magician (Novalis has memorably written) would the one who would
cast over himself a spell so complete that he would take his own
phantasmagorias as autonomous appearances. I conjecture that this is
so. We (the undivided divinity operating within us) have dreamt the
world. We have dreamt it as firm, mysterious, visible, ubiquitous in
space and durable in time; but in its architecture we have allowed
tenuous and eternal cervices of unreason which to tell us it is
Borges, Avatars of the Tortoise
"The word 'Apollonian' stands for that state of rapture in the
presence of a visionary world, in the presence of a world of
beautiful appearance designed as a deliverance from becoming; the
Dionysos, on the other hand, stands for strenuous becoming, grown
self-conscious, in the form of the rampant voluptuousness of the
creator, who is also perfectly conscious of the violent anger of the
Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy.
Well, this is Combat Diary 8 folks, about which poor Panzerben will
say not another word.
From: Colin Bennett <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Date: Wed, 29 Jan 2003 16:26:53 -0000
Fwd Date: Wed, 29 Jan 2003 13:03:59 -0500
Subject: Re: Corso - Bennett
>From: Josh Goldstein email@example.com
>Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2003 01:28:48 +0100
>Subject: Re: Corso -- Goldstein
>>From: John Rimmer firstname.lastname@example.org
>>Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2003 00:30:24 +0000
>>Subject: Re: Corso - Rimmer
>>>From: Andy Roberts email@example.com
>>>Date: Sat, 25 Jan 2003 08:47:34 -0000
>>>Subject: Re: Trans en Provence A Hoax? - Roberts
Hi all List Bears,
First, let me inform the hundreds of good folk who have
contacted me in recent days that the Panzerben computers have
been sabotaged and so many letters from scores of List Lurker
Bears have not been answered. The problem has been that hackers
and disbelievers in the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas aim
for myself and my A Team of Barham State Forces like flies go
for bad meat. That's a simile that Jan and Dick would like.
Worm, Bar Code, Fetish and Fanflesh virus-bombs parachute in
through the roof almost by the hour. Someone sure likes us
somewhere. Judging from this popular reaction, like poor Corso,
we must have inadvertently put several rounds though several
The full Panzerben A Team are now engaged in building a rack-
mounted super-computer assembly from modified mainframe boards
and chips (by the way, we fry the inbuilt NSA signal patch
amongst other things) that I swear will be sufficient to defeat
Cheltenham GCHQ and the NSA combined. I added recently a
Siberian Wolfhound (Alice) to my collection of pit bull mastiffs
to greet those hackers who prefer knives and hammers to
penetrate the security fence of Barham State Forces as distinct
from fiendishly clever viral forms.
The House of Panzerben at firstname.lastname@example.org now
open once more for ideological business, but if any problems
occur, we can be contacted on good old well-fire-walled
email@example.com any time should anyone need solace,
advice, or inspirations such as are offered to a certain Mr.
Josh Goldstein, discussed below.
The Bad Man himself spends these mid-winter mornings in the
Holland Park Teahouse with my mastiffs, my distant bodyguard,
and a volume of the Admiralty Book of Wireless Signal for 1930.
I use this as a techno-mantra prior to a meditation on an
uncertain translation of key passages in the Randle/Friedman
dialogues, that I do not intend to publish yet. For light
relief, I leave these encoded strands of the purest postmodern
protein for a moment and listen to an orchestra rehearsing La
Boheme in the manor house grounds of old Lord Holland, a distant
relation of the Bad Man. As Rudolfo and Mimi soar into late 19th
century ecstacy the strutting peacocks stop and turn their heads
as all nature listens to these chords of infinity, I turn to a
fragmented shred of viral programming that I know contains the
signature of the being who shut down the Panzerben computer.
She (I think it is a she) belongs to a group of vile viral
perpetrators, probably professionals by their keystrokes as it
were. I have a lead on them of course. They know that. I say
professionals because like IBM carved on atomic structures for a
party trick, these Kilroys leave signatures of names taken from
the 1914 code lists of Yardley's old Black Chamber as a party
trick. They also leave certain much earlier Hollerith punched-
card codes, and also 1950s comptometer codes, the comptometer
being a kind of Babbage Difference Engine plus 12 volt relays.
They do this knowing that I am perhaps the last person in this
world who would know and remember such things as others remember
a certain track of Frank Sinatra, or a picture of Old Mother
Goose. I remember the codes Marti, or Brockway, Sloane-Duployan
or Orillana as others remember the Gettysberg Address, Beavis
and Butthead, and the Black Birds of 1929. Such is my peculiar
Some say I was not designed or built to know what is on at the
Yes, I suspect Orillana. Again, I surmise that she is a woman.
There is a certain lightness of touch about the twisted logic of
her code-wrecking procedures. She uses image-organisation as a
basis for her attack. Most associative. Very feminine, and most
unique. Orillana is not a linear person. I tell you List Bears,
this Orillana is super AI, and she is after my cerebral ass. She
used images to wreck the Booleans, who turn and eat their tails.
