the pop group

two video's from the pop group who are back after 35 years

at the hipster cafe i gaze through the glass window at the magnificent display of treats and my eyes fall upon the most luxurious selections of muffins ever. these are not your everyday muffins but gloriously constructed and presented gourmet muffins, and with sexy sounding names, blood orange bliss bomb, the dark chocolate obsession overload, divine rhubarb and cherry crumble and killer raspberry and white chocolate. 
i'm scanning them carefully, muffins can be such a disappointing accompaniment with coffee if they are the wrong kind but these all look incredible. i'm drawn towards the raspberry white chocolate one, as the rasberry's look so vibrant and vital. 
when i'm sitting there sipping upon my coffee, reading the paper a waiter brings me a muffin on the most lovely piece of polished wood. firstly the size of the muffin is most notable, it's twice the size of a normal one, and stands like a powerful embodiment of decadence and superiority. i'm in love with it from a design point of view, the colours strike out in a clash of bright rich reds against the huge chunks of white. 
secondly the fact when i slice through it, it reveals a soft creamy liquid interior that starts spilling over, bursting forth and covering the muffins split interior in a sensual and somewhat explicit food pornographic explosion.
then you have to imagine the taste, i can't describe the way my mouth comes alive, the delicate texture of the body of the muffin, and then the way the white chocolate lumps just like icebergs hidden away suddenly emerging with the most full body and rich flavours. not overly sweet but dense and deep contrasted with raspberry, slightly tart and subtle in their conflicting molecular structure. 
it's not until the strange globular white chocolate lava hits my tongue that my eye's roll back, partly in surprise but mostly in bliss and the experience washes itself over me, from inside out. 
i sip my coffee and wash it down. the perfect accompaniment.
i look at the huge mounds of muffin left and as the waiter wanders by i say 'wow, that is just an incredible muffin. i think that's the best muffin i have ever had. i can't believe it.'
he wanders away looking at me as if i'm crazy.
everyone looks in my direction, hipsters put down their mobile phones, magazines and trendoid accessories as i point at the muffin, 'a truly magnificent muffin' i pronounce.
the waiter comes over to me, 'you will have to leave sir.'
'what, why?'
'this is a hipster cafe sir, you're frankly making a fuss.'
i scoff my muffin, wash it down with the rest of my latte and wander out not hip enough.
   

the ocean chops me up, my matter is redistributed, atoms in a strange collider smashed in the hydrogen oxygen mission accelerator, spat out like a ninja fluid warrior, neptunes herald. i wander the beaches at the break of dawn, the frolicking masses already shrieking, filling the silence with screams and hysterical shouts of joy. it's the saturday mornings, family day, dog day, kids play, parental guides steering them into a mighty crashing whitewash and terrible rip, lookout i say, 'children of the earth, it is the wrong day to play.'

i'm wandering barefoot up through the car parks, cafes, crowds of tourists, i get my coffee on the run, sit down in a lonely shadow and watch the waves smashing down mercilessly, a few boats soar across, one motorboat flies through the air and slams down, it's reckless passengers all gripping tightly.

mission control gets a clean, i do a little gardening, i smoke a little and play 'modern blues' the new waterboys cd. it's great, except for maybe two mediocre tracks, the album is really good, i like the americana production and mix. as usual mike scotts lyrics are excellent, splatterings of mysticism, love and observations. i know he's singing about london in one song, 'the nearest thing to hip.'

the day gets increasingly hotter, oppressive heat, i'm covered in sweat all day, my skin slimes and lizard like. at 19.44 a blast of cool air through mission control sets the climate to reasonable. i like the heat, i love the sun but sometimes i like to have the remote. 

chill out.

