ore-feral, part critter, part clockwork; an illegal hybrid necessary for this line of work. I charge a high fee because the penalty is steep although ironically it is ministers of the gendarme who administer my costs and provide me with such utilities, confiscated from backstreet inventor-surgeons. The re-feral snarls and purrs, its soft ferret fur pulsing while its cognitive motors chime into gear, flashing wild against the cage bars and snuggling down for a sleep. Depending on its level of alertness a different reading is given, and depending on its moods a different universe stems from the moment of decisive action. No use as a truthsayer but very useful as an indicator of the target's intent, the hidden meaning beneath cautious crafted words spoken to direct attention away from the pure animal reflex instinct betraying easy liars. The sleuth is acute for its pains...

...I drift out again from that frame of reference and watch the dial turn, tweak the sensor and wait for the lights to inform me how many contexts the words triggered. The mundane version of the world ebbs and flows with the magickal, changing the fabric between paradigms so easily now since the damn wizards got their way and lit their towers of enchantment all over town. Proving their point that the mystical physics of alchemy and ritual are as lucid and real as hard rational reason. Awareness of the shift as a polished, tarnished auto-referal unit reveals its decisions, I trust my own instinct that the kids words; "...what happens when goth meets brown" is talking about colours and not drugs at all.

He wouldn't give me a name, nobody has names anymore, too risky a business in a world where the sunlight has seeped in and faded shadows necessary for seamless flow. Instead we see schemes in step-by-step rhythm, clattering their way around cog circuits this city grinds us into. Here in the dimness of gaslight and tweed, obscurity is not an option but a need. Every case a suitcase of changing identities, seeking that one simple stability that we can all rely upon to make sense of this trickery-based environment.

"Everything used to be something else." the Eye man, Minority Report

I have been wanting to do a blog about steampunk for a while, without much to say other than a growing appreciation of the style. It has a few sub-genres yet even so it seems a limited style, everything that can be written about it in its pure orthodox forms has already has been done. Admittedly a genre of re-invention, distilled through exotic laboratories of some mad crazy inventor; Egor's progeny.  

"Some art would be nice," she whispered seductively, persuasively. I do not think she had imagined then that my lazy artists hand would turn to scalpels and flesh, tanning the skins of tattoo emporium canvases (and at this stage I pursue the proper plural term for canvas', be it canvi?) for my showcase, the concentrated lamp light shines so pretty through the stretchers, don't you agree? 

In some of these, due to masterful craftsmanship, the nerves are still alive, fed by chemical nutrients extracted from secret sources; stroking the skins brings movements, the raising of hairs, the changing expression of facial features, the twitching of splayed fingers. There is worse here too, for those whose interests are exquisitely base; we can provide many exotic experiences for connoisseur clientele who appreciate, let us say the rarer pleasures our culture, of  parallel dimensional retro-Victoriana sensibilities savoured and blended with post-modern frustrations, has to offer. 

"Goths dowdy sister."  

What new could I possibly bring to this genre? Always the domain of eccentrics, less sexy than gothpunk, forsaking horror for adventure; less bdsm and more doctor jones. There seem a few core principles in what makes steampunk worth bothering with at all. 

Nevertheless, I found myself exploring it as a writing style, and some of my art lingers upon it like an overly sensual lick from a lost girl in a basement club. For 'lost' read; rapidly became the center of the universe. Generally I prefer the Blade Runneresque mythepoesis of Shadowrun, so why I am I loitering here? Naked Lunch programmed to pervert the machination and push forth progress, caught up in Metropolis mesh nets of the factory whistle mindscape. Not the place to be, I hasten onward.

Adjusting my dog-coat, mans-best-friend, wearable canine companions, setting it from black to brown, widening the lapel, feeding it tidbits into the gut-pocket; rolling a hand-rolled smoke in my fingers to ward off the chill night air scent sent me by masonic magicians intending to keep me attuned to a spectrum they can deal with, find me when they want me for some fool reason, lean against the smoothed ancient sandstone of a two-tone doorway, leading between worlds. I'm waiting and watching, watching and waiting for answers to manifest.

