Ireland/England trip

[padraig (u.s.)]

Hey! I'm gonna be in Ireland and England the last week of May. My recently retired folks + will have just graduated from grad school sister are taking a more extensive trip and I decided to tag along semi-autonomously for part of it. Probably gonna fly into Dublin, hang 2 or 3 days there, then from there to London for another 4 or 5, possibly with a stopover in Bath which my sister is keen on.

So, 2 things: first off trying to meet some of yall irl after all these years! Droid, Eden, Luka, Tea, Craner, Danny, Barty, Third, etc, whoever's around really, who knows when the hell I'll be there again. 2nd, looking for any + all recs. Music, art, food, anything cool, weirder the better. I realize, barring an EU extension, Britain will be 2 months into post-Brexit Mad Max style wasteland at that point, but hopefully a few things will still persist in the ruins (seriously I hope everyone is OK tho).

I'm not around here much these days cos work makes it hard, but the love runs deep, looking fwd to it!

 

[padraig (u.s.)]

Also if anyone at either stop wants to get psychedelic weird, know that I'm totally up for it, just saying

 

[luka]

Supplies come and go according to some obscure clockwork of fate but we'll see what we can do. In my minds eye you look like a musclebound heavy from Mad Max. White dreads and piercings, sleeveless leather jacket, torn denims.

 

[luka]

Drood will come over from Dublin on a coracle. Craner will get a horse and cart from Cardiff. Bringing the old bardic wisdom of the Celts, draped in cloaks of mist, eyes glimmering, hoary as the hills.

 

[luka]

Me and barty will unconsciously fall into an ever escalating exaggeration of fake cockney accents till by nightfall we are speaking in rhyming slang, trading stories of the Krays and Mad Frankie Fraser.

 

[luka]

Eden will appear in his bathchair pushed by third form, beard by now as Venerable as Marxs, the pair of them distributing impenetrable communist propaganda, so esoteric and logic chopping it looks more like mathematics than any recognisably human language.

 

[luka]

Corpsey, too shy for a public appearance but determined not to miss out, will speak from behind a curtain like the wizard of oz, tentatively proffered opinions issuing from crimson drapes, outline of a face in fabric.

 

[luka]

Hmg sat at a corner table alone and glowering, face besmeared with blood and meat grease, challenging all comers to an arm wrestle

 

[luka]

Hundreds of anonymous lurkers materialise out the empty space, physical forms crystalising from cigarette smoke and motes of dust like limbs sprouting ftom tadpoles nameless and voiceless witnesses to whatever might eventuate.

 

[luka]

Vimothy in a black cloak, pale as the moon, clutching a sheaf of statistics, dense with numbers and symbols, these he passes out in lieu of speech any time he is questioned.

 

[luka]

Sufi in the brilliant blue of a tuareg headscarf. Blue eyes intensified by blue fabric, sparkling. Conspiring with a retinue of crows, perched on shoulder, head, wrist and knee, heads cocked, listening, croaking cryptic answers, pecking at peanuts, beaks in the frothy caps of beer.

 

[luka]

Version will make his way over from Stockport, friendly, personable, engaged, but each time we try to respond to anything he has said we find, panicky and vertigoed, that it has disappeared from the memory record, vanished without a trace. We scrabble at the place it should be, at that lacunae, desperate.

 

[luka]

Pattycakes back from Brazil, provincial englander turned shamanic voyager between worlds, parrot feathers in sensible haircut, eyes bottomless maelstroms, turbulent vortexes, hidden by sunglasses, Janes Addiction T-shirt and Castenada novel tucked in jacket pocket, the transformation complete.

 

[DannyL]

Me and barty will unconsciously fall into an ever escalating exaggeration of fake cockney accents till by nightfall we are speaking in rhyming slang, trading stories of the Krays and Mad Frankie Fraser.

Look out for these two Padraig.

 

[luka]

"Awlright treacle"

 

[luka]

Danny L, all 6ft 7 of him, stooping under door frames, hunched under merely human sized ceilings, pawing at everyones Orgone, blue crackling sex energy around the groin.

 

[DannyL]

I'll try and go full on incomprehensible Cockney. I was hanging with some Reichian people last summer including some Mexicans and discovered that my accent does not cross the comprehensibility border into South America.

A trip to Cafe Oto might be an absolute necessity.

 

[luka]

Simon himself, the grand dame, in a forcefield of inviolate gravitas, dark curls, full lips, dressed like a gypsy fortune teller, all coloured silks, gold rings and heavy kohl, smoking clove cigarettes, speaking in tongues, a home counties glossolalia that lays down our twisting paths of fate.

 

[luka]

Leo and crowl over from New York, speaking an indecipherable creole of salt beef sandwiches, bologna, bodegas and loosies, having rechristened every street in London with an affectless, random number, 42nd street, 11th avenue, to make sense of a strange city. Ya big schamoley.

 

[luka]

Firefinga having documented and archived the 90s most trivial minutiae has managed to actually secede from the present entirely. Smart phones dont work around him. Social mafia accounts disapoear, facebook and Twitter mysteriously crashing.