She uses imagistic analogues. In digital form of course, but can
you beat that? Presumably after ten lifetimes of decoding and
encoding one another, Orillana and myself will fall battling
together in cyberspace just as Holmes and Professor Moriarty
fell to their deaths over the Reichenbach Falls. Or did they?
Everyone has a key-signature as the old decoders and
cryptanalyists used to say, and Orillana (who is now a Ramey
Memorandum in my mind, but becoming more clear by the hour), has
left hints that she knows the work of Dr. John Manly, Yardley's
assistant. As a 14-year party trick, Manly produced with Edith
Rickert the best text of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales from no
less than 80 bad texts spanning five centuries. Such minds were
indeed needed to tackle the appalling complexity of the 424-
letter Witzke cryptogram.
But I digress.
Now the said Mr. Goldstein in a recent post called me a colon. I
like to think that my reply, entitled Fourth Day Like Four
Months of Absence (below) is even more dynamic and interesting
than those posts from me that cause dearest Richard Hall and our
Jan and others to go into frantic automatic denial mode. No,
this is postmodern creativity this is. I predict that Fourth Day
Like Four Months of Absence will be the start of not only a very
interesting cyber-literary experiment, but a new postmodern
genre altogether. Jan will love all this, Jan will.
This prototype postmodern piece will be mounted on
as Combat Diary Supplement Number 1, where it will undergo
intensive redesign and redevelopment. There, Mr. Goldstein will
be constantly re-created in terms of a kind of cyberloop built
of pure information, and passed on to a 1000 search engines. He
will become a virtual enemy that like Orillana, I will hunt
through time itself, like the sequences in the film Highlander.
Rather interesting, List Bears? No? Well at least its better
than the stale comedy of the separation of the "false"
"real" and the "truth" from "lies" and
"illusion from reality"
performances. The phrase "the separation of the facts from the
fictions" is the worst. Its repetition will result in the
destruction of the entire human race. As distinct from that
iron-age rattletrap called Ufology, in the older more
sophisticated cultures such as Arts, Philosophy and Literature
no one talk about facts and fictions. If they do, they are
beheaded by their Neighbourhood Watch in the local Mechanics
Institute. Only the footplate men called scientists believe in
such things in an age of Michael Jackson, George Bush, and Y2K.
In any case, science can never form the basis of a liberal
education. This List shows that the reference base for the UFO
experience is far too narrow and singular for the absurd and
bizarre nature of the phenomenon. Ufology must go postmodern. It
is in crisis because it cannot solve the Corso and MJ12 problem
just as pre-Newtonian physics could not deal with acceleration
and the kinematics of motion. Of this more later, so watch out!
Meantime, the aliens arrive. They carry out an autopsy. But,
ironically, they find that we all died not from war or disease
but of a factspiel and docubox AIDS based on various versions of
the phrase "separation of the facts from the fiction".
phrases are already being used by ivory pirates in Africa to
stop herds of charging hippos and rhinos in the tracks, killed
through instant annihilating boredom.
Here is yet another postmodern element. The original text of
Fourth Day Like Four Long Months of Absence as pasted on
UfoUpdates@virtuallystrange.net will remain of course as an
archive there available as a bedrock reference base to seed the
Even Web crawlers take time to reconstitute the digits, and
after reading Fourth Day Like Four Long Months of Absence, Mr.
Goldstein himself will surely feel himself re-forming perhaps
thousands of time a minute through the pure information zone of
cyberspace. He will become a thing of suggestions and whispers,
he will have a super-self of inferences, intuitions, and
nostalgia mysterieux. This whole endeavour will enable
investigators to insert what is called reality as vector in a
system of n-dimensional approximations. What is reality in this
instance? Mr. Goldstein's original anger at poor Panzerben. This
was the butterfly's wing that changed the weather over the South
of England and became Fourth Day Like Four Long Months of
And of course there is yet another thing to be considered. Mr.
Goldstein will comment again, methinks. This will be a splendid
opportunity for new cyber-art originals from the thewhyfiles
team, and my Barham State Forces A Team from the Portobello
Road. Every single time Mr. Goldstein attacks, we will load
these updated overlays onto the mainframe of Mr. Goldstein's
As I write, Mr. Josh Goldstein's typically antiseptic Danish
gloom is being taken by a thousand web crawlers into infinity.
He can create a new life indeed many lives by means of the new
changing cyber-identities we have created for him. The only
thing we do not have here at Barham State Forces is a picture of
Mr. Goldstein to accompany the text of Fourth Day Like Four
Months of Absence. Perhaps he would like to send us one, or
should any List Bear have one, please let me have a copy
together with any other information about this Danish question
mark who hopped on the List from nowhere.