She steps forward through the gloom. It is like watching a flower bloom on sped-up film projected through steel wasteland. I have seen her before in some other movie, same actress perhaps, or; more likely another clone wearing the mirage-image intended for some other long forgotten primadonna. I am realising that I am the only one capable of seeing it from my point of view, that my continuum is steady and the abstract references do make sense, I stitch together threads where nobody else knows the symbols nor has the training, to break us through this. Their minds are towers and cathedrals of programs, grids that drop from me like oil sliding on glass. 

That is the sound, not the chalkboard fingernail clash, not the fingernail flesh yell of a lover releasing pent up desire in a moment of juice and liberty; this is the higher resolution, megapixel vision of an oil-lense. Somehow the auto-referal device guides me through, is training me up, honing my instincts. 

With this continuum comes responsibility; I'm stuck in a senseless world full of short-ranging zombies confused and enslaved by their crazed habits and desires. I was set the task of breaking the cycles of chaos and dogma; of forcing my own skillful patterns onto the grain of a worn out world, to make this domain my own. I truly do not believe they knew what they were giving me when they placed such an insight into my scope. She was young and hot and she stepped forward and spoke my name.

That's when I awoke. 

"Steampunk is what happens when things get squeezed in the wrong places" Razhel Dolphindark

A moment passes. A thousand years in a heartbeat, in a flicker. Flick of an eye, a hundred lashes of the tongue against a clit, the clocks reset to zero. My heart skips a beat and she presses her death cold fulsome lips against my own. She  tastes of the fog, she's everywhere in this city seeping through the gaps and into our bones. A slow killer. Cold though she is with dead sharkive eyes, her curse is the heat she needs, generated by men who she happens upon to  treat, tease and beat with her cool. My mouth waters, the dog-coat drools to the floor and lets me know how it feels. The animal reflex of the re-feral bling's with erection that this one fires on all cylinders at once. Yet somehow remains deadpan, calm and collected. 

This was not meant to be a story, but has story content, playful and needing re-editing to please readers, to make them feel snogged by the cities darkest succubi. Seeing this spirit here, knowing I will need a spiritist to help me through this adventure, I fumble upon a pocket wallet containing collected cards of contacts, a network of those who prefer to be known; the mercentile class. It figures she's not among them; an underleech of the dark sub-levels dating back aeons upon which this city is founded, held aloft by magnetism where the superstructure is rusting and crumbling away. It has been said that Nothing lasts forever. It's a lie; her kiss is intended to keep time in existence, for once having tasted eternity, a soul knows that nothing ever ends.

Her name then is told; you know it if you were paying attention and can cope with the cold. She is one of the pieces and sent to beguile and guide me. She smiles, lewdly and honest. Not a word has been spoken and yet, we know without speaking.

Endless Permutations 


Wednesday, 16 January 2013

Sea Dragon

River Severn Estuary is the largest nature reserve in Europe, famous for its broad mud-flats that are the feeding and nesting grounds for migratory birds. Unique for its tidal bore, where the high tide causes a wave occasionally large enough to surf on, to rush many miles up the channel.

Source of River Severn

Although the Bristol Channel and the River Severn are often depicted as separate sections of the same waterway, to the people living along both banks of the Estuary it is common to refer to the Bristol Channel as the Severn. Most of the people I have asked are unsure where the source of the river Severn actually is, assuming it to be the Malvern hills in Gloucestershire. When you look at the map pictures it is not easy to distinguish between where the river ends and the sea starts; especially given that the river appears to flow backwards with the tidal bore.

I became interested in the source of the Severn, the original spring from which it flows. From studying this scholars research (see link) who has traced it from the longest tributary, it seems the river has a long tail, winding from an unexpected source of mid-west Wales, the only nation in the world with a dragon on its flag.

