The Reptilian Telepathy of Birds by R.K. Galvez (best books to read for knowledge .TXT) 📕

but he was living on a planet where most of the atmosphere was lysergic acid. It really was heaven. Norkgrub loved the Earth realm here more than that other real earth. If only he was able to get that tyme-craft fixed and slide back to Tooting. He hated technology; the astral kick was back to haunt him.

"I'll just give it a miss. I hate a colony with nothing decent on it. No wonder everyone's fucked - you got to have something decent there! I really hope the Earth's moon won't go away, though. There has to be five moons here. Every planet has to have at least one moon, doesn't it?"

I have no idea who Professor Norkgrub was talking to. I doubt the curious Professor Norkgrub did either...

2) MYSTICAL MUTO-ZEN METAMORPHING

Krugler had really thought things over. It was amazing that a violent revolution or some form of bloody conflict had never occurred on the colony. It was mainly because there was nothing left to save. Apathy had consumed everything and no-one really cared. Everyone and everything was slowly mutating.

Krugler, a strange squat man, with brown teeth, had never fathomed this. He was never pleased; a perfectionist by nature, but also very paranoid which made him doubt his ability to really be perfect. He had not masturbated over his pictures of his unknown father. These old time travellers usually were off somewhere.

Many of his staff[now deceased, of course] thought it quite natural for him to be this way, due to the fact he had so much operational responsibility. Thankfully he would not be the leader for much longer - as there would be nothing to lead - and soon he would be able to retire back on another colony. Krugler smiled. Maybe even go back to Earth, where he would be completely unknown.

Krugler thought on this point a lot longer than necessary. The nostalgic Earth he pictured was always better than the reality. He had almost forgotten Earth’s awful beauty. Scratching his fat chin, then his groin; he yawned for some reason. The process of constantly thinking about the colony was boring him. He took some state-sponsored stimulants and tried to regain his professional composure; he needed a wide variety of state-sponsored medications to get back into the right frame of mind.

According to his last stasis entry, Krugler had briefly lost it after some religious event called Tele-pathe in 1991. Krugler remembered his experiences. None of them had anything to do with bogies, tyme-crafts and love-crafts. He had never got that time back in the end.

Krugler smiled. What was he doing back then? It was as if he was another person in some other time. Of course, Krugler was too dense to realize he was another person back then(...you must remember Mr Cook's son?...) Krugler wished he was back there; back in those good old days of liberating bliss.

The bliss of nothingness, he didn’t quite know, but it was just better. Krugler started crying for his devastated home planet. He remembered, quite suddenly, that he danced in the rain and in the sun. He also didn't mind remembering how he danced under the moon, in his goat mask. He was a purified hedonist back then. Now he was getting fat and felt that he was worthless in his current state. He was only fit for stasis. You needed to be fat for stasis, or you just wouldn't survive.

Krugler started wailing, as if he was a child again; his memories were not good; he had forgotten the good bits and realized he had just remembered the first time he had copulated while covered in bright purple vomit. He remembered the strange bend in his penis. Luckily, his sexual partner [...whoever they might be...]thought the vomit was some kind of UV party paint. Krugler couldn't help his tantrum. Maybe he was just a big fat space baby?

After a while, maybe three or four hours, he was perspiring very heavily. Krugler dreamed about his en vitro birth; he had eaten his mother’s raw placenta with chilli and pure psilocybin. It took a while to defrost, too. Futuristic music streamed through his mind, turning his memories to anime inspired star-blogs. He had locked these times in the file "Detted 29-62". It was banging away, banging his colony mind. Krugler suddenly saw himself in the back of a shiny teaspoon-pen device. It was a spoon-pen from another colony, a mere souvenir. He couldn't remember how he had acquired this odd piece of technology.

All those lost lives, those lost times, Krugler had lived in a somewhat sudden blur. They could have easily been idle reveries, or meandering astral projections in different time-worlds. Maybe this was how the mutations started: strange visions of other worlds, other bodies, other memories.

Krugler didn't know if this souvenir was really his. He blamed his medication, which he had not taken for some time. He gave the pen-spoon device more of his blood, as there was no more ink left. Blood was slowly becoming a secondary currency. Tears, mixed with sweat, slowly dripped down Krugler's flabby cheeks.

Krugler then spent a full five hours looking at his reflection in the back of spoon-pen. It was not a true reflection and mutated his appearance. It could not have been good for his hypochondria; Krugler should have just got a mirror. But he was getting vain in his old age. He was fat and short - this made him look like any human colony-breeder - as he was almost ninety centimetres. He felt relieved: he was liberated being bald, pale and fat - but he had a large selection of wigs. After all, this was his entitlement as he was a pure human

Krugler didn't wear these at work. He was ashamed by the state of his teeth; no treatment worked, but he would still gorge himself on the faddy space root known as Norkweedroot. It was quite addictive and became a staple of the colony diet. It turned his teeth the colour of fresh human excrement. He had no idea how his breath smelled; he just wasn't bothered no more. There was nobody around that had been bothered by fictional halitosis…

3) THE MUTO-GUFFER

The buzzer rang, as Krugler was left in his reverie. A projected message vid-i-holo-e-tube appeared in the room. It was his last Corporal, Ludovic. He was tall for a colony man, and his features were stern, almost equine; but he was a jovial gentle giant of exactly 1 metre and 30 centimetres.

