Wherever you are is the entry point – Kabir

Sprung Forth….


Welcome to Friday….
More on the way…
The Links
Article: Spirit of the Beehive
Poetry: John Betjeman
Take Care,
The Links:
Having worked in the Industry…. this is as close to the truth as you will get…
The Wizard of Id
1 Oz.
Spirit of the Beehive… a neat bit of compilation…
“Original title Al Azif – azif being the word used by the Arabs to designate that nocturnal sound (made by insects) suppos’d to be the howling of daemons.” – HP Lovecraft, from his History of the Necronomicon.
One thing I find both fascinating and instructive is the collation of correspondences between what could be called boundary experiences. I hope to do some analysis of this in a forthcoming post – something of a follow-up to our earlier study of Fatima – but in the meantime, here’s a brief data dump of one such correspondence.
Marian apparitions
“We would follow the children and kneel in the middle of the field. Lucia would raise her hands and say, ‘You bade me come here, what do you wish of me?’ And then could be heard a buzzing that seemed to be that of a bee. I took care to discern whether it was the Lady speaking.” – Fatima witness Maria Carreira, quoted in Heavenly Lights.
“I heard a sound, a din, such as a great fly makes inside an empty water pot.” – Manuel Marto, Fatima witness and father of Jacinta and Francisco.
“Mr Manuel Marto explained to us that, during the entire duration of the appearance, those present heard an indefinable sound, like that which is heard next to a hive, but altogether more harmonious, even though words were not heard.” – Italian priest Humberto Pasquale, investigator of the Fatima event.
“On July 13, I was at Cova da Iria. She [Lucia] knelt…. While Lucia was listening to a response, it seemed there was a buzzing sound like that of a cicada.” – Fatima witness Antonio Baptista.
Traveling slowly, the object reversed its course and with an undulating motion headed for the small cleared area amongst the trees where the sandpit was situated. The intensity of the noise disturbed David so much that his friends said he placed his hands over his ears and called out for it to stop. However, David does not recall doing this. The UFO began to settle down for a landing and the noise became a buzz, the children claimed. – From Three small boys witness UFO landing – Port Coquitlam, BC
Roland McMahon, a 10-year old boy, saw a silver colored UFO 15 ft in diameter, with a windowed cupola on top, hovering 10 ft over the farm area. “On its bottom there was a green triangular area, with a dark red area inside that they boy said resembled a human shaped profile.” It made a buzzing noise like an electric motor. When Mrs. McMahon, who also saw the object, drove into the driveway, it flew away, kicking up dust with a wind. It was in view for about 15 minutes. From Humanoid Sighting Report, August 18, 1975
At about 2230 Dec 30 1972, Ventura Maceiras, an illiterate night watchman, was listening to the radio outside the wooden shack that is his home, when suddenly the transistor radio began to fail. Impact adjustment did not work, so he switched off. He noticed a humming “like angry bees.” Looking up, he saw a bright light hovering over a nearby grove of eucalyptus trees. He could see an enormous object in the midst of the light, whose color changed from orange to purple. At the center of the object, he could see a round cabin with windows, and through the windows, two figures. – From Occupant Database
Two fishermen, Charles Hickson, age 45, and Calvin Parker, age 19, were near the banks of the Pascagoula River the evening of October 11, 1973, when they saw an oblong-shaped UFO. It emitted a brilliant blue light and made a sound similar to that of bees. An aperture appeared in the object and three beings exited the craft by floating in the air through the opening. The men were taken into the interior of the UFO by two semi-transparent beings, approximately four and a half feet tall, who emitted a faint buzzing, like that of bees. – From Heavenly Lights