For his information, I have never seen my colon. But as far as
masturbation goes, when Mr. Goldstein sees Fourth Day Like Four
Months of Absence, in all its illicit glory, he will recognize
that this prime piece of auto-eroticism from me is the first
pure UFO cyber-literary artform. He can ring his mum and tell
her that not only has he been portrayed, he has been
Welcome Mr. Goldstein to History.
What am I doing this for? I am doing this as a way of
investigating the concepts of both atonement and forgiveness.
It's my way of telling you, Mr. Goldstein, that not only can I
rebuild you, I can forgive you, I forgive myself. Everybody is
It's perhaps a strange way of doing this, but it is only to be
expected from someone who reads The Admiralty List of Wireless
Signals for 1930 over breakfast and one who tries to crack the
Randle/Friedman dialogues as quite another Friedman altogether
many years ago tried try to crack the Voynich Manuscript.
But how did I meet Mr. Josh Goldstein?
Well you see Bears, judging from the amount of private e-mail I
am getting, I seem to have been chosen as the Agony Aunt of the
UFO Updates list. The walking wounded make their way to my e-
mail casualty clearing station like creatures from the Night of
The Living Dead. Leafing through the List at random, I came
across this gone cat (as they used to say) from Denmark, Josh
Goldstein (I don't think he's Andy Roberts in disguise, but the
thought did pass my mind). No, this mensche is something else.
He is straight out of a Danish version of a "Carry on
Researching" film is this macaroon. I scent medicine here, the
conspiratorial bag of "experimental" science, but since he
sounds Jewish (bless him), I think frankly I think he aught to
seriously consider his options and phone his mother immediately
for both solace and advice.
So, as Jan Aldrich says, here goes:
>There are basic differences in people regarding their
>boundary spectra of fantasy and fact.
There are differences between people regarding beliefs? What a
>There are qualitative psychological tests for
You have a quickie test for reality, sir? Well, I never did! I
would write to the Nobel Prize Committee immediately. You have
solved the greatest philosophical problem of all time. Try the
local car showroom at the same time and see what they say. You
might like to make this test into a kit form, like a
breathalyzer. As a saleable item, we could carry it around our
necks and check the illusion/reality separations and levels
during the course of our working day. The screen could be
colour-coded, have access to the Web and we would be able to
order pizzas, porn, and see the sports results as we checked for
reality. Tell me Mr. Goldstein is there a history of mental
illness in your family?
>Fantasy prone people
Do you mean such as Newton, Copernicus, Milton, Kepler, Faraday,
Shakespeare, and Dick Hall?
>and those using logic, reason and
>rationality as primary functions think very differently in many
>areas.These areas overlap in various manners at all times in
People have several different things happening in their head at
the same time? It's enough to frighten the horses in the street,
>However, different types of personalities tend to
>gravitate more towards each end of the spectrum.
I would never have known that if you had not told me. Your
conclusions are as startling as your grammar, sir. Are you a
native English speaker, Mr Goldstein?
>We had Colon Bennett
>suddenly pop on to the list as a trickster,
The Royal plural again. Here's yet another getting above his
station. Mr Goldstein like many of the scientific bent, you
write like a club-footed bricklayer. Typical scientist. I mean
try a re-arrangement, something like this for God's sake, give
your attack some rhythm, attack, and pace. Try "This tricky
colon sounds like he crawled out of the dropped hat of a mugged
magician" It's not all that good, its out of the top of my
but it's better than yours piece of amateur crap. Look, I will
make a deal with you. The next time you want to attack me, then
give me the script, and I will re-write it for you and make it
much effective. You scientists produce such dull, mundane,
graceless writing. Can you learn to use imagery, metaphor, or
>bearbaiting Dick Hall
He loves it. He's tough as nails. Hasn't had a kicking like that
in years. Did him a whole lot good. There were cobwebs all over
him. I saved his life. No man could do more than this for
>and other rational thinkers in Ufology
You mean Jan? Jan Bunked off. But now he's back again. Did him a
whole of good too. He was very rude and offensive to me, and
tried to bully me off this List, rather like you are doing.
>with his egotistical, pompous, pontificating, and denigrating
This is not a superiority complex, sir. It is just superiority.
In the face of such opposition as I have encountered it doesn't
take much to be superior. As for the ego you have misunderstood
this for leadership. Freudians like yourself attempted to
destroy this concept long ago, and paid the price. But I won't
go into that. That's quite another List to this one!
>that ended up with his declaration of the superiority of
Exactly, Which puts me in some good company indeed, like
countless departments of the Universities of the United States.
Ufology has yet to enter just one. Do you honestly think that
Colin Bennett invented postmodernism yesterday coming home from
a good dinner at his club?
>Perhaps it would be advisable for Colon Bennett
>to work with a therapist to deconstruct his personality
I would not want to do that. I might not come back alive out of
it, like Reich and Leary and hundreds of thousands of others
social-scientific victims of applied lunatic rationalism who lie
in unmarked graves. If that gives you a funny feeling Mr.
