Tag Archives: Ukip
and minimalist patterns are appearing: Koyaanisqatsi –
My answer to Matthew Parris HERE.
Four days to go – until the ‘defective’ election.
My photos in Clacton this morning – to add to this blog’s many Clacton photos over the years.
The latter is one graffiti left in situ following Tendring Council’s erasure of an original Banksy satirising UKIP. If they had preserved the wall itself that would have been £400,000 to the local economy! This couple on the bench reminds me of the couple Tho and Hataz in ‘Nemonymous Night’ where their sui-subsumation at Earth’s Core was IS as BEING beyond WAS with the novel’s many explicit lobes: a lobe’s central, sadly predictive, doom – not the red herring-catcher H5N1, after all. A surprise even to me.
Boris Johnson wields a brick and exhorts:
“We will fight them on the beaches of Clacton!”
Today’s skyline. The geofacial makeover continues, as a new beachhead emerges overnight around Clacton-on-Sea against the political as well as the climactic storms about to hit this area:
I received today my copy of the 25th anniversary edition of ‘Best New Horror’: yesterday’s beachhead against today – the first volume in 1989 of a successful series of anthologies. One of my stories (Mort au Monde) was then included in this book and, although today I am, like the coast, being accretively made-over, I am very proud of this ancient achievement in its new setting.
This novel by DF Lewis was published by the acclaimed Chomu Press in 2011. It has something to do with Clacton-on-Sea in Essex, where the author has lived for 20 years.
Now Clacton is about to go BIG. Possibly not as big as the novel itself, though.
The text on the original back cover of the book:
You have been suffering with dream sickness, and a Hawler has suggested you take the sea air for a rest cure. Perhaps you have been strolling along the promenade by the sands of Clacton-on-Sea, wondering whether your life is a dream, and if so, whether it is a real dream, or merely a dream of a dream. You put your face in the space of a seaside cut-out board and on the other side you see… a giant carpet in the wild spiral of a tornado burrowing into the earth, the weave of its multidimensional design revealing the capering of carpet apes, the things that haunt ceilings, the places where poultry becomes meat… You remove your face and find yourself back in the same day as before, with both sides of the cut-out board the same dream or unimaginable reality. But now you and everything else have together become completely nemonymous.
For the full treatment, insert your face in the space of Nemonymous Night by veteran Weirdmonger D. F. Lewis. Let the captain of this earthcraft take you from the left foot of man-city to the nemo of the ‘no me’. On a guided tour of the under-carpet of Inner Earth, decide for yourself if Greg is Greg or really Mike, if Beth is actually Susan, what it is the Hawler does to cure the dream sickness, and whether Mike or Susan might, in fact (or fiction), be you.
I lay awake at 4 a.m listening to the echoing clangs and thumps of the coastal work that is tidal-sensitive to time. You kip, I kippeth not.
This morning, I find the cafe is still open directly in front of the piled Norwegian rocks that are ready for making into the new Fishtail Groynes:
Although I shall miss the old rocks and groynes along this coast (preserved photographically on this my website), I have been convinced that it is work needed doing.
Thanks to some Julian Karswell who once set about casting the runes, if not the rocks.
I am writing this in reply to what Matthew Parris of The Times is reported here to have said about Clacton-on-Sea where I have lived for the last 20 years.
As partially demonstrated by my photographic reportage of the Clacton area on this blog in recent years and my long-term absorption of not only the area’s piecemeal particularities but also its gestalt, I contend it is a spiritual receptacle akin to the abbey ruins, chalice well gardens and Tor of Glastonbury in Somerset which is a genius loci that I first encountered by visiting it and feeling it for myself in the 1970s with my then young family, as originally impelled by my reading ‘The Glastonbury Romance’ by John Cowper Powys (a book whence I quote here).
Clacton is a genius loci, too, a destiny, a crossover conflux that deserves better than those who are currently using or abusing it. Or perhaps it will now be harnessed for its optimum potentiality seeing that it has thus been clumsily delivered a higher profile by those who don’t yet fully understand such potential.
Only today, just as an aside, I discovered for the first time, without really looking for it, the artefact below hidden away in a corner of the crazy golf near Clacton pier. It was as if I was meant to find it today.
PS: I was born in Walton-on-Naze (part of the Clacton constituency) in 1948.
…as the coastal work started in the last few days – about to change the face of this website’s many skylines, groynes, rocks photographed over the years … in parallel with the ‘defective’ Clacton election on 9 October that may change British political history, let alone the imminent Scottish vote!
At Holland Haven this morning: