Yesterday, the Pilot appeared live with John Hyatt, Ted Chippington and the Nightingales at the New Continental, Preston.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
The Pilot's first live gig!
Yesterday, the Pilot appeared live with John Hyatt, Ted Chippington and the Nightingales at the New Continental, Preston.
Thursday, 26 May 2011
The Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log Entry 110525
The Pilot has sent a whole new set of communications of the contents of his Flight Log.
This is the second of special transmissions for the Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log. These are not part of his exciting adventure episodes which continue on Youtube on the Hyattmovies channel.
This communication describes a very special day but, as the entries to the Flight Log are undated, it is impossible to say when this recording was made, except to repeat the words of the Pilot, "There is no past, there is no future, there is only the Now".
This is the second of special transmissions for the Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log. These are not part of his exciting adventure episodes which continue on Youtube on the Hyattmovies channel.
This communication describes a very special day but, as the entries to the Flight Log are undated, it is impossible to say when this recording was made, except to repeat the words of the Pilot, "There is no past, there is no future, there is only the Now".
Monday, 23 May 2011
Extract from The Pilot's Log 4
A River Ran Through It
Through the revolving doors, the foyer had a river running through it. Rich red, patterned carpet ended in a metal strip and polished tiles lead to the central feature of a model sailing ship some four metres long by four high. Beyond that there was a small rail like on a ship. Over this rail, you could see the coy carp circling in the eddies. The river water was clear and flowed seemingly backwards to a forty-metre waterfall at the top of which was a rocky outcrop with a small pagoda in the trees.
“Come on with you,” she said, running into the trees and to the right of the falls.
That was the last I saw of her like that.
Through the revolving doors, the foyer had a river running through it. Rich red, patterned carpet ended in a metal strip and polished tiles lead to the central feature of a model sailing ship some four metres long by four high. Beyond that there was a small rail like on a ship. Over this rail, you could see the coy carp circling in the eddies. The river water was clear and flowed seemingly backwards to a forty-metre waterfall at the top of which was a rocky outcrop with a small pagoda in the trees.
