Several rivers round Yorkshire in spate. It’s pretty wild out, been lashing wi’rain all day, closing off a six day week of work and some heavy, heavy shit impacting the hive mind. Been mooching around considering various reference points. So many little signals from people everywhere, justifying their bigotries and confirming biases… those looking for the light, those shutting it out.  Found this in the notebooks. It’s from a while back, I should add… but it seemed apposite.


mental associations on opening this – backing tracks – thunderous music to chant it all down. lee scratch, dusty studio alchemy occurring in palpable subtropical heat. crazed vibrations… woodwork, analogue synths, hand made and placed on to racks with knowing smiles. speaker hum. knotty fingers turn dials. fade up swoosh tape sounds. rumbling.

channeling through the feelings i have… when i sit and let things flow, there’re messages beaming in from i know not where. the voices of the interior. can we call them exterior? they are flowing through my fingers. they may be only from within but that too is without something.

perspective is shifted and squint.

aiwass thin kingggg… these sounds, even in the haze

chaneling voices from other dimensions

when i was younger I had these sorts of thoughts and was overwhelmed. they were too real. they were the sounds of other people, though people I knew. i thought it was telepathy. the voices of others manifesting in my head. they weren’t telling me what i wanted to hear, or telling me malign shit. if i can be honest, all i recall is that one night in particular when it kept me up til 6am it was one of my mate’s voices, and though we conversed all night, i forget what it was.

i think i was seeking reassurance about all the catastrophic mistakes i thought i was making

astral projecting? fixing something? i lack the technical vocabulary to discuss this accurately.

holding those thoughts in check now. writing it down makes it less. the thought of inking it out seemed likely to bring it to reality, but it didn’t, it trapped it there on the page and revealed it for what it was (semi-coherent, clutching at straws). strings of word theory, strung out and round and round, yarns unravelled. maybe there’s an analogue with what circles and pentagrams are about, for those chalking them down to experience. people playing with magic, or the ones claiming they’re doing something real with it. maybe they are. maybe so are the people sitting at their notepads and keypads. we are creating the frameworks within which the mad things we think can take on some kind of meaning. but reading it back, that truth proves elusive.