The following texts comprise a selection of sporadic blog posts Payne wrote for his website 'Celtic Conspiracies'. They indicate a burgeoning obsession with the objects first glimpsed a decade prior to writing. Some perhaps veer rather uncomfortably towards the state of fugue.
LOOKING FOR ANSWERS
You see yesterday I passed by the hardware store again. You may remember my last post and everything bad that happened and yes I admit it was a foolish thing to do to go back there but I needed something. Well I can’t talk about that part. They had a screen in the window, you could see it from outside. I thought my god they’ve started selling televisions. It was past five you see so the store was closed to the public but there was something happening on that screen so I couldn’t help but go closer despite the thing that happened last time. Forgive me. I know maybe you think I’m a little crazy for this, but I wouldn’t let some punk interrupt my curiosities. Regardless. You see what was in the screen can only be described as an aurora. It was twisting in the black rectangular pool like some sort of reptilian skin, emitting a dazzling, violet light. The light flickered upon the concrete and all the weeds that grew in the cracks became alien plants, their forms risen to unusual magnitude. I felt as though I were a miniature version crawling among them. Version of what? You see the violet made me think of what happened before. It’s gone ten years on, or almost. Friends I would like to photograph all the injuries I have suffered but I fear my flesh will rot on the web. I came back today to see if the aurora was still in the television. I scouted past all the houses in town to see if their screens were broadcasting the same thing, but it was all football and soap operas. When I got to Vital Materials, the screen was still there only this time it was all just static. Greyish, sparkling static. I knocked on the door, rang the buzzer, but no-one replied.
Have been placing bets on the weather. A setup with the guy who works nights in the newsagents. He’s humouring me I can tell. The thing is, I have a sense when I know it will rain or snow. Tornadoes are coming. I think they come out of objects. This morning very early I saw a black twist out the window. It was a lashing shadow and every tree it passed through was stripped of its leaves, the way you might slash at human flesh and see the blood splashing out well it happened with the trees and their leaves. Took a walk hours later among the holocaust of branches and sap, smell of syrup and cedar. I believe this is a side-effect of transition into new cosmic sub-planes. Won a tenner from predicting new rainfall. The man scowled. He did not proffer the money but rather handed me a pouch of tobacco. Smoking has become a new hobby, alongside betting on weather. The thing about smoking is it’s a good way of getting the world inside you. Screw food, which is far too marketed and frankly ersatz. I mean, when you are eating you are mostly eating ideologies. The politicians get their message inside you, embed words in each silt and grain in a gram of bread. I’m hungry for nothingness, it’s a rare thing these days. There are pills on the internet full of monatomics. They come in gold capsules of different luminosity and each one has a different degree of frequency. You’re supposed to lie on rooftops or something, think of eclipses. I’m saving up for a whole bunch of them. The last time I saw Aidan he was wearing tweed. Isn’t that funny? When I smoke I inhale a wealth of chemicals, I feel the slicking of ore on my lungs, the skin of yellowing lungs. When I cough I am sputtering shadows. It’s a nice way to wind down. Last week I went to a council meeting due to a certain array of suspicions that I won’t delve into, save to say they’re absolutely up to no good. Something to do with the woods, a land sale. They used a lot of elaborate, buffering words. It was like having all this tablet and toffee in your mouth, nothing made sense and it would not melt. The vicar was there. He said we have to protect the cemetery and left. I think he has eyes on the woods. He wants all the graves in the trees. I had a dream where simultaneously we were both struck by lightning. I don’t think it will happen, but maybe.