Despite the official line of an unknown origin, the word 'Severn' is quite blatantly derived from the Saxon 'Sey Werm' which means Sea Dragon in the old tongue. I schooled in a town on a tributary river on the northern side, on the border between England and Wales, the river Wye which is also named from Saxon; 'Wy' is from where we get the word 'Why' meaning 'to question', the original context before language mutation was 'to fathom' in the associative context of 'to go within to seek truth' (inner depths - emotions - become synonymous with ocean depths, em-ocean) describes a process of converting instinct and emotions to mental clarity). It is also from where we get words such as; Witch, Wicca, Wick (candles), Wight and White.

Recently there has been some interest by idiot money-chasing government to build a Barrage across the Severn, which would clog up with silt in a few days (see colour picture at top of this blog) and it would cost more money to keep that clean than it could ever take in revenue; more worrying is that a barrage would also destroy the wetlands and all the nature that depends on it, causing extinction of many species.

It seems a strange syncronicity that at the same time, an indigenous Brazilian Amazonian rainforest tribe are also fighting to prevent the proposed Bel Monte dam project across their sacred river, which would destroy their traditional way of life and much extinction of wildlife.

Sign Petition

Both of these stories are harmonic with the beautiful John Boorman film, The Emerald Forest, in which a similar situation.

I have lived all over both sides of the River Severn / Bristol Channel, therefore when asked where I am from, 'the Severn' is the most accurate and encompassing answer I have. Several hundred years ago in the mythic time of Arthur and Merlin whose involvement in these lands is legendary, as well as the physical histories; the banks of the river were a lot wider, much of the southern region was islands (Avalon) and the swamplands stretched along both sides of the river.

The Cistercian White Monks of Tintern Abbey painstakingly irrigated these embankments, draining the swamps with a vast network of reens (ditches) by using medicinal willow trees and hand barrows, to create arable farming land which now has cows and sheep grazing on it.

Specific to where I grew up is the legend of the Auroch; giant cows that were hunted to extinction by the local tribe by driving them into the marshes. In shamanic terms I believe this accounts for the red clay soil of that region of the riverbanks I know best, where there is a sacred septenary spiral barrow mound, local legends of which are worthy of their own blog.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

Vibrational Harmonics

There is a very simple awareness learned from observation, and that is; everything we do taints our products with our essence; it is not the material product but the essence of our soul that is embedded in it, woven into it, that gives the thing its feel. A man who makes a painting and writes a book, both the painting and the book contain that mans essence, and anyone who involves themself with the painting or the book, is dealing with metaphors symbolised in material products, made of matter bound into form, but the energy they are partaking is the essence of that soul. Eventually material things decay to soil where they replenish new material things. The soul essence is the other part of any thing. This is a basis for many sorceries, the ancient spirituality talks about it.

I saw that if I eat food from the supermarket tesco, a chainstore founded by tessa husband (tes co) then i feel her emotions and think her thought patterns. If i eat the same food from aldi then i feel and think like whoever founded aldi. the trader flavours the wares (ware = wear, the item wears the souls essence). If two people make the same food, from the same recipe, with the same ingredients, from the same source; the two meals will taste different because they have different essence from the maker. Food made by the machines tastes soulless and does not fill us as much as food made by people. Loving cooks make higher grade food than cooks who hate. If a person is bored when they cook, the food makes the people who eat it become bored. If two artists paint the same scene, they will do so with different styles. All of this is quite natural and organic and it is how the world is meant to be. 

Humans have forgotten to be openly aware about these things. It is actually very important to us all to be aware of the sustenance we imbibe, of the items we handle, of the places we attend, with what ministries we do deals. The evolved and developed form of an organisation generations later is still founded on that basic original simple essence of its creator; its Principal. It is a process of distillation. It is believed by some that from this awareness we can extrapolate the nature of God. Why humans are complicated is because they are sourced from multiple Gods.

Combined with this is the alchemical belief in Transmutation; 'from base (metal) into gold' which is the process to develop the material at hand into something far more spiritual and uplifting. Various stages of development or phases on this journey are recognized.

A third and associated belief is that the original Source is the totality of Purity and that something so perfect must exist permanently and therefore that it is permanently accessible from any place and time. That it flows through all things although not all things are attuned to resonate with it.

pics from: Leto IIArtists Gallery Naga jabba

Friday, 11 January 2013



A novel way to change your life and the system, Lawfully. 
Power to the People! 

