h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Dear Journal,

This is an incredibly interesting overview about absolutely everything. Feel free to go to sleep now.



I was talking with my writer friends here the other day about what writers might need from say this website or other contexts, to further their writing career, or to work towards finding their own voice, or whatever it may be.



Anyway, I have learned a lot, like I always do, from talking to interesting people.



It got me thinking about levels. All different levels and aspirations, in this context, say, from professional writers to new voices who might be one day published, for those who just love to write and want to learn things and improve and etc etc.



When I think about levels, it makes me think of lifts. I always think of that hilarious talking lift in Hitchhikers Guide, the one that was too paranoid to go up. I think it was that. Anyway it was really funny. Must re-read.



Its important to me to be honest about my limitations on this site, for the sake of the other people around me. I don't want to impede anyone else's creative journey.

I go enthusiastically leaping into, say, the AWW, thinking yay! I can do this! I want to be develop as a writer! (and the AWW has helped me enormously. Its tough sometimes, if I wanted to progress as a writer, I would move in permanently ) ...

...but then I get spooked out and start barking at Jupiter, and wanting to go home because perhaps its not really my direction after all.



If I'm on the right level, then I'm a contented joyful, hopefully gracious person, and I am kind of fashioned about love and good grace and things, and that's much more important to me than my attempts at art.

Good friends in my life often say to me and I always say, hey I'll go the lerv, , forget the rest. .

Ah yes.

So I'm staying on the ground floor right now. Avoid the lift! heheh.

I love this website, and I can't be here always, but when I am here I love talking to people, there are so many interesting minds, its so great. I think I might just wander around, or be here in my journal doing my funny amateur word paintings which are just an obsessive hobby, like chess or scrabble ....

...and I'll check the AWW and the Post and I'll read the work of others, and happy to offer sparks of inspiration, (if I can borrow some in return haha).

That's that sorted out then. End of incredibly interesting overview.

PS

Dear journal,

I just broke out in typos. Its my age. . Can't type any more.

Meant to say and of course means and you know what I mean.

And now I shall return to the dancing spirals of absurdity and wonder, which illuminate my indigo dream skies.

cc

fields forever!

heheh. yay luvvy! .

pom pom .

Hey, this is a great new game for my weekend. Song titles inspired by smileys. . Might even get a -lullaby yet. . hmm. Or a name for my plant that represents the song of the soul. What about Spark of Jupiter. ???? Spark of Jupiter??? I don't think so. Doesn't sound as good as Dandy-Lion, or Lily of the Valley. Beware the Dandy Lion, with its flame-yellow eyes.



Dear Journal,

Last night, on a dreamwalk, I ran into a Luminous Archetype in the Valley of Psychology.

It was three quarters Angel-Energy, and a quarter Beagle.

I greeted it in various cryptic languages, and asked it who I was.

It shone with a jasmine-fragrant-light-delight, and then barked at me for twenty minutes.

Dear Journal,

I think I'm evolving.

I am even considering slithering out of the water to see if can adapt to dry land. hmm. Not sure though. Are there coffeeshops for ex-watersnakes? .



I have been thinking about the language of music. I love the language of music. Like with words, I have my own musical language. I am not a Musician.

I play a synth and keep my output contained under headphones, for the sake of the neighbourhood, and all of creation.

If I come up with a particularly melodic or expressive loop, I record it for future use, perhaps to add lyrics, or for re-mix.



I don't attempt to communicate to others through music. Its the joy and love of the process that matters, and that is the focus of my communication.



My language of music is based on the resonant frequency which I hear in the atmosphere around me, the sonic vibration of all of creation, including watersnakes. .

Sometimes I hear an electrical type sound, which I think is the resonant frequency of those messages, (are they called synapses?) that zip all over the brain and body all the time. A synth is a good instrument for me, as it can replicate that sound pretty well.



I do add melody of course, and harmony. Hey, I got jazz synapses, . I can play that synaptic synth-symphony . I don't think synaptic is a word. .