Have decided I cannot live with the memory. It’s too much not to have it again. Relive, relive. I’ve been watching the same old videos, over and over. Repetition soothes me. A documentary about plant matter, the secret internet communion of fungus. Some pills arrived from the untraceable website (sadly I cannot reproduce the link here, for legal reasons etc.). I tried to find out what Martha is taking in hospital but they said they’d misplaced her records and promptly hung up on me. I can’t complain because I’m paying nothing. I suspect something heavier than lithium. I like saying that word. I think of cadmium batteries, alginic acid, thick gelatin, glycolate, sour and metallic taste in the mouth. The thing about what I saw was hybridity. Taking these pills will restore it. You let certain compounds effect in your blood what happens when organic forms are welded to machinery. I dream of sawdust, citrate. Sight mixed with scent. The most advanced esoteric curriculum available free! That was the advertisement. I saw a girl on the bus with severe esotropia. Afterwards, everything blurred for a day. I could see the true aura of things! It was as if she had blessed me, temporarily, with her third eye. I went again to the Vital Materials store. I urge you all to come hither, to do the same! That place can’t be trusted. I suspect the etheriums helped, left their special deposit in my blood. Sorted my senses. I could once again attune to the vision. In a forest glade, sudden aroma of oil and industry. The diesel perfume with its air of corporate scandal, flavoured with something else. A smell I can only describe as luminous; so rich it was, the way it opened the senses. Imagine if you cracked open a battery and let the acid ooze out on your tongue and what happened next was transcendence, reverie. Martha once told me: I have seen things but what I see is not what it seems. I wonder how much she really knew about the store, how much is now lost to insanity. An inevitable side effect of vision, perhaps. They gave up on shock-treatments, because each one resulted in days of babbling delirium. Apparently she would quote whole biblical verses in full, would spew massive passages from chemistry textbooks. Originally, my sister wanted to go to art school; drew flowers for fun as a child. Learned obsessively the names for the parts, favoured intricacies over the whole, a panoply of fragments--corollas, sepals and stamen. Something inside her one day went metallic. She lost the chlorophyll, the essence of innocence. I blame the boy from the store, his cold and ageless glare. The pills came with a list of warnings, ingredients, side-effects. When I take them I feel some communion with Martha, as she must’ve felt with that crystal inside her, hot and scorching the delicate filigree of her teenage lungs. The pills scratch the walls of my stomach, my gullet. I feel an overwhelming sense of function. I believe they are, accidentally or otherwise, comprised of certain transition elements. It is only a matter of time until the sufficient amount is deposited in my body, and then when I return again to the woods I will stumble upon the correct collection.
The store is everywhere in my sleep. I have visions of its paint shed on the ground in strips, revealing a pearlescent, otherworldly sheen underneath. Not unlike the flesh of a jellyfish, liquid as mousseline glass with a lilac light at its heart. I suspect hexagons of brickwork. Flammable liquids, a cash register attuned to celestial currencies. Atoms you can buy beneath the counter. I dreamt the place flooded. I dreamt it went on fire. I went down the next day and they had installed a satellite dish on the side of its guttering. I dreamt everything inside it melted. I woke up with a dull hum in my head that has not left since. Sometimes it’s as if every cell were pulsing, crying out for the store. Imagine how each wire inside a cable must feel when first plugged in. Warm, vivified, electric. The etherium is running low. The website keeps saying Out of Stock but I suspect a government crackdown, a government operation. I used to download documents on special matters via torrent software, but many of these sites have now been seized. I need a new alchemy. My last visit to the woods is erased from my memory. In fact, whole scenes are being lost to the ether recently. I feel as though my mind were unhinging just slightly, getting lazy like that girl on the bus with her esotropia. A certain smudging of events. I woke up extremely dehydrated on a bed of needles, the smell of pine so piquant it had entered my throat. I have been conducting experiments on my metabolic level, altering calorific input ,intermittently fasting. Switching to a high alkaline diet. The last step may be to drink the water in the woods, to let all each microcluster of perilous matter swim fully within me. As of yet, I watch for signals. Sometimes my heart shivers when I pass the store, when I see the dish pointing up to the heavens. A certain asterism in the eye of the man who stands outside smoking, clad in a black hoodie, his face unknown. He is either a new one, or else one grown. You see the old ones sometimes in the high street, passing by the bookies or grocer’s. They never go in. They never need anything.
Okay so laptop key missing a ‘g’ but managed to glue down a nice wedge to satisfy finger impressions. Soft matter tangible etc. Fingernail curve of moon tonight, vagueness of October. Forgotten how gorgeous the leaves are, explosions of autumn, fire, light etc. Golden, stolen hour. Have been scribbling for the Archaeology of Twilight pamphlet and it will be available soon, although I’m not sure it’s safe to just ship out in the mail as usual? Readers send thoughts on previous experience with this please, ideally I’d like to send to America as I know many regular readers are stateside and feel like print is maybe the form for giving material credence to these ideas of substance which deserve substance, there is something delectable about print don’t you think? My father would always impress science textbooks upon me--I think he bought them from charity shops--and I’d curl up against the living room wainscot reading (this might be a false memory). They were all of dubious quality of course, far beyond my understanding anyway, but I read them, devoured them. Once, a dead moth fell out of a chemistry hardback and since then I’ve considered such tomes with suspicion. Proximity to death, etc. The leaves start yellowing, accumulating dust. I fear the death of ideas too. Keep work slim, thin, easy to flick through. Punters love it. Hear me, the mind of a burgeoning editor and printer!