Goldstein I will understand your historical vertigo.
>as he has gone to one extreme and persists in trying
>to destroy the rest of the spectrum in himself.
Are you a native English speaker, Mr Goldstein?
What does "the rest of the spectrum in himself" mean,
>In my opinion
>that is a very unbalanced personality.
Ignoring the night-school English use of "that is" for a
I suggest that you mean "disturbed" rather than
you had read more widely in history, sir, then you would know
that all writers and thinkers are deeply disturbed
personalities, and that includes your beloved scientists. Yours
is a typical small-town small-time point of view if I may say
so, sir. Please get off the line, as our own dear Jan would say.
Well there we are! A complete statement of old-time fascist
eugenics, would you believe? Wow! This queen walks on the wild
side, said I to myself. This will be a pearl for the Combat
Diaries (Andy Roberts' favourite comic) says I, this will.
Laugh? I could have died. I haven't had so much fun since they
put my first wife's kidney machine in the front parlour. I mean
this guy is a Freudian! Can you believe that, List Bears? I mean
I didn't know there were any left. I thought they had gone with
Karl Marx, wigs and gaiters, Eddy Cantor's grandfather, and the
Corn Laws. List Bears, I tell you this mother must have a
tapeworm of genes stretching beyond Starsky and Hutch! I mean
most people's problems don't go back much beyond a missed
episode of Breakfast With Dick and Jane, but this fellah's
destiny- tissue stretches to Max Simon Nordau's Degeneration,
Spengler's Decline of the West, and Stewart Chamberlain's The
Myth of the 19th century, how about that for racial memory? He
is pure cultural protein, is this Josh. He is pre-screen, is
this mother, his pre-electric problem goes way before Michael
Faraday's first inductive clicks, now well on their way past the
Proxima Centuri. That means this Goldstein must real. I must
tell Andy. And this (possibly Yiddish) Gaulieter has the nerve
to call ME a crazy mixed-up psycho! What an act! I had to take
several glasses of mint tea and a charcoal biscuit in Holland
Park after I read that. Even the A Team dogs growled and
strained their chains when I was remote-probing this particular
Since in essence Mr. Goldstein was obviously asking for my
advice, the only thing I could do for this freak therapeutically
was a quick remote view (as distinct from a quick J. Arthur)
with the following results. Please excuse the stream-of-
conscious style, List Bears, but like I have other things to do
but ride shotgun for the wretched of the Earth. Like I still
have to work on the Randle/Friedman dialogues and also the
Aldrich/Friedman dialogues now that our shy and blushing hero
has returned from exile. But I am glad Jan's back. His portrait
canvas is just being stretched on my studio easel.
Anyway, here is the result of my probe. It happened on a dark
and rainy night in George's Mountain Grill in Portobello Road
London flanked by police sirens, drug raids, psychos lurching
out from supermarkets, and young fit and able beggars spewing in
doorways. In addition, whilst I ordered Herbal sausages and
chips, there was a house fire, a shooting, countless slashings
and bashings and confrontations, and threat of gas, radiation,
poison, and nuclear from the alien god of the towel heads, who
it appears have never forgiven us for Marilyn Monroe, Wayne's
World, and Sports Utility Vehicles.
And that was just this afternoon.
Actually not an unsuitable atmosphere for a Remote View of Mr.
Think. Try to touch. Try to find. Yes. A girl whose face I know
slightly takes a table across from me. Concentrate now, Colin.
Yes. there is something frightening about this Goldstein. The
boys and girls on this List can kick me to hell and back, that
kind of thing never really gets to me. Jan and Richard are
alright compared with this enforcer. I don't even remotely
dislike them. They're human. At least you can smell their feet
in a down wind across the Atlantic. Jan Aldrich's feet are
terrible, I can tell you. But there's no smell at all from Mr.
Goldstein. He chills me. He'll like that. He sounds as if he is
as bent as a bricklayer's set square. Could be English of
course. I may have this horse from the top of the 52. He could
be that bitch who does his vamp down Kensington High Street. But
could be a EuroLeather tranny. If he is, he'll earn a fortune in
the summer down the Old Denmark Teapot on Saturday nights.
The girl asks me for a light. Local librarian. We talk, but
Goldstein flows all over her face and herbal sausages. Horrible.
Sometimes people just have no individuality. They are a mix of
self-replicating systems soya. This first thing I thought about
this wily Goldstein number was minor fallen Oxbridg e. But he
sounds far to well adjusted to have a first-class mind. And his
grammar has foreign edge to it. As an old Balliol man, I thought
I could catch the edge of the voice. Then I thought no, not
crazy enough for Oxbridge. Possible an ex-scientific civil
servant. That's better. Definitely lower-middle-class, probably
with a row of pens in his top pocket and sensible footwear.