His laugh could be heard down the sterilized, empty, colony corridors. He was wearing a different skin colour; Krugler thought it bizarre that Ludovic would change his skin again. It was a costly process. Krugler had no idea Ludovic was so vain; this new skin made Ludovic look like a giant reptile – some weird extra out of an awful old sci-fi B-movie. Skin-tatt-ethno-shells had grown to be another popular colony design fad. They went will go the same way as holo-dream-tatts, thought Krugler.

It was because no-one wanted to be boxed up. Ludovic had looked different when he had his laz-r-nose-ring in. It did have some problems, like no anti-sneeze fail-safe. Many had needlessly died when Ludovic sneezed. Krugler assumed he was out of that phase. He was still staring into the back of the spoon, as Ludovic tried to inform of him of something.


The dialogue within his mind was blurred and went something like this:

SIR?............. Chief Krugler? Dr Krugler? Can you hear me?.....

...........WELL, SIR....I...

....Ludovic are you in my mind? Krugler thought.

Have I stopped talking?

Krugler had an image of the past[in his mind, as I was in his mind]: a flat in Islington, London. It had to be Islington. Only abodes so posh can be surrounded by so much poverty. He was daubed in blood and was performing various sex magick rituals with a string of different partners. Krugler gasped, as Ludovic appeared to be one, dressed as some kind of unkempt tramp....His erect penis looked like Willem Dafoe's fine specimen...Willow the Goat wasn't Krugler's real name...

...Goat Willow was not a girl? His former name had not been [classified] either. Why had they named him after a pornographic performer? Krugler didn't know. His erectile flesh burned, his sweaty veins protruding; the scent of cosmic mucous filled the room, mixing with the strange incense of.....

...SIR?...SIR?....DR?....DR?...

....SIR, I--

The dialogue suddenly ended... Maybe...Did you say that?

...Krugler rubbed his eyes. He wanted a major look. And a major laser. It must have been some kind of dream; occasional recreational psychic masturbation. Totally harmless, of course. The One Galactic Dove was never known here. The transmission had cut off as the dubbing was out of time. Not quite time out of mind, but it was a bit iffy. No communications device worked properly in the colony after the sudden mutation epidemic and everyone was a bit paranoid who was listening in. So nothing was arranged. As you can tell, this was always the way...

4) MUTO-TIME TRAILS

Professor Norkgrub tapped the evo-console; he had no printed read-out in his cushion-capsule. It was too environmentally friendly; it would e-mind-i-message him later. He was annoyed that nothing worked again. It was not a good idea to try fixing it; it had seemed to fix itself eventually. He had always been casual with technological matters. He hated all of it deep down. He didn't want to get a bot to fix it, he might end up God knows where.


It was at that moment, Norkgrub realized he was to use his astral powers. He didn't even know he had them. He vaguely remembered going back to 1967, and getting lost. That was some happening, he thought. He had seen Soft Machine and Pink Floyd. He had seen Hawkwind later - they were not around as Hawkwind in 1967 if his memory served him correctly. But he had been out of it when he saw the Mothers of Invention, Big Brother and The Holding Company and the Grateful Dead. He wished he had that photographic-memory gift, but he remembered they were joyous times; the euphoria would be eternal, so he didn't need the memory tip. The cosmic corona of souls was enough to keep him going.

That was when he met a younger version of his friend, Tommy Tellman. He looked like a RAF pilot, washed-out and stranded. He was the only person drinking pure prune juice (with acidic bubbles); Norkgrub didn't know why Tellman liked prune juice. Norkgrub preferred his prunes electrified. They were much better that way.

Tellman was known as a lost tymer (in popularized astral vernacular). His real body was still trapped in the Bermuda Triangle after being stranded there during an experimental flight of the Nayrair-Stealth in 1947. Tellman would try to move his astral force through Trevor in Sevenoaks. It was tricky, as many occultist adepts will inform the keen student. The Mystickal(with a K) archive holds much power.

The logistics were not always well-planned. Tellman's newly balanced tones were not making him sound tough; they just made him sound out of it. The future was the past to a life-coach like him. And it occasionally got a bit sticky; he had to monitor his thoughts. Everything involved with this process gets complicated by astral corruptions, as you can probably tell. We meet all sorts of hallucinations during ordinary life in these strange times. Tellman just wanted to go back to Atlantis.