Got it all Figured Out - Time for the Fun to Begin
I am sharing some extracts from a work in progress. Bild the WA is an alternative history of Prague told from the perspective of the inter-dimensional Spanish step-brother of a Chernobilly princess on the cusp of self-destruction in a Utopian society who have moved beyond language into Light.
Samo, a time travelling graffiti lord, is on the tail of the princess.
BILD the WA, a novel
Extracts - 1
Book the First - Naughty Eyes
These stories test in a bubble of language only light and sight can cure.
There was a man called Bill but it was really bad because Bill had a job but he lost it and so his wife left him because she was angry how he lost it and because they had a child things got very tricky.
But that's another story.
A Kierkegaardian fairytale.
Pixie grew to be a walker and walked and walked and on her walks she would follow things. First she followed patterns in the trees or paths or clouds, then she followed animals, then she followed signs but then she followed light. Reflections of light. Slithers and flashes and plays of light in which she saw patterns, animals, paths and all sorts. Today she saw a face in the light. A shadow on a factory gate in the shape of a head. One with big fuzzy hair and a curious grin by the looks of the way the nose hovered above the chin.
She turned abruptly as a shadow that size must be cast by someone very very close. Beside her was nothing but air through which she saw the heavily graffitied walls of the derelict Vysocanska train station.
Pixie was an expert walker and had oodles of patience. So she walked and walked amongst the discarded warehouse relics of an age when her ancestors experimented with hard labour as a curious means to appease the restless. *** (note - replaced by pleasure domes and the C.C.I. Creative Construction Industry who's motto is 'Not one construct built from a distance')
On the sides of the shoom shoom vehicles and in the occasional opening of apartment windows she saw the fuzzy haired image of her attendant phantom.
Catching teasing glimpses of him in the puddles on the rain kissed street, she slowed to a snails pace that they might finally meet.
Effingham creeped the wall wader bejewelled by her heave. Who she was with he couldn't tell but knew she could never leave.
Mook and George pooled the crowds in cool roomed outdoorsy shine tunes and drone baked half groans, tubular and rendition end for gabby houses and partnered Mums and dude kids. Baby hugs at ears and quackers near the edge of water by boat jam music backers. A quid here a quid there for old times sake and to provide a mask that the pre-jams aren't blurry and the cats don't jolt so.
George pounded his guitariano with the force of a donkey and Mook rolled joints on his golden tongued diatribes for light, air, harmony and imaginary honkeys.
Plebs at the back equallified to be plebs at the front as the status quo has no row with judicial system on any score lessly than murder or skiffle.
Pixie chimed with her handheld wannabe (wannabe alive wannabe three dimensional) and shrouded her understatement in mystery. Both bopped and cajoled to the Cernabilly echoes bouncing like diverse jivers on that particular Naplavka bowl of rivery Equinox, Juke Box, Bobby Sox and fender bras.
The lyrics wringed against the patio barber wall of the street above and graffitied all over; Mook's words as clustered and myriad fucking.
Bounce-bounce the melon headed glad rags moomed
Bounce-bounce the Hendrix tatty girls rang.
Meep-meep the beetles clanked and bolstered the insect party poopers.
Glory and light continued in acquiesce passed on in eternal revolution pints. Glimmer to glimmer the intoxicating bzuzz of us and I in a pocket sized hadron collider.
As twilight fell upon the riverside revellers, monumental moment to mount mounted the walkway and trickled upwards and inwards to meet the anti-clash of heartfelts.
Pixie now woozy with words and dilution was ready to hostess her ballyhoo beckoning. And right then and right there but measureless in poesy, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder and certain proof of her spook. The band sang these lines as she swaggered to the bridge, "The sail lifted by light alone and roaming the skies un-shy, unshakeably un-shy.
I still see you in the cloud's rays and sol souldiers, you and me in the waves on the breeze."
Samo ruled with a marker pen and sceptre.
According to the Vojnich Manuscript (which is not a history at all) some Sickos living on what is now and has always never been Threshold territory, mainly in Undergrowth subunctious realms, were exposed for a number of years to questions of governance and meaning from the brain pod sulk bulk, whose empiric nonsense stretched across the territory of present-day. Always present day. In 623, of the moonfold-gamble-hunt, the Sicko tribes revolted against the oppression of the mind. During this time, a very frank artist, Samo, came to the free lands with his cans and markers and joined with the Sickos to defeat the head munchers, confidence crunchers and Zulu dancers. Thus the Sickos adopted Samo as their pin-up model, for shits and giggles. "So it happened that he encouraged the 'self-found' and the end of madey uppy claptrap.
He married twelve Sicko women and four Sicko men and had with them twenty-two sons, fifteen daughters and a happy dog.
All other locals, under his charisma, let go of empty searches and were victorious in their sprouting.
"We do not come into this world when we are born, but come out of it," tagged Samo.
The Vojnich Manuscript painted about Samo before and after he lived in the Threshold but never during. Where would be the point in that?
Later Samo and the Sickos came into conflict with death but got over it quickly and didn't bother themselves too much with that whole rigmarole.
To this day no one really gives a tinker's toss.
Over the next five years Samo and the Sickos undertook artistic projects which would endeavour to include all humans in the vicinity. No one knows exactly how far to the northeast Samo's influence eventually reached, probably beyond the boundaries of today's known universe. After Samo's death, his public portfolio has been respectfully worked over as there never was, nor was there ever meant to be, a real structure with solid organization. Art was created to unite Sickos to defend against Brain-disturbs and fantasy, and to facilitate Sicko plundering expeditions into their neighbour's conscience and mesmerising atomic structures. The Threshold, united in difference and indifference mooches forwards in triumphant nonchalance until once every 333 years Samo is reborn, empty as a ping pong ball to refruit and recruit himself into that barnstorming people's acolyte he was always born to be. As are we all.
No history but this history and that's no history at all.
Early modern humans had settled in the region by the Lower Paleolithic/Autographic. Several Paleolithic cultures settled here, including Bombuien, Burnerian, Taggarian, and Muralian. The Svatoplatopluk archaeological graffito site near the Quadratar ink mines is dated to between 24,000 and 27,000 years old. The figurine (Cock and Balls of Dolní Věstonice) found here are the oldest known primary-coloured ceramic goolies in the world.
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