'keep the river on your right, and the highway at your shoulder, the frontline in your sights, pioneer'...

go online and buy this book, read it carefully, saviour the narrative, challenge yourself. this is one of the best science fiction novels i have read in decades. it's really fucking good!

action man mission grapples with the day, water brings a massive temperature drop, the rain descends heavily upon the land, plants hunger sated thirst quenched i watch them grow from the studio, massive tiger grass corner, black bamboo and palms. the tropical storm hurls the animal kingdom into movement, i hear birds calling, the frogs call. i watch the strange flow of the river, the random ripples. i see the aggregated language of nature in fractals half filled with violet concentric dark energy and void. i see the rainbow spirit, the serpent swallowed by the dragon. i take the unbroken line. i see a hexagram in every eye, i listen to the tales told by the howling wind blasting away at perpendiculars unbending western logic, i cast yarrow like an arrow, how high does it fly, how far will it fall. inaction man mission.
   
   

the undulating throb of energy, pulsating like sexual sensual stimuli as every wave a perfect form comes towards me. i am extended out across horizons, boundaries and borders, dissolved into and unto infinity, the whispering patterns of life, the cosmic fractal, the impulses of living all are build into my elegant equation of surf. some live to surf, i surf to life.
the ocean loves me, it offers me sharks, brim, skate and mantas, it gives me teeming life unbounded. diversity, the laws of nature are wild and fabulous, they are real. neptune takes me, embraces me, he promises me his daughters, his jewels, his secrets. 
the sun is rising, the sky is bursting forth with blue but there is specks of clouds forming, it's early morning, the town throbs with a few early risers. we have cracked the day open in our dawn ceremony, we have broken open the head and given salutation. 
i emerge from my surf and shower in the cold water, it's my ritual as i wander to the coffee shop glamours. 
on my way back to mission control i stop for coconut supplies, carrying a whole crate to the shoppers all staring at me like i am some caribbean prince with unruly hair and strange sacramental accessories. 
at home the dragons, birds, dog and fish await my arrival. 
it's jake's birthday today, 26 years old, it seems time has overtaken me somewhere, in a strange loop. it only seems like yesterday when i was playing him new gold dream in utero and reading to his mother's stomach the poetry of blake.

ah, sunflower weary of time
who countest the steps of the sun

seeing after that sweet golden clime
where the travellers journey is done

where the youth pined away with desire
and the pale virgin shrouded in snow

arise from their graves and aspire
where my sunflower wishes to go 
those were indeed the best days, filled with joy and love and you will always be a sunflower of a child to me. incredible child, incredible boy, incredible man. 
  
  

everyone waiting for that southerly wind to kick in but it's nowhere in sight, the heat knocks us flat, we can't move fast, everything slows down to tropical speed, i'm getting through my coconut supply. i swan around in my sarong, the fans on full whack in all the rooms.
my shoulder hurts and pain throbs through my right arm. my morning surf was weird, big fat waves with no power. i splashed around but it was unsatisfying. couldn't get a coffee anywhere as the whole town had no power. i wanna see the hobbit film but i can't really organise myself, i wanna see birdman to. outside birds making a racket, beautiful sounds, they must have had a good day. aysaan hirsi ali on 7.30 news, possibly the best talking head the abc has ever had on the subject, finally it's waking up from it's stupidity and groupthink, interesting! ah and a tribute to 'juke' with jack, whose films i am in. cool.
my shoulder really hurts, have to lay down and read my johnny lydon book, he's formed Pil now. i can't help but like him, a real working class hero.
   