But the jokes! I mean talk about a German comedian. Wonderful:
"Colon" Bennett! And masturbation indeed! I mean Jesus,
which school loo did this old queen attend? Joke? Goldstein? I
mean the Marx Brothers must be turning in their graves. I have
heard better humour at the Salvation Army Last Chance Depot just
before throwing out time. This boy sure sucks on the laughter. I
mean is he Orthodox or just kidding? I think we should be told.
Able, bright at the local council level but otherwise definitely
retarded. Probably abused early on. He could be a kind of semi-
clone, one of those bisexuals chemically castrated by his long-
disgraced profession MKULTRA style about 1950. I mean really
this mincer should take a job jumping out of cakes at your
enemy's parties. He could stop a 4th of July knees-up in five
seconds flat. I think he is in mourning for his life. With jokes
like this, Josh is definitely in need of serious industrial
retraining. Or his local synagogue could use him for dog
training or non-lethal weaponry. No, that wouldn't be any good.
Watch out kinkies, this one's a killer. Don't let him tie you
up. The girl comes over. She knows me. I give talks here. She
has read my books. She orders saukraut with mayonnaise and talks
and loudly in great detail about a new book Techgnosis. I feel
like I am in a Cubist painting My extended psychic gut flows
over the herbal sausages and the mayonnaise on the table and Mr.
Goldstein's face in my head.
Yes, it's coming now. Nazis and their inevitable needles. Always
go together they do, B-feature style. But Goldstein? The name
doesn't fit. Perhaps he isn't even Jewish. He can't be.
I'm getting Corso, Corso all the time. Yes, I'm getting very
telling images. Corso is some kind of experiment. These people
are not interested in Corso right or wrong, what they want to do
is get Corso strapped down to a table and apply the voltages.
What did Corso do to deserve such a fate? Corso bless him,
managed somehow to put a round through Headquarters somewhere,
that's what Corso did.
My goodness me. This is big. And I'm not talking about his bra
size. This is not about silly Colin and his silly deconstruction
bollox. And its not about defending Dick Hall, bless him. And
its not about chattering-class liberal shout-ups on the List.
No, I've got the eyes of Himmler looking at me, that's what I've
got no more no less.
Marcia (that's her name) breaks it all up. She starts talking
about Looking for Orthon. Her ideas and opinions mix with Corso
and Goldstein. Adamski is another lost soul Goldstein would like
to have had on the table with probes all over him.
He obeys orders somewhere deep in corporate structure somewhere
does this hipster. Something very departmental about the
strangled grammar. Shades of Condon's Puritanism, which could go
either very Left or very Right. But Jewish? Wow, if he is, he
should phone his mother straight away and get it sorted. I'm
getting scientist-medical all the time as a strong signal.
Deeply disappointed in life. Typical scientist. No sophisticated
Arts education. No wide reading. Not much experience of life.
Bunker view. Over specialized. Probably rejected MSS of books in
a drawer somewhere. I know the feeling. Desperately safe,
conformist. I don't know the feeling. Cultural fear oozing out
of his stocking-tops. Could be a tech-drone somewhere.
Nightschools? Yeah, that's better. Self help all over him, a bit
nervous and trying to puppy-up George Hansen. Under promoted.
Anal-retentive. I bet his button is as clean as his kitchen-top.
Should see the Rabbi and get this all sorted before he finishes
up in the goyem intellectual fag-tank permanently.
Fascism. I keep getting corporate fascism all the time. A very
strong signal here. Professional associations of all kinds. I'm
getting the name Eisenbud. Who is Eisenbud? Probably a
colleague. Covert groups. Prime conspirator. All the time,
that's what I am getting. Animals screaming. Of course. Lab
animals. Now cancel thoughts that ebk would not let me put on
this List, Goldstein not a modern. Fact-paranoid. He's European
in outlook. But he doesn't live there. Modern buildings. He is
not young. Could be part-retired, hence his old-fashioned
Marcia has now switched to Politics of the Imagination.
My fragmented self of the past three years now flows over the
sausages, Mr. Goldstein's possible face, and the clever Marcia's
clever questions. Eraserhead was never like this. Are you an
anarchist asks this beauty? List Bears, I leave you to imagine
the feelings aroused by such a leading question whilst dealing
with a rather lukewarm rice pudding, and remote-viewing Josh
Goldstein. And like Goldstein, Marcia wants simple direct
statement straight from ass-end, just like the media woman she
is going to be.
Got it! He's on a campus. Landscaped. Lavish. SUVs all over the
place. An ex-army (or Air Force?) humvee in psychedelic colours.
Yes. Of course. I should have known. This queen is American. But
European. She still has an accent. What's this now? Mmmm_. stuff
ebk wouldn't let me put on this List. Bad s***. Really bad s***.
