Feeding off new flesh

June 23, 2017

21st June

Five buzzards circling overhead. I’ve never seen so many of them in one go. One of them peels away and flies low over the garden into the tall stand of trees to our left. They are hunting, probably for chicks or fledglings. Their slow circling takes them ever nearer the trees surrounding the churchyard where the rooks nest –

Soon the rooks will rise in a black flapping cloud to drive the buzzards away. There will be a feathered Battle of Britain in the clear blue dome of the sky. One or two buzzards they can usually cope with, but five – ?

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Certain thoughts come at very precise times. They have their own agenda. Night encourages them, gives each of them their own moment. And the more there is silence, then the more they will make noise –

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It is not difficult to cross the road. But it depends who’s waiting on the other side, doesn’t it?

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The mornings lately are misty making everything on the moor look ghostly and strange. Step into that mist and you take a step back in time –

6th June 6

Last night’s raging gales and watery darkness, collapsed this morning into wind-muscled day. High skies with racing clouds like huge white fortresses above the flowered lanes and tall church-tower…

Reasons to be cheerful part thirty-two: In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro (I’ve sought tranquility in everything, but found it nowhere except in a corner with a book).

Hold a hand up to your cheek, feel the slanting rain on your skin, soaking your hair, while you, drowning, floundering like a big black bird, scream ‘Feck, feck, feck it’ at the uncaring elements.

Such is life in the wilds.

Aware of time passing. Each new day is a day nearer death. This house over time will faded, its windows take on a new clarity, the glass imprinted on the very air. The stairs will become shadows. Perhaps as a ghost I’ll return, pass through a door that is no longer there?

Storm in the blood

May 30, 2017

27th May

Huge electrical storms throughout the night. Lightning flashes all over the moor, as far as the eye can see. Lightening washing the horizon with vivid blood-orange light. One violent rumble of thunder after another above us. Power off, then on again. Internet connection gone…The end of the world!

End of days, at last. Armageddon, Gotterdammerung, ragna rokkr – it has finally arrived with these terrible bursts of forked and sheet lightning! From the west in a ship manned by a phantom crew comes the giant Hrym; his ship rides the waves stirred up by the great serpent of Midgard. From the north another ship, this one crewed by inhabitants of the underworld, Loki sitting at its helm. The wolf Fenrir accompanies him, fire spurting from the beasts eyes and nostrils; blood drips black as ashes from its ferocious jaws. Fenrir’s upper jaw touches the heavens, his lower jaw brushes the earth –

All is finished!

Then: rain falling…a sudden heavy and prolonged downpour that drowns everything in the garden and leaves huge puddles on the patio. A deluge of unprecedented proportions –

With dawn comes final peace, and a thick mist rolling off the moor; it reduces visibility to three metres or thereabouts. Shapes move in that mist: moorland ponies, cattle or creatures from another dimension? You take your pick?

The mist smells of the sea.

It is a morning full of Lovecraftian possibilities.

17th May

Thoughts of Martha Hatfield the Puritan child-prophet who felt the “Second Coming” coming, so to speak. She saw Raw Head and Bloody Bones, Nelly Long Arms and Awd Goggie, Black Parr and the low black sow who carries off kiddies. She was afraid of fires especially those bonfires on the wastelands of the city blazing with a dim constancy and smoke curling into night fogs across everywhere…

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How then do we explain our taste for supernatural necessity, d’you think?

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Rolling shadows pressed against the window like half-glimpsed faces. Then the shriek of an owl, foreshadowing the death of another, smaller creature, bloodily rendered by beak and talons. The struggle between life and death continues throughout the night.

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Suffering these random night-thoughts – thoughts that lay bare the throbbing red heart of past, present and future. All meaning leaks pus-like from the abyss of death: voiceless, corpses with heads full of untold tales – untold not because of a lack of words, but because of a lack of tongue! Out of the dark confines of this house and across the wide moor everything is making love or death to everything else in an orgy of being, and transcendence, and blood.