In 1954 Mr. P. Petit and his employee, Mr. Tillier, with shop owner Mr. Pecquet, saw an oval object on the ground in Corrompu, France. When it took off the lights of a tractor went out. It measured about 4.5 meters (15 feet) in length and emitted a bright light similar to a welder’s torch. It came back, turned, and flew off toward the southwest. It reportedly made the same noise as a swarm of bees. – Source, Jacques Vallee, Passport to Magonia.
Valdair Alcântara Maciel, who works as a security guard at the Pesqueiro do Rubinho, a fishing place, claim that he saw yesterday (may 26 1999), at 03:30 AM, a UFO in a area of the Itapeti Mountain, in Mogi das Cruzes, São Paulo’s municipal district. To him the evidences are the marks left on the ground. It is a circle with approximately 2,4 meters diameter, with the marks of 4 “feet” and a smaller circle in the midle…. He say that the object had a red color and made a “buzz” noise. – From UFO lands in Mogi das Cruzes, Sao Paolo
Report – Sept. 1950; Korea, Navy planes on mission approached by two large discs, radar jammed, radio transmitter blocked by buzzing noise each time new frequency tried. – From NICAP’s EM case list
Fortean entities
One particularly memorable subject, who was up-front about what she had seen, was an older woman who said she had encountered Mothman in her backyard. Her property was close to the boundaries of the TNT area and, hearing a buzzing or humming sound coming from the back of her home, she went out to investigate…. Other witnesses…told of glowing red eyes and a buzzing or humming sound. – From Return to Point Pleasant
Angelica Barrigon Varela and co-worker Remedios Diez were on their way to work at a local factory along the wall that divided the railroad tracks and the street when they heard a loud buzzing sound coming from the area of the tracks. Looking in that direction they beheld a bizarre creature floating and balancing itself above the railroad tracks. It appeared to be wearing a monk-like smock or coat, dark green in color that emitted intermediate flashes of light under the light rain. The humanoid itself was dwarf-like with white pale features and stared at the witnesses fixedly. The face was oval shaped and the eyes were like two deep black holes. It appeared to lack any legs below the knees as the smock hung in mid-air. – From Humanoid Sighting Report, January 16, 1975
DMT trip
20—30 seconds : a buzzing starts in the ears, rising in tone and volume to an incredible intensity. Its like cellophane being ripped apart (or the fabric of the universe being torn asunder). Your body will vibrate in sympathy with this sound, and you will notice a sharp blood pressure rise. 30 seconds—1 minute : You break through into DMT hyperspace. – From Notes on the Visual Stages of a DMT Trip.
A powerful buzz on the same frequency as the light oscillation grew in my head. The more I inhaled the more profound and intense the buzzing became. Each gasp of vapor stoked up the effect until my head was swarming with noise and light. – From DMT: Not like any other experience.
Near Death Experience
“Finally I stopped moving through the tunnel and had a good chance to look at it. The tunnel looked like a large vent pipe used on clothes dryers. The light was not primarily inside the tunnel but from the outside shinning in. During the trip inside the tunnel I heard a loud buzzing sound which hurt my ears. I wondered what supported the tunnel. Now I began walking looking for the ending of this tunnel.” – Account of a Near Death Experience.
Astral projection
“I was meditating (i’m so good at it now! I can actually keep a blank mind) and I heard the buzzing noise (bumble bee buzzing). And I was like ‘oh my gosh i’m projecting right now??’… I will hear buzzing, my body felt as if it was rising, although I could feel my body on my bed.” …. “The buzzing – I will feel electic vibes going across my body. It sounds like a bee, but it narrows to a mosquito buzzing sound. – Accounts of astral projection.
Poetry: John Betjeman
“Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.”