Symphonically, can you picture out of focus the way these things would move gelatinous through space the way ordinary you’d move? Coordinates of voices, frequencies where they lap lusciously together like amalgamated memories of childhood. Must there be an adagio, drawn out slow into final climax? Having dreams about terrible crustacean orifices the little fibrous hairs and choice of piano was just to ornament what otherwise might be a cheap rip off Kafka sublime. I mean I’m not saying the odd grace note, the trip, isn’t sometimes appreciated but...dear readers, do you know up close a scorpion sometimes resembles amber, or honey when it has congealed a long time in its jar? Really they are quite beautiful creatures, a waltz when slowed down just a little. Seductive flickers of limbs. It is perhaps quite wrong of me but the pills have been veering off dosage owing to certain insomniac nights & fear of amnesia keeping me awake in case sleep steals more knowledge from memory--it’s like whatever cosmic transitions / transmissions might be pulsing probing it’s like I can’t breathe sometimes. I used to be an intellectual. Hah! No, what I mean is the man next door is composing a symphony, slowly on his piano, and alongside that lovely stuttering of notes I’ve been watching scorpion videos on YouTube. Such discovery, synchronicity! The amber melts slowly its dessicate flakes of skin and shell, glowing as sodium fills the concrete well of a city I don’t know, a world beyond hope.
A dream last night where I was falling through lots of very blue sky, the perfect azure you get only in autumn and only because the way it looks in complementary contrast to the orange of the oaks and sycamores in the woods. Except you couldn’t see any trees, any markers of land at all--it was all just blue. Quite content with that just floating except lots of other stuff started floating along with me but it wasn’t clear where they were coming from or if they were just snapping through thin air. At first it was just lots and lots of styrofoam--what do they call it, void fill--and it fell like snow which was quite beautiful. A feeling in the recesses of the stomach like when you first step out and see frost or meet the eyes of a child which are somehow always glassy and curious. There’s a whole abyss there, the reflective between-space of possibility. All the blue and the fragments of white; I tried to reach out in my dream to feel them but my limbs were paralysed. Shamefully, I thought of (I guess in the morning, afterwards) 9/11 and the white shapes filling the sky, just flaking down and before anyone knew what they were they were just special kinds of sulfates, leads--the expected debris of an airplane, maybe. But then bodies. But then the styrofoam became bodies, the bodies of scorpions. The scorpions just hatched out of the void fill. Can you imagine that, those barbed limbs scrabbling for air and the pops of styrofoam bursting into many more eggs hatching many more scorpions?? It went like this, maybe a hundred per second. Sometimes the dream would zoom in and up close I’d see the coral-like shells gleaming evil, or I’d feel the antenna bristling my skin and then the deep shudder of my real life body in sleep. So many of the arachnids just falling in strange eddies no heavier or faster than the styrofoam snow, but there was an infinitude of delirious, disgusting hatchings. The weirdest thing is that these are terrestrial creatures and my dream self just could not reconcile how they’d transcended their binding relation to gravity, but then I had the epiphany that all this made sense. The dream was sent proof for physical ideas I’d been developing! It is all to do with exoskeletons and gravitational consciousness in the astral manner of holograms. Aware that’s a mouthful. First the styrofoam’s momentum and then the multiplicitous significance of the infinite arachnids. It makes sense when the scorpial swarm is flattened on a plane from which you might chart the variant penetrations of psyche and space, the dramatisations of a lurid, deserted eternal. I cannot yet share the equation I wrote when I awoke; it is too precious for the internet’s treacherous, open ocean. Dear readers I ask you to picture that immersive, burning blue. Stick your neck out and suck in the hot desert wind, for an army of the things will sometime come for you too.
Looking for suggestions to famous scorpios (the star sign) from scientific history. Have made mind maps attempting to constellate a non-arborescent trajectory of ideas, aligned with relevance to common traits and degree of impulsion. Which ideas acted upon, etc.
Recent letters from Martha’s hospital attaching sketches my dear sister made of her terrible arachnids, along with notes on the anatomical processes of sclerotisation. Poems too--may share in time. When did she make these? Perhaps they have her on better medication, her brain sharpening again. I hope they don’t let her out. Bad thing to say maybe but for the good of the public, I hope I don’t let her out. This thing with the Gateway very serious.