h2g2 Lore: Night of teh Hoover

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2legs started writing a new follow-up version of Night of teh hoover.

This version might be a little surreal.

A mysterious hover with the original post by Nighthoover.

Here's a little taster, from at the start, it probably needs some more work, and more eels:

It spun, dizzyingly, fizzingly, swimmingly, eratically, endlessly..

It twisted and turned. Turning in on itself, folding out, then folding back in on itself again.

Fizzing in and out of memory, out of mind, out of focus, dizzyingly fuzzing and green on the edges, when a fleeting, momentary focus to the inside occured, it revealed nothing but another shift out of focus, another turning in on itself, another fizzingly disturbing folding and re-folding..

Never truly out of focus, yet never entirely in focus. Slowly wobbling away with its green fizzingness, and yet then returning again, only to fade more out of focus and reality, just as it seemed to near the point at which it might coalesce into some kind of meaning or shape.

Shimmering with a green fuzziness so hot it could burn a hole through a diamond, and yet it continued, or seemed to continue, minutes, hours, days, or perhaps only seconds..

It didn’t gain focus, didn’t lose focus, had no focus and total focus, faded, yet was strong, like a faded washed out reel of tape, whilst as pixal perfect as a high definition computer screen, confusing in its inability to be anything whilst symultainiously being everything, too much, and yet too little..

An endless loop of replayed images, sounds, suggestive feelings and presences of thought, within its dark recesses, so self-contained within itself, yet so distantly separate as to be the final heat of the universe spread out to the extreme reaches of all space. Solid. Not solid. Harnessed by a pure sense of its ownness whilst possessing little structure of form to suggest even as such, what it might be.

The endless incomprehensible metaphors…

Old man Cray…

Morris Semchevsky…

The red eared, sharp eyed barman with the frying pan…..

Potsy, the table, the dreadful makeup on the drag-henchmen…

The spandex clad guitarist… and… and more… so much more besides…
So many thoughts, so many pictures, so few answers and so so many questions and endless endless unrealities of the entire memory..

Suggestive, faint moments of time, spatial time within the whole, yet not singularly solid enough to pin anything on. Not that there was, is anything to pin on, its all too green and fizzingly fuzzy at the edges.

Chapter one

I awoke, dizzyingly, in a cold sweat, the surreal and strangely terrifying images of the nightmare already fading. They certainly were strangely terrifying… or was it terrifyingly strange, either way it was surreal and more than a little unnerving at the last count, and the last count was… I couldn't remember, but it was most probably really very very bad whatever the count was…

The memory of the dream faded more, phased in and out, wobbled a bit, kind of did a small summersault, a sort of pirouette, and finally faded to a single low noise of background surrealisms…

Or were they fading? - It never even seemed to be that solid at the time in reality, somehow more solid in dreams than when it was in the ‘reality’ at the time, the time, I didn’t want to go there, it could have been weeks, months, or just days or perhaps only as much time as It takes to organise a small river-side picnic on a loverly warm May day, besides the bank of the river Cam…

But in all these years, so many years, why now? Why was it all suddenly flooding back like a barrel of eels slowly tipping over and disgorging its slippery wet contents over a brightly coloured and embroidered Persian rug? I wish it would disgorge itself further, slide off the rug, onto the tiles, the sleek black polished tiles, over the doormat, out of the door, and onwards, never to rear itself again in thought of mind.. But again, the time, was it years ago? Was it a year ago? It certainly seemed to be a considerable time ago, but it all got so fizzingly fuzzy and green around the edges, even when I tried to focus on the exact time, or even location, it’d all happened..

This wasn’t the first dream, no, nightmare about it all, but it was all so green and fizzy, everything fuzzy around the edges; like a sun bleached photograph of a long forgotten childhood holiday, like nothing was in focus, nothing quite solid, all somehow other than it fizzingly appeared to be…

My mind had been playing tricks on me again of late; first there was the girl in the café, so much like Potsy, yet so much more solid. There she had been, innocently serving coffee, jaffacakes, lime chutney, custard creams, salted herring, but doing so in such an utterly terrifying blood curdling manner. But looking back she had that fuzziness, that faded photo like insecurity to her edges, which maybe leant to her a Potsy-like appearance which in reality she didn’t have… No solidness, fuzzy on the edges, like an un-tracked VHS cassette, wobbling the edges of my field of vision, of her vision, of the scene… Or had it just been a result of one night too many up late with my friends Jack Daniels and Jim Beam… It was so hard to tell…

Then there was that bar, just a few short weeks ago. It had started out as the usual thing, meeting a client, but then the barman… His inexplicable metaphors, his unintelligible idle chat, but most of all the stitching on his jacket, which was so so similar to that dimly remembered stitching, I had once seen, which had terrified me so much, emblazoned on the back of a spandex clad guitarist, who was so hell-bent on ensuring his Fender Deluxe Stratocaster has intimate knowledge of the back of my head…

That client had been a proper job, an actual ‘payer’, and BoB knew that I could do with some money coming in for a change, the café, the barman, probably just coincidences, but now with the dreams?

Attempting to make any kind of sense of it all just made me remember more, and the more I remembered, the less it made any sense at all and the less I could be certain of anything, anything at all. Focus too much, and it swims away, like a shotgun firing into an empty potato sack, concentrate too much, and it fizzes, fades, wobbles and distorts… It was always like that though, wasn’t it? Its hard to remember when the act of remembering makes you forget a little more each time, and makes the remainder even more fuzzy and green round its fizzing edges… Like frayed curtains, warn carpets, or like spandex guitarists who hit you over the head with a custom Fender Stratocaster… The henchmen… the hence-drag-act-men… no I didn’t even want to go there, not now, not ever, never… No more thoughts… no more fuzzy-edged memories, no more potsy, henchmen or spandex clad guitarists and their infernal Fender Stratocasters…

Had there even, really been a table? Did it ever truly exist, in any kind of meaningful, solid way? Or was it just a random collection of pieces of wood? Who’s momentarily found association merely resembled the form of a table? and had Potsy’s earrings really talk to me? Had I been drugged, or was there just something very definitely odd about the whole case, and Hooverville in particular?

How had it ended? Did it end? Who was nighthoover, had I really met him, what had happened on the tube train? How did I leave Hooverville…

Hooverville? What kind of name was that for a town anyhow, I didn’t even know where it was, and I was sure I’d never heard the name mentioned until that trip now so long in the past.. I’d never seen it on a map, heard of it on the news, in the papers… But it really hadn’t even occurred to me before, not until now, hooverville, where, or perhaps more correctly, what was Hooverville.. I’m meant to be a detective, surely I must have pondered where this horror-inducing town was.. It all made less and less sense, yet again the more I thought of it, the less it existed in my mind..

As soon as I tried to focus on how it had all ended, then the ending just faded, fizzed away faded like the haze over a distant railway line..

I had to stop thinking about it…

I had to clear my mind…

Must try and focus on the present, on the…

On the…

Typing and research by 2legs small editorial changes by Cool old Guy (Sockpuppet).

Phase 1:
Added some GuideML and some punctuation, merely capitals,

Phase 2:
Make it readable. Added an s, removed a c from the bank, removed a stray ',', removed some stray ';' from hiding behind a '?'.
Change second word's capital to first word. To say: this has way less typos as I would have made!
Phase 3:
Interpretation. Glad I have two heads

Needed the spare one to stay upright

Night of the Hoover Archive


Cool Old Guy

11.05.15 Front Page

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