Felixstowe, or The Last of Her Order
With one consuming roar along the shingle
The long wave claws and rakes the pebbles down
To where its backwash and the next wave mingle,
A mounting arch of water weedy-brown
Against the tide the off-shore breezes blow.
Oh wind and water, this is Felixstowe.
In winter when the sea winds chill and shriller
Than those of summer, all their cold unload
Full on the gimcrack attic of the villa
Where I am lodging off the Orwell Road,
I put my final shilling in the meter
And only make my loneliness completer.
In eighteen ninety-four when we were founded,
Counting our Reverend Mother we were six,
How full of hope we were and prayer-surrounded
“The Little Sisters of the Hanging Pyx”.
We built our orphanage. We built our school.
Now only I am left to keep the rule.
Here in the gardens of the Spa Pavillion
Warm in the whisper of the summer sea,
The cushioned scabious, a deep vermillion,
With white pins stuck in it, looks up at me
A sun-lit kingdom touched by butterflies
And so my memory of the winter dies.
Across the grass the poplar shades grow longer
And louder clang the waves along the coast.
The band packs up. The evening breeze is stronger
And all the world goes home to tea and toast.
I hurry past a cakeshop’s tempting scones
Bound for the red brick twilight of St.John’s.
“Thou knowest my down sitting and mine uprising”
Here where the white light burns with steady glow
Safe from the vain world’s silly sympathising,
Safe with the love I was born to know,
Safe from the surging of the lonely sea
My heart finds rest, my heart finds rest in Thee.
The Plantster’s Vision
Cut down that timber! Bells, too many and strong,
Pouring their music through the branches bare,
From moon-white church towers down the windy air
Have pealed the centuries out with Evensong.
Remove those cottages, a huddled throng!
Too many babies have been born in there,
Too many coffins, bumping down the stair,
Carried the old their garden paths along.
I have a Vision of the Future, chum,
The workers’ flats in fields of soya beans
Tower up like silver pencils, score on score:
And Surging Millions hear the Challenge come
From microphones in communal canteens
“No Right! No Wrong! All’s perfect, evermore!”
We used to picnic where the thrift
Grew deep and tufted to the edge;
We saw the yellow foam flakes drift
In trembling sponges on the ledge
Below us, till the wind would lift
Them up the cliff and o’er the hedge.
Sand in the sandwiches, wasps in the tea,
Sun on our bathing dresses heavy with the wet,
Squelch of the bladder-wrack waiting for the sea,
Fleas around the tamarisk, an early cigarette.
From where the coastguard houses stood
One used to see below the hill,
The lichened branches of a wood
In summer silver cool and still;
And there the Shade of Evil could
Stretch out at us from Shilla Mill.
Thick with sloe and blackberry, uneven in the light,
Lonely round the hedge, the heavy meadow was remote,
The oldest part of Cornwall was the wood as black as night,
And the pheasant and the rabbit lay torn open at the throat.
But when a storm was at its height,
And feathery slate was black in rain,
And tamarisks were hung with light
And golden sand was brown again,
Spring tide and blizzard would unite
And sea come flooding up the lane.
Waves full of treasure then were roaring up the beach,
Ropes round our mackintoshes, waders warm and dry,
We waited for the wreckage to come swirling into reach,
Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and I.
Then roller into roller curled
And thundered down the rocky bay,
And we were in a water world
Of rain and blizzard, sea and spray,
And one against the other hurled
We struggled round to Greenaway.
Blesséd be St Enodoc, blesséd be the wave,
Blesséd be the springy turf, we pray, pray to thee,
Ask for our children all happy days you gave
To Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and me.
A Subaltern’s Love Song
Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament – you against me!
Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.
Her father’s euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o’clock news and a lime-juice and gin.
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.
On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
The Hillman is waiting, the light’s in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing’s the light on your hair.
By roads “not adopted”, by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o’clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl’s hand!
Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.
And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I’m engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
Diary of a Church Mouse
Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks,
Here where the Vicar never looks
I nibble through old service books.
Lean and alone I spend my days
Behind this Church of England baize.
I share my dark forgotten room
With two oil-lamps and half a broom.
The cleaner never bothers me,
So here I eat my frugal tea.
My bread is sawdust mixed with straw;
My jam is polish for the floor.
Christmas and Easter may be feasts
For congregations and for priests,
And so may Whitsun. All the same,
They do not fill my meagre frame.
For me the only feast at all
Is Autumn’s Harvest Festival,
When I can satisfy my want
With ears of corn around the font.
I climb the eagle’s brazen head
To burrow through a loaf of bread.
I scramble up the pulpit stair
And gnaw the marrows hanging there.
It is enjoyable to taste
These items ere they go to waste,
But how annoying when one finds
That other mice with pagan minds
Come into church my food to share
Who have no proper business there.
Two field mice who have no desire
To be baptized, invade the choir.
A large and most unfriendly rat
Comes in to see what we are at.
He says he thinks there is no God
And yet he comes…it’s rather odd.
This year he stole a sheaf of wheat
(It screened our special preacher’s seat),
And prosperous mice from fields away
Come in to hear the organ play,
And under cover of its notes
Ate through the altar’s sheaf of oats.
A Low Church mouse, who thinks that I
Am too papistical, and High,
Yet somehow doesn’t think it wrong
To munch through Harvest Evensong,
While I, who starve the whole year through,
Must share my food with rodents who
Except at this time of the year
Not once inside the church appear.
Within the human world I know
Such goings-on could not be so,
For human beings only do
What their religion tells them to.
They read the Bible every day
And always, night and morning, pray,
And just like me, the good church mouse,
Worship each week in God’s own house,
But all the same it’s strange to me
How very full the church can be
With people I don’t see at all
Except at Harvest Festival.
The Last Laugh
I made hay while the sun shone.
My work sold.
Now, if the harvest is over
And the world cold,
Give me the bonus of laughter
As I lose hold.

Poet Laureate for Britain from 1972 until his death in 1984, Sir John Betjeman’s wryly comic verse achieved a level of popularity unusual for contemporary poetry.

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