The Time Barrier
(The Pilot of Bee Patrol has been mirrored down the middle. He sits at the controls, looking like a cross between Chairman Mao and a teddy bear. Lights flash outside. The soundtrack is the sound of the Sun speeded up. He smiles…)
“Yeah, I am the Pilot of Bee Patrol.
“Long journey!
“No past, no future, there’s only the Now.
“That’s how you get through.
(His third eye appears and disappears.)
“There’s only Now.
“The more you go into the vortex, the more the square and the circle meet from the perspective of Now until you can jump the void between by a virtuous fall of belief.
“You have to look with Mona Lisa’s eyes.
“And at the centre is a crystal of sky on a tiger’s head.
“At the centre is the Fool.
“The Jester’s hat.
“On a snake.
“The broken mirror needs to be mended.
“That’s the time twister.
“There is no past.
“There is no future.
“There’s only the Now.
“That’s how you get through it”.
(He falls asleep to dream.)
(fade)
See the movie:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_b8csaB3Yc
Saturday 30 April 2011
Wednesday 27 April 2011
Friday 22 April 2011
Script: The Pilot of Bee Patrol: Episode 1
(The Pilot of Bee Patrol is in his cockpit. He looks sleepy, almost drunken. It is the result of his long interminable journey. Many moons at the controls… thinking… philosophising… figuring it all out… steering us true. Lights explode outside. He is ruminating…)
“Yeah, I am the Pilot of Bee Patrol.
“Long journey!
“No past, no future, there’s only the Now.
“That’s how you get through.
“There’s only Now.
“We are bubbles: bubbles that grow; bubbles that pop and phase transition between matter and energy.
“Your solar system is one ecology.
“The Sun is no more the centre than Jupiter.
“Jupiter is the matter Sun – the Dark Sun.
“Matter is an expression of the troughs of the vibrational energy field.
“It is the Dark Energy.
“I am the Pilot of Bee Patrol.
“There is no past.
“There is no future.
“There’s only the Now.
“That’s how you get through it”.
(fade)
See the movie:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwfvwHN9no0
Tuesday 19 April 2011
Bee Family Secrets
Battle of Britain Campaign Diary
26/10/1940: 'At 2000 hours, Blenheim L1375 crashed into flarepath on landing. The crew were unhurt, consisting of P/O Humphreys, Air Gunner Sgt Bee and LAC Wilson, AI operator'.http://www.raf.mod.uk/bob1940/f5400292.html
The Pilot and Me
Piloteer Dudley Edwards has sent in his illustration, 'The Pilot and Me'. All contributions to the Pilot's Log are warmly received. E-mail to hyattartandlife@googlemail.com
Monday 18 April 2011
Extract from The Pilot's Log
No Earthling had ever met or seen an Andromedan before. Their envoy, Mun Tommo Bon, and his entourage had beamed down from their planet, Pandrapand, into the Presidential Suite of the Soyenski Hotel yesterday evening. It was with some trepidation that I awaited his arrival in the dining area as I was the diplomat elected to lead and represent Earth’s interests in the first day’s talks. Mun Tommo Bon, himself, would appear for breakfast at dawn before we commence a round of delicate peace negotiations between our two planets.
This was a seemingly straight-forward arrangement that soon revealed itself to be incredibly complex. The question was, ‘What do you give a visiting dignitary from the planet Pandrapand to eat’? After much deliberation, our diplomatic service agreed that the answer was… everything… just in case.
Consequently, on the morning of our first encounter, the tension was high and the buffet tables groaned with food when Mun Tommo Bon came down to breakfast at the Soyenski. Everything that could be prepared had been prepared: all we could find from the world of food from every culture of the Earth was on display.
The Andromedan ambassador was four-feet cubed and in ceremonial dress. He sat at a two-person table in the hotel dining room with his assistant, an altogether slighter but no taller Andromedan, opposite him. As decorum demanded, whilst the envoy, Mun Tommo Bon, was happy (even positively eager) to serve himself, it had been decreed beforehand that he must eat first at all meals alone and everyone else, Andromedan and Earthling, had to wait until he had finished.