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The centuries have passed and times have changed and yet all around there is a strange feeling that we are not alone, that the shades of persons passed on and over into the world of spirit are very close.

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Many rites of Witchcraft call on attractive youths, and emphasise nudity. It wasn’t until the rise of the Abrahamic religions that this was frowned upon, and slowly demonised. The rites of Pan and Bacchus became rites of Satan, these gods, predominantly phallic, sexual gods such as Pan were transformed into the Devil, and all things lecherous and sexual were his domain.

Ghosts in my soul

May 14, 2017

14th May

Long days, followed by candle lit evenings and laughter. Rain slanting at the windows last night, followed by a misty moist morning full of ghosts. Sometimes just to sit and watch the rain brings a strange sense of calm to me. Thunder and lightning, on the other hand, sets a fire in my soul…

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Last summer, walking the coastal path south from Portreath. Took the narrow path down to the sea, all elbow turns and screaming gulls. Deadman’s Cove below. Cold here, despite the intense heat of the day. The beach is all pebbles and black rocks. At low tide the wreck of a ship sunk back in 1978 becomes partially visible.

Here the sea is still and black, brooding under rocky shadows; no surfing or swimming – too cold and dark and dangerous. The Cove is a haunted place. A ghost regularly appears before visitors, only to fade away when directly addressed. Or so they say.

One of the most perilous stretches of coast imaginable. Many ships sunk over the years, the bodies inevitably washing up in Deadman’s Cove. Uneasy atmosphere to the place, giving an intense and inexplicable sense of foreboding to many of the coves visitors…

Ghostly screams of drowning men frequently heard here in the night…

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Strange things do happen. In August 1894 some parts of Bath were covered by thousands of small Jelly fish that fell from the sky!

Gateways

May 7, 2017

7th May

Sandra, Sandy, blond and randy. If you recall while still attending school she became a ‘fashion model’: so tall and beautiful on the catwalk, she was. At the time it seemed the only qualification required in the modeling game (beside good looks) was the ability to upchuck everything she’d ever eaten in her life. All the other girls, too, were enthusiastic users of suppositories. They didn’t realise that with hardly any food inside them they wouldn’t poo anymore. Roughage was carbohydrate and to be avoided at all costs. Diverticulitis was a fact of life.

One evening with red headed Claire, I replaced the gentle action of her Dulcolax with slow thrusts of my cock. ‘OMG,’ she said. ‘It’s like pooping backwards…’

That may have been the case but it did relive her constipation, eventually, didn’t it? And yes, in that act, she lost her final and only remaining virginity. Although it might have felt as if she were using her butthole as an overstuffed handbag, it got the job done, which is all that matters at the end of the day, isn’t it?

But with Sandra, my Sandy, I loved the smell, taste, and texture of her excited vulva. I really did. I’d go downtown on her at every opportunity. Often I felt myself enclosed by white light emanating from her, from between spread legs; and this light, her light filling me with pure positive energy.

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On the moor near Minions are three interconnected bronze age stone circles. This site was obviously used for religious ritual and ceremony, details of which are now lost to us. The location is significant. These stone circles lay near two converging rivers, thus placing them where travelers and traders would meet. Such positioning is not uncommon for such circles. The surrounding moorland is dotted with ancient remains: cists, standing stones, barrows. Often, standing with my hands on one of these stones, I experience an emanation of pure white light much as I felt radiating from Sandy all those years ago. Eyes closed, I bask in this luminosity; feel myself overflowing with positive energy. It is the most wonderful feeling. To touch these stones is to step back in time. To become aware of the remarkably numinous quality of the location.

Diary 30th April / 1st May

The feast of Beltane, symbolizing winter’s death and summer’s rebirth.