“Come on with you,” she said, running into the trees and to the right of the falls.
That was the last I saw of her like that.
The Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log Entry 110523
The Pilot has sent a whole new set of communications of the contents of his Flight Log.
This is the first of special transmissions for the Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log and not part of his exciting adventure episodes. Thank you, Pilot! These will give us a wonderful, behind-the-scenes view of things through your eyes and ears.
View this communication:
This is the first of special transmissions for the Pilot of Bee Patrol Flight Log and not part of his exciting adventure episodes. Thank you, Pilot! These will give us a wonderful, behind-the-scenes view of things through your eyes and ears.
View this communication:
Saturday, 14 May 2011
A Different Perspective on the Log
˙ɹǝdɐd ǝןqısıʌuı uo pǝʇuıɹd sɐʍ ʇı sɐ ǝuıןǝɟıן ǝןƃuıs ɐ ʇnq pǝɥsıuıɟ ʇou sɐʍ ʇɔɐ ʇsɐן sıɥʇ ʎןuıɐʇɹǝɔ ˙ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝnןq ǝɥʇ ǝpısʇno ǝɹǝɥʍǝɯos suǝʌɐǝɥ ʎɯɹoʇs ǝɥʇ pǝɹǝʇuǝ ʎǝɥʇ sɐ ʎpoןǝɯ ɐ ƃuıs oʇ ǝsoɥɔ ʎǝɥʇ ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ ƃuıʎɐʇs puɐ spuɐɥ ɹıǝɥʇ pǝdıʍ ʎǝɥʇ suıʞdɐu dn ƃuıʞɔıd ˙ǝןqɐǝɯɹǝd osןɐ sɐʍ ɹǝppɐן ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ǝsıןɐǝɹ oʇ ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ƃuıʞɐʇ 'pǝɹnʇsǝƃ puɐ pǝsnɯ spoƃ puɐsnoɥʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ʇı uʍop uɐɹ puɐ pǝʌɐʍ 'sǝɔuǝnbǝsuoɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ou ɥʇıʍ 'oƃuıɯɐןɟ ɐ sǝʇnuıɯ uı ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙ʇsɐoʇ ɟo ǝpɐɯ ʎuoɥdɯʎs ɐ osןɐ puɐ ǝʞɐɟ ɐ ǝɔuo ʇɐ ǝɹǝʍ sƃuıɥʇ sɐ ɯǝןqoɹd ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ˙pǝɹɐǝddɐ pɐɥ ɹǝppɐן snouıɯnן ɐɹʇxǝ uɐ ˙ɹɐןnɔɹıɔ puɐ sɯǝʇs uo ʍou ǝɹǝʍ pǝɹɐdǝɹdun puɐ uʍouʞun ǝɥʇ ʇnq ɹǝƃuoן ǝɹǝʍ sdǝʇs uʍouʞ ǝɥʇ ˙sןɐʇǝd uɐʇ ɟo ʇןınq ɥʇuıɹʎqɐן ɐ ɥʇıʍ pǝuɹǝʇʇɐd ɹǝdɯnɾ ʞuıd pǝuɹǝʇʇɐd ɐ ǝɹoʍ ɥɔɐǝ puɐ poƃ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd ɐ oʇuı pǝƃuɐɥɔ ןןɐ pɐɥ ʎǝɥʇ ˙pǝʇɐdıɔıʇɹɐd ǝuoʎɹǝʌǝ ʇɐɥʇ ʎɹɐssǝɔǝu sɐʍ ʇı 'uıɐƃɐ ƃuıʇןǝɯ sɐʍ ǝɹnʇɔǝʇıɥɔɹɐ pɹɐɥ ǝsoɥʍ 'ɹɐq ןǝʇoɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʞɔɐq
˙sןןɐqʍous puɐ ʇsoɹɟ ǝʞɐɟ ɟo ɹɐןןoɔ ןןnɟ ɐ oʇuı pǝƃuɐɥɔ puɐ pǝןƃuıɯɯoɔ sǝןqqnq ƃuıןɹıʍs ɟo ʎuoɥdoɔɐɔ ǝןqɐuıƃɐɯıun uɐ sǝʇnuıɯ uıɥʇıʍ ˙uı pǝdɯnɾ 'ɹǝʇɐʍ ɟo ǝpɐɯ sɐʍ ʇǝןnʌıɹ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʞuıɥʇ 'uoɯןɐs ƃuıןʞuıʍʇ ǝןƃuıs ɐ uǝɥʍ sʞןɐʇs uo ǝɹǝʍ puɐ ʍǝɹƃ sǝʎǝ ’sɹǝןןǝʌɐɹʇ ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ ˙ɹǝʎoɟ ǝɥʇ ƃuıןןǝʍs puɐ ƃuıpןoɟun ǝɹǝʍ suoısuǝɯıp ǝsoɥʍ ʇǝןnʌıɹ-ɯnɔ-ǝnssıʇ ɐ oʇ ƃuıʇuıod ʎq pǝıןdǝɹ puɐ pǝɥƃnɐן oɥʍ sɹǝƃuıɟ ƃuıןɹıʍs ǝʇıɹnoʌɐɟ ɹıǝɥʇ pǝןʞɔıʇ puɐ pǝʍoqןǝ 'pǝıqqoן uǝɥʇ sʞuıɹp ɹıǝɥʇ pǝʞɔǝɥɔ ʎǝɥʇ ǝןıɥʍ ןןıʇs ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ ˙pǝʌɹǝs ǝɹǝʍ sʇsǝnƃ uɐɯnɥ ƃuınƃɹɐ '(ǝɹnʇɐu ɹıǝɥʇ uı sɐʍ ʇı) ʎsou ʇnq ǝןdɯıs ǝɥʇ puɐ pǝɹɐǝddɐ ʍous ɟo sǝʞɐןɟ ɥʇıʍ pǝʇsnɹɔuǝ sןooʇsɹɐq pǝsıɐɹ puɐ sǝssɐןƃ 'ɹǝǝq uǝɥʇ
˙ƃuıɹǝʇʇnןds puɐ ƃuıƃuɐɥɔ ǝɔıoʌ snouoɥdʎןod puɐ ʎɯɐǝɹp 'ʞɔıɥʇ sʇı 'spuɐʍ puɐ ןooʍ ǝʇıɥʍ ɟo pɹɐzzıןq ɐ pǝɥʇoɹɟ puɐ pǝpuɐdxǝ sıɥʇ 'ʇxǝu ˙ʎʞs ǝɥʇ uı ɥʇnoɯ ƃuıʇɐʇnɯ ɔıʇsɐןd uɐdpɐǝp ɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝɯɐɔ ɥɔıɥʍ spɹoʍ oʇ ǝɯıʇ uı punoɹɐ ƃuıʇɟıɥs ʎןʇǝınb 'ǝuıן ʇɥƃıɐɹʇs ǝuo uı ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ sǝʌןǝsɯǝɥʇ pןǝɥ 'sןıssoɟ uo ǝsoɥʇ ǝʞıן suɹǝʇʇɐd ɟo ǝpɐɯ puɐ dǝǝp ǝɹǝʍ sʇuıɹdɹǝƃuıɟ ǝsoɥʍ 'sɹǝƃuıɟ ǝןqɹɐɯ snoɯɹouǝ uǝʇ :uıɐƃɐ pǝƃuɐɥɔ oıɹɐuǝɔs ǝɥʇ ʇuɐʇsuı ʇɐɥʇ uı
Yours sincerely and with best wishes
B.L.Z.Bubb
˙sןןɐqʍous puɐ ʇsoɹɟ ǝʞɐɟ ɟo ɹɐןןoɔ ןןnɟ ɐ oʇuı pǝƃuɐɥɔ puɐ pǝןƃuıɯɯoɔ sǝןqqnq ƃuıןɹıʍs ɟo ʎuoɥdoɔɐɔ ǝןqɐuıƃɐɯıun uɐ sǝʇnuıɯ uıɥʇıʍ ˙uı pǝdɯnɾ 'ɹǝʇɐʍ ɟo ǝpɐɯ sɐʍ ʇǝןnʌıɹ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʞuıɥʇ 'uoɯןɐs ƃuıןʞuıʍʇ ǝןƃuıs ɐ uǝɥʍ sʞןɐʇs uo ǝɹǝʍ puɐ ʍǝɹƃ sǝʎǝ ’sɹǝןןǝʌɐɹʇ ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ ˙ɹǝʎoɟ ǝɥʇ ƃuıןןǝʍs puɐ ƃuıpןoɟun ǝɹǝʍ suoısuǝɯıp ǝsoɥʍ ʇǝןnʌıɹ-ɯnɔ-ǝnssıʇ ɐ oʇ ƃuıʇuıod ʎq pǝıןdǝɹ puɐ pǝɥƃnɐן oɥʍ sɹǝƃuıɟ ƃuıןɹıʍs ǝʇıɹnoʌɐɟ ɹıǝɥʇ pǝןʞɔıʇ puɐ pǝʍoqןǝ 'pǝıqqoן uǝɥʇ sʞuıɹp ɹıǝɥʇ pǝʞɔǝɥɔ ʎǝɥʇ ǝןıɥʍ ןןıʇs ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ ˙pǝʌɹǝs ǝɹǝʍ sʇsǝnƃ uɐɯnɥ ƃuınƃɹɐ '(ǝɹnʇɐu ɹıǝɥʇ uı sɐʍ ʇı) ʎsou ʇnq ǝןdɯıs ǝɥʇ puɐ pǝɹɐǝddɐ ʍous ɟo sǝʞɐןɟ ɥʇıʍ pǝʇsnɹɔuǝ sןooʇsɹɐq pǝsıɐɹ puɐ sǝssɐןƃ 'ɹǝǝq uǝɥʇ
˙ƃuıɹǝʇʇnןds puɐ ƃuıƃuɐɥɔ ǝɔıoʌ snouoɥdʎןod puɐ ʎɯɐǝɹp 'ʞɔıɥʇ sʇı 'spuɐʍ puɐ ןooʍ ǝʇıɥʍ ɟo pɹɐzzıןq ɐ pǝɥʇoɹɟ puɐ pǝpuɐdxǝ sıɥʇ 'ʇxǝu ˙ʎʞs ǝɥʇ uı ɥʇnoɯ ƃuıʇɐʇnɯ ɔıʇsɐןd uɐdpɐǝp ɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝɯɐɔ ɥɔıɥʍ spɹoʍ oʇ ǝɯıʇ uı punoɹɐ ƃuıʇɟıɥs ʎןʇǝınb 'ǝuıן ʇɥƃıɐɹʇs ǝuo uı ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ sǝʌןǝsɯǝɥʇ pןǝɥ 'sןıssoɟ uo ǝsoɥʇ ǝʞıן suɹǝʇʇɐd ɟo ǝpɐɯ puɐ dǝǝp ǝɹǝʍ sʇuıɹdɹǝƃuıɟ ǝsoɥʍ 'sɹǝƃuıɟ ǝןqɹɐɯ snoɯɹouǝ uǝʇ :uıɐƃɐ pǝƃuɐɥɔ oıɹɐuǝɔs ǝɥʇ ʇuɐʇsuı ʇɐɥʇ uı
Yours sincerely and with best wishes
B.L.Z.Bubb
An alternative version of extract 3 - by Tara Nive
Friday night and the Bruins were out drinking, so Tara sneaked onto their laptop and came up with an alternative version of Extract 3 from the Flight Log of The Pilot of Bee Patrol (see previous post) using almost the same words!