To the Home Office, Britain, 

It is my duty to inform you of the following; 

Given the corruption involved within the methods of a private corporation named ATOS hired by some facet of the Department of Work and Pensions bureaucracy, I am now formerly and For The Record withdrawing all and any membership of the British State, and that in doing so I waive all benefits. 

I understand that this means I will no longer be governed by Parliament legislation. 

A National Insurance Number [xxxxxxxx] is now for all extent and purpose Null and Void, to be regarded from this time for ever onward as a deceased legal person. 

Also, that I understand and intend to uphold and promote the Common Law of my Ancestors, summarized in laymans terms as; 
“Harm ye none, Trick ye none, Steal ye None, Keep the Peace.” 

Furthermore, I intend to make an honest, lawful living by becoming an independent hemp farmer, doing so within the Lawful Right protected me by respective Oaths of Constable, Judge and Monarch, to ‘Protect the People’ of whom I am one and to ‘Uphold the Law of God’. 

This Inalienable Right founded upon Genesis 1:29, the word of God explicitly expressing His Divine Will that He “give mankind all plants to use.” 

It is with some regret that I, as have so many other honest citizens, been deprived the legal privilege to claim statutory benefits due to sickness and ill health, having been examined and regarded as ‘unfit to work’ by professional doctors and psychiatric experts; and then deprived this right following bogus interviews from ATOS who do not recognize the real world in their assessments for eligibility to these very same benefits. 

Please feel free to call by for a social visit to the above recognized postal address at any mutually convenient time, understanding of the Common Law. 

Yours faithfully, [name: of the family name, as commonly called] 

All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

Cholera vs Chlorine

the text scans presented as part of this blog are used
Within International Fair Use Policy, For Educational Purposes
and are fully accredited:
they are from
Victorian Pharmacy by Jane Eastoe
ISBN 978-1-86205-890-3

There are 2 parts to this blog;
1) information about Cholera
2) information about Chlorine and Fluoride
("Soap and Dope")



I grew up in Chepstow, SE Wales on the border. One of the locations of interest to a kid growing up there was the old hospital that was closed down due to cholera in the pipes. It had been shut and boarded up and according to the regulations, left to stand for the 255 years it takes before it is safe to disassemble it, apparently this being the window in which cholera infested pipes are hoped to become safe. I believe the buildings were demolished in the first decade of the twenty-first century. This is cholera within living memory, so it is not a Victorian era problem; it is still alive in the world even now as you read this, and equally as lethal.

And if you think that’s scary enough; I have lived also in Taunton Somerset SW England where the wattle & daub, timber-framed Workshouse still stands, with easy access and a warning that the Black Death is still existent within it and At High Risk.

Strangely, none of this is mentioned on the internet via a google search…

Monday, 7 January 2013

the Black Plagiarist

In the early 1990s a young boy was recognized as top of his class by his English teacher. The boy wrote independently of school, a passion for writing fiction and anecdotes from experience, often where the two merged into fantastical collusion, was remarkable. A lonely child, he had been brought up to be a reader; stayed up late every night so he could read by torch light beneath his covers, and was asleep all morning in school most days, missing out boring lessons, excited only during Creative Writing which was on the syllabus back then. The English teacher, also his form tutor, lent him rare out of print Ray Bradbury science fiction from his own bookshelf, which fucked the young boys head up for a quite few years because it is so far out there; the lad was already reading Philip K Dick by that age and found it softer edged.

This story begins when a woman from Cardiff the city where the young boy was born, in a hospital that was then torn down, doing her apprentice teaching certificate, took over the lessons and assigned the class a particular essay to be written. He stayed up late for two weeks working on it, re-drafting it; the first story he had ever written that went to three drafts, all made by hand. It was many pages long.