Watching the dawn slowly break, outside, on the wild moor. Used to the vagaries of our weather, we had constructed make-shift covers and tents. At Beltane, the ordinary laws of morality are suspended. It is a time for sexual license. A child conceived at Beltane is sacred, set apart, an off-spring of the Gods and Goddesses of fertility.

Copulating in the morning dew and the fine falling rain. Naked. Remembering the rituals from the preceding night. Healing and blessing. Smoke drifting from the main bonfire. The sweet scent of burning apple wood. Now, we are existing outside of time and space. Yet connected to the Universe and feeling strangely energetic, too. Charged –

Through the night we drank hot chocolate laced with brandy from thermos flasks. Viagra was taken. Muira Puama, too. We ate a midnight feast of fruit and tongkat ali extract, which increases testosterone levels and ejaculatory power in men. I had a rock hard, super stiff erection which was much used –

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All is peace, silence and solitude. The rugged moor, the sky, sun and wind all speak in the same language now.

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The river Fowey network has a good stock of Otters. Back in the 1960s the UK’s Otter population was decimated by the widespread and indiscriminate use of pesticides: the poison, of course, leached into the rivers and waterways, poisoning the Otters and much else beside.

Cornwall on the other hand, due to the preponderance of dairy farming, became an Otter stronghold. Often you may catch glimpses of them here in the wood beside the fast rushing river above the falls. This is ancient woodland, much of it oak, and recorded in the Doomsday Book (1086).

We know secret places high in the wood, carpeted in bluebells just now. A good place to picnic or make love or meditate on life, the Universe and everything – and if you search carefully in the right light with the moon full, you may just catch a glimpse of the mysterious Old Man of the Woods…Or so they say.

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The past lays all around us in careless spills. A carved stone to memorialise Donyarth ( Doniert in Latin) or Dungarth, last recorded king of Cornwall. According to the ‘Annales Cambriae’ he drowned in 875. An accidental death, probably, but in Ireland a certain monk chronicler claimed his death was a punishment from God, due to his collaboration with Viking raiders.

One can never escape these Danes. Alphege, Archbishop of Canterbury, certainly couldn’t. In 1012 Sweyn Forkbeard’s men murdered him by pelting him with beef bones – this the grand finale of a drunken feast near Greenwich. These Vikings were voracious meat-eaters, ignorant of the dangers of high-cholesterol, of course, but they certainly knew how to have a good time…

And for poor martyred Alphege, Canterbury’s first martyr, who had always embraced celibacy and poverty, Sainthood awaited. Some small consolation, to be sure, for his bizarre end.

But then there came a time when those Vikings came to rule the half of England that made up the Danelaw – for just under a century to AD 954. DNA surveys of England suggest the most common descent is not from Anglo-Saxons or Norman French, but from Celtic Romano-Britons who, traditionally, had been assumed wiped out or banished to Wales, Cornwall and Brittany. The second largest ingredient in the modern English people is Scandinavian.

As I said earlier, you can’t escape those rampaging Danes; nor their massive genetic legacy, not just in England, but in Scotland, too!

Ah, see, we’re all brothers and sisters under the skin.

deliberate solitude

April 30, 2017

She was so much better at being alone; being alone came more naturally to her. She led a life of deliberate solitude, and if occasional loneliness crept in, she knew how to work her way out… Or even better, how to sink in and absorb its particular comforts.

Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney
The Nest

30 th April

Busy, busy day. People arriving last night, more this morning. Later there will be queues for the shower. Chaos rules, as always. Then a small convoy of cars to Plymouth where our feast will commence.

Unfortunately the weather forecast is not good for today: rain may be coming in off the coast; so a wet, weary Beltane, perhaps?

After an afternoon of eating and drinking we will all travel to a secret location. There wood has already been prepared for our bonfire, the sawn logs covered to keep them dry. Even in the rain we will have a Beltane bonfire – come what may, we will leap the flames. And heavily cosmetisised women with flowers in their hair will dance round the Maypole in delicious abandonment.

One of my favorite times of year.