Those Follies of Timeless Fancies by R.K.Galvez

 

 

 

 

To Gamussi Rubello[a.k.a.Old Gammy Rubb]:

Hope the psycho-theological-pornographic sciences are still your main interest, but this ill-composed document will help you strive for academic success. I have failed to get this published in [you'll get the pic] 987, 1067,1180, 1240, 1355, 1400, 1560,1660, 1790, 1804, 1899, 1903, 1921, 1934, 1949, 1959, 1963, 1969, 1972, 1976, 1981, 1989, 1993, 1997, 2002, 2007 and [after a long period of self-enforced reinvention/hibernation - to speed up my creative efforts] a period between 2020-2412. I will attempt to try again in 3509 and 4550 [if possible]. Even my periods of self-publication [and other forms of data storage/electronic distribution] ended up in failure, with no copies surviving and most articles left to be ignored. Many have been destroyed by various kinds of soul warfare opponents, that comprised the newly eternal cottonwool hyper-sensitive establishment culture , which now shapes all societies [they all pull together when money might be lost to their coffers - as opposed to re-distributed via various egalitarian measures those dull protectionists know who they are].

 

I am hoping you will be able to escape the protectionist trap and be able to release these selected volumes to my future astral students.

 

Thanks once again,

Z.F. Galvez. 1750-1820

Obviously, this was a joke [a poor one from that dull e-bureaucrat "Ovno" Ovinisson] and I convinced myself it did not exist. I did not even bother to file a report, I let it pass. And I completely forgot about it, until I suddenly got the colony sickness - DMZA. It was one awful ailment, with a known cure, but as the most common early symptom is madness within madness, you forget there is a cure [and time travel is essential to see myself in this state; but it was too late for me to act upon its affects, unfortunately. This was post-DLXSMD-cap-tea] Some found it fun. I may have been one of them. As a colonist I was scared, but ended up building the primitive Galvez-device into me - just to pass the time. I now know that it might be true[who knows?]. It gives me hope anyway, even though I would prefer to have none[faith is funny, isn't it? Can you feel it?]. It's just nice knowing existence is pretty big. This colony is death, though. I wish I was back on Ye Olde Earth[e]. Then again, sometimes I reckon I've got it easy...

 

 

G.R, New New Earth-Moon, 4570AD.

THIS MESSAGE WAS PZIONIKALLY RECEIVED FROM WITHIN THE MIND OF R.K.GALVEZ WHILE AT THE BAR OF THE CHRISTCHILD AND VONDERPUMP PUBLIC HOUSE.

 

 

Time: N5, 1991. 17:51. Place: flat, near the quiet Picture House.

 

 

A younger[and older] variant of Tommy Tellman was wondering how he ended up in this awful position. He was now staying with his step-mother/father in a small abode, which was supplied with basic furnishings. His step-mother/father was heavily sedated as usual. It was all provided for by the state; the Tellmans' paid for nothing as the were use to having nothing[ever]. They were pleased they were in the system, but outside of it, and hoped it would never change.

It was a sign of the times. The world was not great, but Tommy Tellman indulged all his fantasies: he would talk to his pet bush - a zoophyte called Professor Norkgrub - and play banjo, and sometimes spank himself with a whip made out of popcorn. It was an acquired taste. He would, also, sometimes inhale domestic chemicals out of sheer boredom, as he slowly realized the potential for seeing into the future after using such powerful substances. Why waste them on the simple functions of domesticity thought Tommy? He was starting to think for himself. This might be classed as "DEEP"....

Tommy was flying again, fighting bogies. Had always wanted to be a bogey fighter, flying a Vickers' Supermarine Spitfire. The alien bogies were always growing more powerful, according to the increasingly subjective Professor Norkgrub. The alien wastrels were always coming back for more, and they seemed to have an abdundance of firepower and other structural resources. Professor Norkgrub was already spinning some yarn about a recycled spaceship; it had been left by some bored followers of Horus who trapped themselves within a crystal.