Sorry List folks, no can do. Find out for yourselves good List
folk. You know his name. Start from there. Marcia has "save the
lab animals" sticker on her handbag. Wow, the system is talking
to me. SCAN
Possibly a doctor of some kind, but his psychiatric references
and emphasis are too amateur and outdated. Can't be a modern
practicing shrink talking like that. But nevertheless, that's
what I keep getting. Probably keeps his cruising life a dread
secret, his mascara in an old mustard tin under the kitchen
sink. Marcia lights another cigarette and orders coffee. Starts
talking about Orthon again. Very Sartre is this caf=E9 scene. Very
noire. Very Jan Aldrich. Marcia should be in white make up: a
young Juliette Greco, 1947. Goldstein is here again. Grey hair,
silver-rimmed circular granny-glasses. Attempt tp look like Carl
Jung. No jokes, fantasies, no play here, no silliness. No waste
of time. All imaginings are sick, says Goldstein, all deviations
from the norm are illnesses. His own whips and chains and masks
are probably in a drawer under the sink, thrown away by the
cleaner after he has his first heart-attack to avoid
Groups, many groups I'm getting. This horse is connected. Many
trails from many groups. Wow, this horse is heavy. I'm getting
gates. Ironwork on gates. Arbeit Macht Frei. Jesus, it is
Dachau. Wow! This cruiser is but intense! Nazi humour if ever
there was, yes that's it. Can't be Jewish. Impossible. Just a
Kraut. I should have known it all along. The beer-hall guffaws
at Corso. Kick Corso. Stamp the different one, hit the peculiar
one Corso. What is this? Charles Fort strapped to a table with
probes all over him. Oh yeah, Mr. Goldstein does that kind of
thing look familiar? The imagination on the table. Everybody on
the table. And screams from the women's block. SCAN
Now monosyllabic slashes at Corso from Goldstein. Destroy Corso.
Heavy jawed monosyllables. Corso is a gipsy. He's getting near.
Kill Corso. Kill Fort. Kill Colon Bennett Yes, Corso's last
round certainly went straight into Headquarters. Headquarters
want to dine off his heart and liver for that. It's all that
anthropological. Lies they say, its all about lies? Anthropology
knows no such things. Anthropology knows only ceremony, and the
attempted air-brushing of Corso's picture from the Stalinist
committee photograph is nothing more or less than sacrificial
murder, List Bears. And don't the scientists tell you they are
being "objective". Like Mr. Goldstein, Cortez told natives
countless things like that before he chopped off their wrists
for fun. They too thought he was a god, like science.
I look at the sticker of the lab-tortured dog on Marcia's
handbag again. It doesn't go well with the cold rice pudding. I
push it aside. If she mentions Gold, Stein, or anything like
that, the system will start talking again, and the dimensions of
the conspiracy are almost mentally annihilating. SCAN.
Yes, definite late Nazism. Skinner boxes, Watsonite
behaviourist, Mr. Josh Goldstein definitely in a white coat
straight out of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. By the side of
Watson and Gotlieb as they thrust ice-picks into foreheads and
jack up the ECT voltage.
Well Mr. Josh Goldstein you got to me where warm human blood
like Jan or Dick or Andy could never get me. A touch of real
evil. Wow, I haven't come across that in a man for over forty
years. I won't tell you what happened to him.
Congratulations. Thank you for the dose of real cultural fear
and paranoia. Real again? I'll phone Andy Roberts. I've found a
piece of something I told him was forever an approximation. I've
learnt something. I'll say one thing for Mr. Goldstein. He is no
approximation. Congratulations Mr. Goldstein. You made me
frightened. That has not happened for a very long time.
I bet you like that. I bet that turns you on, you kinky fascist
I should warn you though that when I am frightened I lose all
nice intelligent sense of proper liberal proportion and I become
very dangerous, far more indeed than your good self. And on a
scale of ten, that is very dangerous indeed, because when I am
frightened I become very sadistic. I just love destroyers of
poetry and spirit and dreams and love and transcendence and
magic. Make my day, punk.
You see you really must choose your enemies very carefully.
Never f*** with a gipsy without giving it some very serious
thought indeed, or you will get so smothered in images and
stories and trails you won't be able to breathe. So go powder
your nose sweetheart, and keep taking the motsos with the facts
and theories, but don't forget to take a few minutes off per day
to wonder who you are and what you are doing. Because if you are
a Jew I think you have somehow forgotten just what that means in
terms of what you are doing. And don't get out of your depth
again, or I'll give you another story-image kicking any time you
In other words, my advice is don't f*** with me in this manner
again, or I might just release my gipsy tales from their teller.
And you would not like that to happen, would you, Mr Goldstein?
Auf Wiedersehen, pet!
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Goodnight to all UFOupdates List Bears, wherever you are!
And God Bless America!
PS Oh, I forget to tell you, List Bears. It was only yesterday
that I saw Marcia's full name in a local newspaper.
It was Marcia G. Stein
Colin (Bad Man) Bennett
At this point ladies and Gentlemen of the List, let's say hello
to the Brentford Polonius! Yes here he is, fresh from the
Leisure Centre! Give him a big hand now, folks!