I can't write down music, using formal notation. Wish I could. I love looking at written music. I get so frustrated that I can't read it. Grr. . I have to write my manuscripts using a serious of weird symbols, an attempt to draw the shape of the sound, a sonic map.



I love to sit in my room and play what I see around me. Yesterday I wrote a piece which was called

.

Which I did. .

You should talk to Elektra. She sings to dogs, cats, squirrels...she makes up the lyrics...

. Elektra and I should make an album. heheh.

Hey Elektra, how about it kid? Who will manage our fan club? . I love it. I need a coffee with you. We have plans to make, tracks to lay down..

As much as I would love to join you, D has been charitable enough not to mention how awful I am at singing. I can't carry a tune in a bucket as they say. I do not think that ever your advanced friends would listen to it. It is much more like bad performance art. The World will do well without it.

I wish I'd said that. . What a great phrase. Oh, but no no no! advanced friends? . ? .

funny thing, you know, the other day someone asked me why I didn't go out and perform, and I said the same thing, the World could do without it. hahah. that's so funny.

OK, the title of our album is Tunes From Beyond The Bucket.

'The old oaken bucket, the moss-covered bucket...'

I am afraid that as with the giant rat of Sumatra---the world is not yet ready for that.

the what????

the giant rat of Sumatra emerges from the oaken bucket, and begins to sing ballads about the good old days in the moss covered bucket, when life was sweetly sweet

That comes from the Sherlock Holmes ouvre. Not sure which story it is in but it ended up in one of Tom Baker's episodes of Doctor Who, The Talons of Weng-Chiang.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Talons_of_Weng-Chiang

Ah interesting, and the giant rat is in my life now. Must learn more.

The Talons of Weng Chiang? you guys have tickets to worlds that I can only dream of, although I rather hope I don't dream of them, but I will have to travel more. .

Tom Baker mmmm . Although William Hartnell was even more my type.

Dear Journal,

I ran into the nur just yesterday, on another thread, far far from here, and yet strangely near. heheh.

I knew not of the nur. That would be the nur .

I know that at the age of 56 one might expect delight to be more jaded, more faded, and yet, for me, it is the opposite. The older I become, the more I delight in the simple things of life, the poetic play of momentary delight, the nur. .

I think its good to remember the nur. . Oftentimes in life I have tried to run, , away from those five-eyed alien stranger feelings, you know, those outsider feelings, but now I know there's always the nur , which is the stranger feeling in magic mirror writing. .

Of course, there is also the badger graphic, and the cupcake graphic,

and the graphic (in my head, or is it in my head)....

Wait for me journal, I need to change postings.

About four days ago, on the road near our house, someone tried to drive fast down a steep slope into the river, saved at the last moment by a tree.

I feel almost guilty that we were so happy yesterday, eating baked beans in the carpark, beside the beach.

What to offer, to those in despair, you know. I don't know. I feel inadequate sometimes. What gifts to bring to this life, just anyway, not even to do with despair.

Last night, I talked about this to my imaginary friend, yes OK OK, so I have an imaginary friend, sort of like a wise person, know what I mean, or maybe they aren't imaginary, anyway.....

you know, I said to this friend, if I were a good artist I could bring inspiring text, or pictures or music, I were a healer I could offer healing, if I were a plumber I could fix the pipes, if I were a doctor I could stitch the wound,

I'm not a very good Magi, oh wise friend, I don't have any gold, or frankincense or myrrh,

but my imaginary friend said hey listen kid, I am Dream, and I bring you the energy of strange otherwordly prose, which is totally incomprehensible, and not very good really , especially when you write it down, but it makes us both joyful, and that's enough for now, so if you mention gifts again I shall knock you on the head with a cupcake .

Well, thankyou, imaginary friend, I am glad you are imaginary. Or are you? And so this year I am going to channel Dream. Like, even more than I usually do.