Enjoy, beelievers!
An alternative version of extract 3 - by Tara Nive
Within there was an ladder into bubbling, frothing water in which plastic sky-blue salmon swirled in their thousands. They were enormous, but checking and choosing their moment to enter the storm.
The guests participated at once, drinking and laughing, their voices commingling as if in a symphony, and thinking it was an extra lifeline. But within ten minutes there was an problem as time shifted back and the travellers spluttered. In minutes they had quietly melted into fossil-encrusted flakes of permeable pink tissue. This swirled and swelled like snow but grew into a twinkling blizzard whose white architecture was unimaginable: steps built of human mouths, elbows and noses, and eyes and hands on stalks. Hands served fake petals from which appeared stems of hard, frosted glass bubbles with a wool finish. In an instant the architecture was stayed and held together by a beer. This expanded into an orchestra of barstools.
As the next simple but also arguably necessary scenario unfolded, ten luminous flamingos made out of single paper napkins drank water in the dream-lobby-cum-bar of the nature hotel. They wore tan patterned jumpers and with no thought of the as yet invisible consequences they wandered about the foyer. They mused, gestured, waved, pointed and tickled each other while mutating and taking any fingerprints of their favourite moments - which replied when they thought the pattern had changed .
Others, more deadpan, realised things had already changed, ate toast and wore full collars and glasses and sang deep one-line melodies while they raised, wiped and placed down balls of marble words.
They were all unprepared for the nature of the last act when a particularly heavenly cacophony of rivulets ran down and around a changing single finger-god who held on to a printed melody. It was still there somewhere in the labyrinth when everyone known had gone. Certainly things were no longer in a straight line: dimensions were polyphonous and circular, though it was still snowing thickly outside...
Tara
Enjoy, beelievers!
An alternative version of extract 3 - by Tara Nive
Within there was an ladder into bubbling, frothing water in which plastic sky-blue salmon swirled in their thousands. They were enormous, but checking and choosing their moment to enter the storm.
The guests participated at once, drinking and laughing, their voices commingling as if in a symphony, and thinking it was an extra lifeline. But within ten minutes there was an problem as time shifted back and the travellers spluttered. In minutes they had quietly melted into fossil-encrusted flakes of permeable pink tissue. This swirled and swelled like snow but grew into a twinkling blizzard whose white architecture was unimaginable: steps built of human mouths, elbows and noses, and eyes and hands on stalks. Hands served fake petals from which appeared stems of hard, frosted glass bubbles with a wool finish. In an instant the architecture was stayed and held together by a beer. This expanded into an orchestra of barstools.
As the next simple but also arguably necessary scenario unfolded, ten luminous flamingos made out of single paper napkins drank water in the dream-lobby-cum-bar of the nature hotel. They wore tan patterned jumpers and with no thought of the as yet invisible consequences they wandered about the foyer. They mused, gestured, waved, pointed and tickled each other while mutating and taking any fingerprints of their favourite moments - which replied when they thought the pattern had changed .
Others, more deadpan, realised things had already changed, ate toast and wore full collars and glasses and sang deep one-line melodies while they raised, wiped and placed down balls of marble words.
They were all unprepared for the nature of the last act when a particularly heavenly cacophony of rivulets ran down and around a changing single finger-god who held on to a printed melody. It was still there somewhere in the labyrinth when everyone known had gone. Certainly things were no longer in a straight line: dimensions were polyphonous and circular, though it was still snowing thickly outside...
Tara
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Voice from the Other Side?
Piloteer B.L.Z.Bubb has picked up what might be a message from the other side whilst watching the new Episode of The Pilot's adventure. Is it a communication or just noise or both? What do you think? B. needs your help with this one!
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