>>>I must sit down and sip delicately on a cup of Aunt
>>>Revivifying Herb Tea for Tired Librarians, for I do feel
>>>am moving towards some sort of agreement with Mr
Bennett's - so
>>>far - one man campaign to encourage art and imagination
The passage of mine own that so stirred von Brentford was:
"Satire would also help Ufology develop more sophisticated
languages. As a sub-culture, Ufology has developed only three
main low-level languages: FactSpiel, DocBox, and SeClass
(security classifications). These constitute some of the best
Orwellian Newspeak of our time. As writing styles, immediate
garroting by an editor would be the best such authors could
expect. I have heard of rumours of other lesser-known languages
of the deep interior of our own heart of scientific-consumer
darkness, such as Archspeak (archivespeak) and Labev (laboratory
evidence) and Reschmmuter (Yiddish for research talk). These
latter are religious languages, known and used only by a few
holy men of the secret intellectual sales department. They are
mainly verbal, although I have heard of apocryphal stories of
published fragments from collectors who have paid a lot of money
>>>Of course this has always been the aim of Magonia
>>>it seems to have passed Mr Bennett by.
Not any longer, John. Do Fourth Day Like Four Long Months of
Absence for Magonia magazine. It will sour the morning milk
yield of all the cross-eyed pen-toed pelicans in the south of
England. Great Orks will be seen hovering over Powis Square, and
hats will blow off in Brentford.
And this is only Supplement Number 1.
As a wax seal of divine approval, I want the usual good cussin'
by Dick and Andy. Praise is not an option. And, Hatch and
Speiser and Macabbee, neither is silence or avoidance.
So there. And don't give me all that American Barbie-doll
wacked-out tv plastic about long words and long sentences and
length and obscure thoughts etc etc and play fifty violins of
all the fifty years in Ufological facts and research and Colin
isn't sincere, he's a trickster and all that bollox (Ken
Campbell spelling). If there is such a thing as fact, the fact
is that both Dean Martin and Liberace are dead, and this post of
mine is an historic document. Macabbee rated my last as second
to the Gettysberg Address, and this one is an improvement. Oy
Well BP, you asked for it. You requested it. Does the above
qualify for a new level of excitement and imagination in
Ufological writing? Though Mother Hall will deny it all, you see
BP, its all about images that's what it's about. Break down the
"scientific" (how scientific it is is another question)
factspiel, with images and you break down the factoid screens.
That's what postmodernism is all about.
What did I do to create Goldstein? First I took a few RV stills,
then did a few colour washes, then made a full pop-art mask,
then I air-brushed the whole for definition. Goldstein then
appeared something like the four drop-out exposures of Warhol's
photo litho masks of Marilyn Monroe. Only I do this in words. I
mean it's a far better method of answering Goldstein than
answering him factually. I mean starting off with "Mr.
Goldstein, I don't think you have studied my books in quite
enough detail to justify the statements you have made against
me". If I did that, he'd have my nice liberal guts for garters.
Why do I do this? I do this to counter the level of the
"scientific" view of anything and everything that is
kill Yeti and Bogfoot with grief and produces multi-coloured
steam from the naval.
As I stand back from the Goldstein canvas, I say to myself am I
being too nasty with this guy? Should I take down the make up?
Should I re-light some of the scenes, should I shoot other
sequences from entirely different angle with different filters?
And I say to myself no, to do Goldstein properly needs this kind
of tonal pressure and surface. He is built such that he would
not like such a compromise himself. One of the problems is the
lighting cannot be lowered. Goldstein is the hardest of men.
Traditionally, it has always been difficult to photograph
fascists. They somehow splinter the light and change shape,
their geometry is not Euclidean, it is always somehow crypto-
personal. There is not a photograph of Hitler or Himmler that
does not look absolutely ridiculous. As primal apes, they do not
fit cool non-cerebral mediums like TV. That's why I had to put
this Goldstein down very quickly. Hesitate, and I would be dead.
In fact if you did in the least bit compromise with Mr.
Goldstein he would eat your balls for breakfast. Nazis are no
mean enemies. Yes, he's that bad. He needs high contrast.
Nothing but hard old primal definition would do.
Of course this Goldstein oil is not finished. There are many
hours of work to be done on his portrait, and I must admit that
it contains some faults and one or two contradictions, and the
surface is somewhat uneven. I am not happy about Marcia. I think
she has potential. She needs more development. I must admit also
that I am worried about a little about the colour and image
density, but the expanded metaphors are fine. I am not happy
about the books Marcia talks about. More detail here and bring
in the UFO connections more strongly, what?