It was his first morning and first meal upon our planet. He prowled the counters of food like a beast. His short neck was wider than his head and this allowed a stocky purposefulness to his swift gait. He examined the food with his eyes: the meats, fruits and vegetables that had been brought from all over the world lay before him, labelled with place of origin and adorned with little colourful flags. There were Polish breads; British vegetables; American cereals; French jams; German strudels; Norwegian fish; Belgian eggs; Chinese and Indian teas; South American and Arabian coffees; Asian Dim Sum; African fruits; Greek beans; Irish mushrooms; Italian pastas; French cheeses; Australian wines; Scottish biscuits and other specialities from every part of the globe.
He took a plate in one hand like a discus and a fork in the other like a spear. He made a fourth circuit of the counters and examined the food again with the tips of the fork: he lifted delicate slices of wafer thin ham to look beneath them; he scattered crispy bacon; he rolled olives; he shovelled muesli; he stirred soups; he crushed crackers; he catapulted peas. All the time he never looked at anyone else or spoke, he concentrated one hundred percent on the task at hand, only occasionally making short stunted grunts in the soft bridge of his broad flat nose. On the third series of examinations, this nose came into its own as dishes were sniffed; aromas inhaled; drinks smelled. Then, the fourth investigation was touch with additional sniffing of his short, fat fingertips. All-in-all there were some twenty circumlocutions of the buffet counters before he stood back and was still.
Then, he set to like a dervish, filling plates high with food and his table high with plates until every square inch was laden with dishes.
Then, again, he was still and silent with his hands on his splayed knees. He breathed deeply as though summoning a strength from the floor. His head rose as his chest rose.
A blunt nasal grunt signalled the start of his eating. He was enthusiastic and ate with gusto. He speared herring, beef, lettuce and kattenbrot on the fork together. He spat milkless cereal that stuck to the outside of his lips. He opened a small plastic container with his big hands to reveal the pale yellow margarine and licked it out of the tiny tub with his tongue. He pushed the other twelve margarine containers off the table without looking with the back of his hand. He opened a strawberry jam and dipped a pickled gherkin inside of it. He sprinkled sugar on his salad, took one mouthful and then, for the second, dipped a tomato into his bowl of milk within which two hard-boiled eggs rolled around with the jolts his enthusiasm gave to the table. He lifted this and drank. The eggs rolled onto his face and the milk poured down his cheeks like tears and then rivulets and then waterfalls. He emptied a tea bag onto a napkin that he wrapped round a sausage. He poked a grape into each open end and then placed it on the floor with a Japanese flag impaling it.
Wiping his face with a slice of white bread, he was finished.
His assistant then rose to get food for himself. Whilst he was away at the counters, a waitress began to clear the debris from the table. Mun Tommo Bon, beastlike, eyed her every move intently, not in a sexual way but as though considering whether he could manage one more bite to eat.
The assistant returned to the small space cleared for him in the chaotic rubble of waste food. He ate a croissant with marmalade, a piece of light toast with a piece of Cheddar cheese sliced neatly with a butter knife. He sipped a cranberry juice, wiped his mouth with a napkin before placing his knife and fork together on the plate. Mun Tommo Bon waited with his hands again on his angled knees, his shoulders slowly rising and falling.
Breakfast over, it was time for the negotiations to begin.
This was a seemingly straight-forward arrangement that soon revealed itself to be incredibly complex. The question was, ‘What do you give a visiting dignitary from the planet Pandrapand to eat’? After much deliberation, our diplomatic service agreed that the answer was… everything… just in case.
Consequently, on the morning of our first encounter, the tension was high and the buffet tables groaned with food when Mun Tommo Bon came down to breakfast at the Soyenski. Everything that could be prepared had been prepared: all we could find from the world of food from every culture of the Earth was on display.