when you were mine, i'm listening to that tune as i type, it's the blurred crusade alright. it's all a bit blurred at the moment.
i do feel my inner hindu calling, such a beautiful idea, it's a magnificent crazy world and it's awfully tragic. really sad you can't draw a cartoon anymore but i guess some people find it offencive, i don't know what that is, dignity, stupidity, insanity or revenge, are we at war with someone? 
yes! we declared war remember, this is what happens. why war is futile. really? 
i find a few things offensive but not enough to hurt people, i just let it go, it just goes away once i acknowledge, understand and love it. that don't happen all the time, things slip through. i do wanna zap em a bit with my lunar zip gun but it wouldn't kill them, just turn them towards their feminine nature maybe... anyways, this week has been amazing, really different, i rode my bike around and loved it, although i couldn't get to the beach, i did get to east gosford and back. i stopped for coffee and a dark chocolate and orange muffin in some hipster joint where the chef told me the white chocolate and raspberry ones were better but they didn't have them today. mmm! everyone needs incentive i think, muffins can be mine. i was in a hipster joint, that's what was on the menu. hippsters...
 oh now it's that song i love, 'just for you!'
magic happens, such a perfect song.
anyway it's the blurred crusade, that's where i am right now.
i fix my car up, it's okay but it's left me broke again. i was beginning to just get a grip on everything but this happens and if it wasn't for agent wild i wouldn't have made it. she was there for me. thanks agent wild you are such a great friend. just for you!
so i'm in muffinland being a hipster or something, i'm not sure what they are, the thing just feels like one. then i escape the whole thing on my bike, past the river, up a hill and then down, then level all the way. it was different, i used to be a whizz on my bike, until i crashed but i gotta re learn it all. pedaling and all the fucking gears. i just got it down to a few. low, in between and high then gave my legs a workout, phew!
i also had to pick up a parcel from the post office that they couldn't deliver because that post office has a private delivery service and the post man don't deliver. mmm, if that were the truth then where do my bills come from? so i know they are just inflexible bureaucracy designed to bamboozle us all. possibly another extortion racket. i cycle there and back.
it was fun, even the dragon was watching me when i returned, i was drenched in sweat and smelt like a wet sock or something worse, it would have been perfect to have jumped in the car and thrown myself in the ocean but there was no car so i sat in the shower imagining the surf.
then i sat under my ceiling fan and did some reading. fell asleep.
next day was car pick up day so i did drive the car to the beach but it was an angry ocean that churned me up and spat me out. bad shoulder and bad cramp in leg. the ocean wants me. it's jealous of my new relationship with the land. 
so i crawl... out the water like a terrible beast, haggard and stooped over dragging a stiff trailing leg and looking like he was in an old black and white drive-in horror flick, the creature from terrible beach.
at home the animals seem pleased to see me. i noticed a few nights ago at exactly 20:30 the kookaburra's sing, i love that, five mins of bliss, even the church are muted during that. it's just incredible, one of the things i will remember when i leave this world. it's such an incredible sound to tune into. i'm in love with australian animals. they are actually quite reasonable as it goes. the dragons have me well trained. 
that dragon looks great up on my tree stump, he's the king up there, it's only knee high but it's enough i guess. so he is lord of the front while in the back pan dreams of puppy days, he's getting older, turning white, soon be pan the ghost god.  i gotta deal with that, it will be tough and i'll probably cry like a baby for a night but it will be okay, he's always been a ghost dog. i wasn't supposed to end up with the dog, i wanted the girl. it was kinda her dog i just wanted one but knew i couldn't really manage one but i did, in fact it was great and once i trained him, just me and him together he behaved and was always a gentle passive beautiful dog that everyone fell in love with. he stuck with me. he's still sticking. bless him.
then i pick up johnny lydons new book, 'anger is an energy' and its good. i really like this guy, always have. johnny's book is honest. it's all there, everything, you can feel he's a good guy in between the lines. i'm really loving it. i had no idea his step daughter is ari up from the slits. i liked them a lot.
it's a good book i recommend it, he captures part of my past really well, being in london at that time when punk first hit the streets, he talks a lot about influences and you would be surprised at some, marc bolan bowie the german bands, i've read up to the bill grundy interview, where it really exploded with the sex pistols. anger is an energy, it's a good title. yeah the blurred crusade is almost finished now, i'm coming to the end of an interlude and the sleep is coming fast. oh dereks on, brilliant character from rickey gervais. 