The story was inspired by three things; the struggle of a young boy to be recognized as important in this world, exploring the morality systems used to keep people in check in society. The famous Wales Flower Festival that the story was a competition for, the winner to receive some lucrative reward. And the kids enjoyment of tabletop roleplaying games from Games Workshop, specifically the stories which in the tradition of movies such as Invasion of the Body Snatchers and John Landis the Thing, that had grown out of HG Wells War of the Worlds book, pitted inhuman aliens against humanity.

The story overview of this great work of genius is that the protagonist, first person perspective, kept a diary of his activities in which he was supposed to be attending the Flower Festival with his school (as was arranged), except unbeknownst to all, a spaceship had landed and had been disturbed by the erection of the festival site. Out from it came several aliens, whose ability to touch a living being and absorb its DNA into its own, so that it could shapeshift into a variety of different beings. This was before the child had read about the voodoo-assassin Ghola in Frank Herberts Dune sextet.

As he wrote wrote, the boy could not reconcile how truthful he should be in naming the alien creatures. The obvious answer was to call them what they are; gene stealers, because that is what they do. The dishonest answer seemed to be to change their name and disguise the influence of Games Workshop upon the story. In the GW mythos, Warhammer 40K, the planet earth is never mentioned, long gone into antiquity. In this kids story, the aliens buried beneath the Flower Festival emerged to capture and slay the ordinary festival goers. Only because he had strayed away from the line of identically clad uniformed school children, lined up like soldiers like the rows of flowers in the hillside, and found his way into a crack in the mountain from there the nasty had leaked, did the boy discover and stand agog at a genuine alien spacecraft. Naturally the careless aliens had left he door open and naturally the boy discovered an arms cabinet within, and an alien laser gun.

The rest of the story is about the boy contemplating theft. Should he take the laser gun, should he leave it where it is? Theft is a criminal event and people go to jail for it. Theft is wrong. It is against the law. The boys curious nature and flowing with the forces of righteousness cause him to leave the spaceship armed with the gun, only to encounter the aliens in the cave, returning from their recon mission. Naturally they are wearing the bodies of the teacher and school children and naturally the boy can see from their behaviour that hey are not the original genuine schoolkids. The boy decides to save the earth and massacres them with a surprise volley of laser beams, which causes an avalanche and the cave falls in. Luckily he escapes, with the lasergun, just in time.In this instance, following instinct over what the teacher says, and breaking & entering, and theft, are all vital to the saving of the planet which otherwise would have been utterly doomed.

On the news that night the bodies pulled from the landslide are seen to be those of a school load of kids and their teacher, and the boy as the only survivor from his class is questioned about it because he had wandered off instead of listening to the teacher.

I cannot recall how much of this story ended up in the third draft because I was exhausted by then, much of it was a loose collection of notes and intentions for what paragraphs should contain. The stand-in English trainee teacher gave me a first degree bollocking for stealing the name “gene stealer” from Games Workshop, and did not return any of the manuscripts to me. I was disgraced, humiliated in front of my classmates as a thief of ideas, made example of, threatened with suspension from school due to the gravity which this sort of thing is taken in the adult world, and discredited as a writer. I felt terrible for many years.

Twenty years later there was a 2005 episode of Dr Who written by a guy who lives in Cardiff, Russel T Grant, that had a storyline where Slitheen - gene-copying aliens - were taking over the government, and another episode by the same guy, The Christmas Invasion, a 60-min special, where the Doctor foils an earth-invasion attempt by the GW Eldar Warlocks renamed Sycorax, wearing exact same clothes design taken directly from Games Workshop - with absolutely no reference to GW accredited whatsoever!

Additional Related Information:

On 21st October 1966 a landslide brought about by the perpetual rain of South Wales UK caused a colliery tip on a Merthyr Vale mountainside above village of Aberfan to collapse onto the Pantglas Junior School and twenty nearby houses, tragically killing 116 children 28 adults. 

This link to Games Workshop reveals their policy on suing the crap out of anybody who uses their trademarks without consent, even when GW have themselves stolen the very same words from earlier writers, eg; Bob Olsen, circa 1932; E E Doc Smith, 1950; 1959, Heinlein. This link to trademark bullying shows the result of this particular case in which GW backed down after realising they didn't in fact own the specific trademark in the first place.