I offer Fourth Day Like Four Long Months of Absence as a
prototype of a method of coming to knowledge through
portraiture. What we have here, good List Bears is a totally new
genre. Mr. Goldstein attacks, Colin sketches him, lets ebk have
it via a communication. The sketch is posted, then preserved
forever as Combat Diary Supplement Number 1 in the
www.thewhyfiles.com where others will add further touches, more
developments with the graphic possibilities not provided by
Virtually Strange archives. Reactions to Colin's portrait will
be included in the Combat Diaries pasting. Later perhaps, colour
sketches for a guess at what Goldstein's face is like from
readers of Combat Diaries. And not a penny passes through any
hands (including those of Mr. Goldstein!). This is a whole new
fabric this is. I don't know where we are going from this very
exciting here and now, and neither does anybody else.
Of course BP, I'll get screams from the androids and mutants and
plain Janes and professional ordinaries and steam footplate pre-
quantum scientists saying what's he doing putting all this
different stuff for on the List? Why isn't the Bad Man being
banal, mundane, practical, worthy, sensible, why doesn't he have
all those qualities of the steam footplate journeymen? These are
weird ideas will say the grocers, and he uses long words and
long sentences will say the super grocers, and he is not being
simple-minded, conventional and half-baked will say the simple-
minded, conventional and half-baked steam footplate men. And he
doesn't do research and stick to the facts will say the steam-
age Ufological Commissars. And why doesn't he go out into the
field, with his jam-jar and butterfly net and magnifying glass
and notebook, looking for lights in the sky like any sensible
British person, will say the Ufological Stalinists and Maoists
and interrogatory dialecticians? Answer: that's why he called
the Bad Man.
Why is still alive, as distinct from others he could mention?
Because the Bad Man never does what he is told to do, that's
But Andy Roberts will learn to love Fourth Day Like Four Long
Months of Absence, born in the fire of his curses. His last List
post on the Trans-en-Provence business shows that like his
worthy colleague Mr. Clarke, he is preparing himself for
confession and the Ufological wafer. He asked me to comment, and
as I have told him, I am available for confidential advice in
any and every such case. The candles never go out in the
borderland between fact and fiction.
But Andy ask me a question about his post on the Trans-en-
Provence case, and I take the opportunity to answer:
>>>>Unless, and by golly I think I've cracked the case,
>>>>was just being post-modern Colin? Those wacky
What is this Is it real? Is it solved? Is it a hoax? The whole
truth? A confusion about authors? If Randles should happen to
disagree with you about authorship, then we would have that
Borges/Fort meme that is postmodernism. Yes, you are indeed
developing a post modern view, Andy. The imagery, linking and
development of the tory situation as described by yourself and
others are vectors in the reality set. The lies, fantasies,
confusions and avoidances are all vital functions within the
set. Without lies reality doesn't work. The lies vary from
putting a comb through your hair in the morning and thinking you
are James Bond to what Kropotkin called the Big Lies of Science,
Authority and the State. All is deception. All is ambiguity.
There now, that's lot better than singular steam-footplate
mechanism, what? I myself ignore the facts of a situation.
They're pure cultural camouflage. I go for the fantasies. They
tell me infinitely more. Mother Hall will love that one. I
designed it just for him. I think it's good. I thinking I will
change the lighting, shoot in the open, and cut in some archive
after I have re-mixed.
I am a camera. In my new novel, I shall call Dick Mr. Bear. I
haven't found a name for Jan yet. Names come to you. I'll tell
him when it arrives.
Yes, struggle as he might, Modernism now hath Andy in thrall,
and we all know what happens after modernism. Andy is now up to
1950, which at least is way past most contemporary steam
footplate Ufologists. Banish thy steam footplate angst Andy,
become a postmodern and enter the Fortean mysterium betwixt the
two daemons Fact and Fiction. No more trying putting the UFO
experience upon the railway tracks and angle-iron of the late
19th century. But no poor fact-versus-fiction soul is damned
beyond recall. Each and every such steam footplate soul is
capable of being saved. Even Jan and Goldstein are not lost
forever. They will return, like the Prodigal, as if from a night
journey under the sea, towards Fort's cottage in the Western
List Bears, I now announce the Founding of New Ufology.
I shall nail this post as a flying scroll on the doors of the
church of scientific Ufology. As seals on this Bull, I will put
the curses of the cult objectivists to show that New Ufology was
born of intellectual ice and fire, ideological blood and steel.
New Ufology will help to construct nothing less than a complete
new definition of what is meant by information.
Of this, much more later.
Note the date and time, List Bears.
And as the poet said, forget your underwear, we are free.
New Ufology is born.
Meantime Andy, you have a very big problem.
You are alive.
This is the most terrifying discovery that a man can make. It is
the discovery of an impossibility almost as great as the
impossibility of the alien and the UFO.
If we search hard we may find others still breathing in the
ruins of these Last Days.
Colin (Bad Man) Bennett
The Peacocks are gone now, the orchestra is silent,
darkness falls over Holland Park and I leave the
Team Room, my mind full of clues.
Goodnight Orillana, wherever you are.
Tonight I shall light a candle for you in Headquarters.
Meantime see you all in Fortean Times 168 (March, 2003)
when my Oberg portrait will be on public display.
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