i love the water clock in hornsby town centre, it's called 'man time, environment' and people should sit down and watch it. it's really quite something.
early morning i find myself there, sitting with a coffee waiting on a friend. you feel relaxed near that place, it's a place where the artists vision has made it's way into form and you can soak it all up but it also implies a very philosophical moment. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hornsby_Water_Clock

everyone got their limits, mine are stretched and torn asunder, it's been a wild ride of compounded challenges, my head is spinning from just being responsible for myself, it's bloody challenging and i certainly understands why most sensible people would want to take it apart and build something completely unique and untried before, like never before, like just fucking letting people live simple lives again, where they don't deal with huge institutions and not only find yourself jumping through hoops but doing also strange advanced nonsensical obstacle course's as civilization eat ya up and spits you out with it's post office mind inflexible attitude and procedural regulation. then there's the telecommunication companies that don't know how to communicate. let's agree just not to mention my car issues. 
okay well i put that all in a box and hurl it into the most beautiful and love / life sustaining energy in the galaxy, the sun. 

the impossible kid and me, we ate the lotus.

mission control, the plugs unplugged during the nights, the fans come on, the fucking electricity is all over the place. it feels very strange to wake up in the night all groggy and exhausted, sit up in bed wiping sleep from your eyes all discombobulated and disorientated, slowly looking at the flickering lights and seeing the fan spinning around when you know you turned it off. i haul myself down below where the fan tv is making a racket. i turn it off, funny i don't remember watching any tv at all. 

but it's my books that give the game away, on the rug a pile of sven hassel books in a complete circle. the impossible kid!

i do recall being his age now, devouring those old war books. the german renegades serving out a sentence in a penal regiment, forced to fight on various fronts yet viciously anti nazi, i loved the characters he wrote about, the legionare, tiny, porta, the old man and sven himself. they fought to stay alive, survive the hellish fronts they were sent to, the environment was their enemy, the deserts the terrible cold of the move towards moscow, the atmosphere of tank combat and one another. these books were stridently anti war yet incredibly entertaining for a young boy. 

i pick the books up and gather them in sequence, place them on my shelf. maybe i'll read them again soon after the impossible kid perhaps.

it's another year done and dusted, i don't pay much attention to the roman calendar to be honest, i try not to pay attention to much these days, just the surf conditions. my friend wilde childe has been helping me out of a tricky situation, she's a gem, stepped right up and helped me, when no one else could. i've given her new status as agent wilde. 
the days are mighty, they drag onwards from early morning until early morning with an intermittent sporadic sleep on the run. my body is pushed but not to it's limit, neurologically i have no problems, but my muscles need work, limbering up, shedding excess, gaining a certain streamlined athletic physique daily i morph closer and closer to the being i am becoming.

the impossible kid
by
captain mission

i never told you how i first met the impossible kid did i?
you will need a drink, go fix yourself one.

listen.
in the uk on the edge of north london suburbia, edge where i called it and the no go border of burnt joke which was not so much as burnt but singed, scalded and leaking sulphur there stood a horrible h p lovecraft like house. 
now, my memory is not great on this, but it looked from the outside as though it had been burnt badly by a raging fire, a massive searing black swipe where flames must have consumed the exterior walls licking their way through the dimensions and corridors. the windows boarded up and graffiti covered with the most unimaginative expressions you can imagine. 
i guess it was the seventies in the bleak suburbs. the house itself was huge.
it was a structure that looked the main road face on and every week i would walk passed it apprehensively but my eyes would always be magnetically drawn to the ominous black front door, and that strange oblong that lay across it's centre. the letter box. 
the letter box was so black it sucked my eyes in. 

i remember the weather was always so very bleak, either cold or some form of rain was falling, usually heavily in my memories. that house created a atmosphere around itself, like a barrier. it was set far back from the rest of the streets building, in fact after a few years the council posted a row of billboards blocking the house. except that there was small a space between them that allowed me unrestricted access to that damn letter box, the focal point of which i could not escape, and one day i clambered over that wall, between the billboards, i couldn't help it, my tiny hands and legs just followed the impulse and i ran to the blackness. i didn't even know what i was doing, just running up that hill through the winter sleet until i seemed to reach that letterbox and look through almost instantly falling into a dark envelope. maybe i passed out, lost consciousness. i can't recall. 