The Andromedan ambassador was four-feet cubed and in ceremonial dress. He sat at a two-person table in the hotel dining room with his assistant, an altogether slighter but no taller Andromedan, opposite him. As decorum demanded, whilst the envoy, Mun Tommo Bon, was happy (even positively eager) to serve himself, it had been decreed beforehand that he must eat first at all meals alone and everyone else, Andromedan and Earthling, had to wait until he had finished.
It was his first morning and first meal upon our planet. He prowled the counters of food like a beast. His short neck was wider than his head and this allowed a stocky purposefulness to his swift gait. He examined the food with his eyes: the meats, fruits and vegetables that had been brought from all over the world lay before him, labelled with place of origin and adorned with little colourful flags. There were Polish breads; British vegetables; American cereals; French jams; German strudels; Norwegian fish; Belgian eggs; Chinese and Indian teas; South American and Arabian coffees; Asian Dim Sum; African fruits; Greek beans; Irish mushrooms; Italian pastas; French cheeses; Australian wines; Scottish biscuits and other specialities from every part of the globe.
He took a plate in one hand like a discus and a fork in the other like a spear. He made a fourth circuit of the counters and examined the food again with the tips of the fork: he lifted delicate slices of wafer thin ham to look beneath them; he scattered crispy bacon; he rolled olives; he shovelled muesli; he stirred soups; he crushed crackers; he catapulted peas. All the time he never looked at anyone else or spoke, he concentrated one hundred percent on the task at hand, only occasionally making short stunted grunts in the soft bridge of his broad flat nose. On the third series of examinations, this nose came into its own as dishes were sniffed; aromas inhaled; drinks smelled. Then, the fourth investigation was touch with additional sniffing of his short, fat fingertips. All-in-all there were some twenty circumlocutions of the buffet counters before he stood back and was still.
Then, he set to like a dervish, filling plates high with food and his table high with plates until every square inch was laden with dishes.
Then, again, he was still and silent with his hands on his splayed knees. He breathed deeply as though summoning a strength from the floor. His head rose as his chest rose.
A blunt nasal grunt signalled the start of his eating. He was enthusiastic and ate with gusto. He speared herring, beef, lettuce and kattenbrot on the fork together. He spat milkless cereal that stuck to the outside of his lips. He opened a small plastic container with his big hands to reveal the pale yellow margarine and licked it out of the tiny tub with his tongue. He pushed the other twelve margarine containers off the table without looking with the back of his hand. He opened a strawberry jam and dipped a pickled gherkin inside of it. He sprinkled sugar on his salad, took one mouthful and then, for the second, dipped a tomato into his bowl of milk within which two hard-boiled eggs rolled around with the jolts his enthusiasm gave to the table. He lifted this and drank. The eggs rolled onto his face and the milk poured down his cheeks like tears and then rivulets and then waterfalls. He emptied a tea bag onto a napkin that he wrapped round a sausage. He poked a grape into each open end and then placed it on the floor with a Japanese flag impaling it.
Wiping his face with a slice of white bread, he was finished.
His assistant then rose to get food for himself. Whilst he was away at the counters, a waitress began to clear the debris from the table. Mun Tommo Bon, beastlike, eyed her every move intently, not in a sexual way but as though considering whether he could manage one more bite to eat.
The assistant returned to the small space cleared for him in the chaotic rubble of waste food. He ate a croissant with marmalade, a piece of light toast with a piece of Cheddar cheese sliced neatly with a butter knife. He sipped a cranberry juice, wiped his mouth with a napkin before placing his knife and fork together on the plate. Mun Tommo Bon waited with his hands again on his angled knees, his shoulders slowly rising and falling.
Breakfast over, it was time for the negotiations to begin.
The Pilot reflects on Niburu
You are waiting for a story about the return of our lost twin planet: Planet X or Niburu, as it known? Sorry to disappoint you but it is not like that. This time, ‘Once upon a time’ never happened. Niburu is not coming round again towards a cosmic event or outer space apocalyptic rendezvous. For Niburu is not out there travelling on some sort of perpendicular ecliptic path to meet up with her long-lost twin, the Earth. Niburu, our other, is here and is always here. Niburu is in the lines between the type.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)