. hmm

Dear Journal,

Notes on the Muse of Dream///Part 302 Chapter Seven/// In search of Science Fiction imagination sparks///Inspired idiocy on the borderline of a new year////


Perhaps a writer might run with the nur, that would be the nur , and The Nur would become a civilisation, a people, and the writer could give them a home, a context, a purpose. Provided he or she checked with the people who created the nur in the first place. Ahem.



On my page, though, The Nur are destined to be homeless. My pen knows not how to create for them a context. They are out there in the myriad patterns of moment, lost in a world of absurdity and dreamplay, somewhere between the vase of plastic yellow flowers in the cafe of the hospital, and the wounded ache of the wounded ache.



I love these myriad patterns of moment, they are my life, even though I am as lost as a toothless dog, howling at a moon illusion.

I love the way that the poetry of lostness evades me every time I try to find it. I love the raw hunger of love itself.



And I yearn for Science Fiction. I feel like Science Fiction, even though I don't know what it is. In my mind's eye, there are always those curious strangers standing on bridges,and I know that they are the lost poets, those Science Fiction angel-poets, who yearn for coincidence and context, yet who can never rest, even though I try to create for them a heaven-home, with towers of light made from dictionaries and dominoes and fragments of dream.

Ah yes, yes, yes. Particles of Science Fiction writerbrain white light realisation moments flutter like moths through the screen of my computer.. . It's the cogs, that's it!! What is? Of course, it could be the . What could be the apple? . The energy of inspiration in this fruitful garden of h2g2. I get high on the fructose. heheh.

Dear Journal.

2012 is going to be a good year. I am making a book of Dream Patterns, with added photos, which I shall store in my sock drawer, with a note. Check the hiking socks for philosophy, the posh black socks for poetry. Avoid the yellow and grey stripy socks, as they contain intense mystical meanderings. . hmm


Of course, when online, I shall read the Post, and wander through the fruitful Garden of Hootoo, learn many things, talk to people on non- reclusive Thursdays, and eat a lot of smileys. .

I shall write to you, dear journal, when I do, if I do, and when I do, I shall speak entirely in mirror writing Dream Pattern. I'll start now, so can't , but you can still .

********************************

Notes on Dream Pattern No 5432 New Chapter

Yesterday I daydreamed a new chord and, in the same daydream, I played it on my synth. It sounded like 53 green dots circling around a bee sting on my left hand. Then from out of the bee sting flew tiny orange spirals, and shiny neon words written in a cryptic script. I think they said , , but they might not have. They might have said something entirely other, like .

*****************************

Dear Journal,

Notes from the Dream Garden (Of the Mind) as further deranged by the Post Advent Calendar.

sivle
petunias

I am camping out in the smiley index again. Nice New Year holiday. Fresh air and plenty of badger hallucinations .

If sivle can leave the building backwards, , then so can I, ah yes, and the petunias say it all. And what do they say?? I ask myself. Ah, the petunias! the petunias! . . Or was it delphiniums.

I wrote this almost-story once about a fellow who tried to write by the light of the emergency exit, , and I think there were moths in the atmosphere, but I might go add some petunias, maybe plastic ones, in the communal hallway. Faded pink.

Do we pay the smiley artists, every time we write great works based on their art?? Yes! Yes! say the smiley artists.

I shall pay with musical in-breaths and pearls and swirls from the subconscious gloop of the eternal wellspring.

oh, s'cuse me, there's an orange butterfly graphic trying to communicate with me.....

...yes yes Mrs Flutterby random brainwave, and what can I do for you today?...



(says Mrs Flutterby graphic, (looking good in orange) , who is sunning her wings on the side of my tent)

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Serious conclusion

I do maintain, having (almost)got this far , , that playful inspiration can be drawn from any speck, any particle, any pattern of any moment. . Just as well, really. I am well away here, in the smiley index. Yes! Yes! . I remember it all now, the delphiniums!