years passed. i was getting older but no bolder when it came to that house, it spooked me. completely instinctive, no rational reason for it, except it had this physical effect upon me, hairs would stand up on end, my heart would pound. i'd feel cold and clammy, my eyes betrayed me every single time as i looked straight into that void for at least a few seconds as i rushed passed, even when i was a bold anarchistic london youth.
i was still to young for science, far to young to do anything other than imagine something really scary was attached to this old house, my imagination filled in the gaps with the obligatory  ghosts and monsters, mutants and aliens, whatever it was they were not for me.

years must have gone by as i was now a teenager, some sort of punk rocker emerging, head filled with hunter s thompson, william burroughs and various other stuff. i'd been particularly impressed with aliester crowley particularly his mountaineering exploits. he was the ultimate outsider and i admired him for excelling at it and shoving it down those crusty victorians and their empire. so i imagine at this age i was quite a different individual than the kid version, the influences of my unformed identity were on a trajectory with my older self.
anyway's i had two friends, ian and stuart and one evening we had all met on a triple date taking the ladies out for dinner or something stupid.
the fact is on the way back we walked past the house and ian suggested we go and have a look through the window.
'come on, it will be great, i've always wanted to.'
stuart said, 'no we can't do that.'
'it's empty, been that way for years.'
'i can't do it, i can't go near it,' i said nervously.
the girls all lit up and watched us arguing, and as i cast my mind back through time they looked all bored and disenchanted, wasting their time with three idiots but in my immature brain i thought they must be thinking, 'that mission is such a coward, he's such a wimp' or words to that effect only much more hurtful when you're an impressionable teenager type.
what would HST do, what would burroughs be whispering in my ear if he was standing near me, i know what would crowley do!
how could i ever write anything without experiencing something, everything, i thought is food for the writer.
and my body just went into motion, leaving my brain far behind. 
i clambered up over the wall much to everyone's surprise. i looked down at ian and stuart, 'i'll go have a look, just stay right there.'
the girls looked surprised to, i checked them out hoping for some sign of approval then leapt over onto the incline up to the house. i stalked upwards carefully without sound, just in case. about half way up i looked behind me and could now see my friends all leaning on the wall looking up under the billboards. they probably couldn't see me against the dark incline but they would see me at the front door soon. 
i turned away from expectant faces and started ascending. 
about halfway there when i looked up i saw the big dark door and the letterbox, in the late evenings light it all looked spooky and mysterious. 
i attempted to look away but my eyes were transfixed as they were held in gaze with a magnetic force i couldn't break. 
i can't recall what flashed through my mind, i had the spirit of adventure within me but know i was feeling some deep apprehension. 
that strange sensation that stops you in motion, that fixes you to a point in space time. fear is the emotional response a life force responds a threat. the processing power in my young brain kicked into some primal choices, run back down or prepare to defend myself but my body seemed to move before my mind had even chosen.
i ran up to the door and looked right into the void. it happened in a fluid action, my feet propelling the rest of me along right up to the door itself, the door getting bigger and bigger and more detail revealed itself. the red flecks of paint along the frame, the range of red unveiled, from pale pastel to rich blood red. crimson and fire engine red, lust and burgundy reds. the grain of the wood, where it was burnt up and damaged, the details flooded in but that letterbox remained consistent. i pushed it open and looked into it and suddenly found myself pulled into it's thick overwhelming void.
i reached out like a desperate drowning man and found a hand. it grabbed hold of my hand and we seemed to draw one another towards one another. the hand was much smaller than my own but the grip was strong. we seemed to pass through one another and then out i fell back into the entrance, the black skies clouded and threatening storms. i dusted myself off and slowly walked back down towards the slope and a voice inside my mind said, 'where am i?'
the impossible kid, my younger self, inner child i guess, somehow travelled through a wormhole into it's own future as i indeed must also inhabit his present, my past. at least his inner voice will be able to guide him although i was not wise or enlightened, i was just a kid from london myself. i guess the best i could do is be a friend.
but the impossible kid, stuck in me has also proven a good friend, it keeps reminding me to play with everything, it's hungry to learn new things, it likes to look at stars, it likes animals and adopts a nice innocence that keeps me from my jaded cynical self.