This was nothing new, but they had been trying to unlock a genius within the crystal using highly unreliable ceremonial magic. No-one was able to verify the accounts, despite Tellman catching the televized docu-drama of his deepest thoughts. It had been badly adapted, and the actors were restrained; though it was banned it had caused a brief ruffle of publicity. Tellman could not keep up.   

Tommy was a bit foolish, despite this nothingness. He thought of himself as someone special, though he was just another cog on the wheel. Tommy knew what that meant. He had a disfigured teddy called Coggy. He referred to himself as another person. He referred to Coggy as his "friend". He even used him as a reference for a possible employment opportunity. Luckily, everyone ignored him - of course. He might have had a problem though, but he did not have the education to realize it. FLASHBACK TEN YEARS EARLIER: Someone very bitter told young Tommy that education was only good if you were educated enough to realize it.

TODAY[NOW]: Tellman's grades were as follows:UUUUUUUUUUU. It was problematic for his future, but time was another problem best left alone. He had blown being a real alien slayer. He was too weak, and needed re-training or wipe-cycling. tellman was expecting to come back as a different person. It was the past now. The problem was slipping into the depths of time, as always. His trans-gendered parent had still not returned...  

A problem was something that was a bit tricky, of course. But as Tommy decided to re-invent himself, as grades didn't matter; he had other ideas and he had already built two vessels out of moulded bogies. they looked like toy aeroplanes. That was great. He might be able to fly away if he wanted to. He tried talking to Norkgrub again, his parched mouth trying to make word-sounds, but a dry grunt farted out of his mouth, escaping as if by accident...Norkgrub never seemed to open his mouth. 

Tellman sat the zoophyte next to Coggy, as he pruned Norkgrubs buds, inhaling them deeply. Norkgrub was one strange bush. But Tellman preferred Norkgrub's company, as technically, in real life, as in reality, as in not unreal, TOMMY TELLMAN WAS[is] A LONER...He disliked talking to his step-mother/father. It made him nervous, as he was the constant butt of jokes. His sweat tormented him constantly. People stared. They giggled at him. They were strange. But Tommy was stranger than strange.

This was the strange thing about Tommy: He was not trapped in any cannibalistic, slightly mutated or alienated advertisement. He refused to watch TV. Tellman resisted zombie status for way too long. And he never listened to music, apart from the din of surrounding noise - the drip of tap, the squeak of chair, the ding-dong of door-bell, the hum of appliances. Tellman was not "trendy" or pop-culturally minded. He reviled comics, various music/visual and gaming aids. Tellman had rejected all types of so-called "art", except free advertising, and he disliked reading, also.

Although Tellman always relied on words and liked them, he could not read much - so he was unable to read very well. He collected seaside postcards - dreaming of retiring at Frinton-on-Sea - and Top Trump cards; that was his art. And, sometimes, Tellman found time to attempt numerous early versions of what became "Sudoku", while picking dried crusty skin from his genitals. But he enjoyed reading his own mind most. He did not want no closet openings, or mass exhibitions, in such a quiet area. He never wanted attention and rarely spoke to anyone - well, he did speak to himself, but that's normal.

It all changed for him. He wanted decisive dimension action. He wanted a quick escape. In the back of his mind, he created his dimensional alter-ego, a strange soul called Z.F. Galvez. He was unable to figure what the Z.F. stood for. But Galvez was his astral name. This would fund his astral pursuits in numerous realms. He discarded all literature; he needed nothing apart from his brain. His useless brain. Galvez was useless, too. He had no form and did not need one; Tommy Tellman, eventually, was helped out.

 

Time: SE1, 2030. 18.45. Place: apartment, near the other transport.

 

 

Tommy wanted to travel elsewhere, but stay locally, and find the ruins of time; the Torlozrko ruins within London were still well-hidden at this point. Tommy knew they existed, they were trapped in pzionik energy. It was something he had never felt before - to be part of his country's awful past - as he went to sleep. Another early night for Mr Tellman.

His step-father/mother would be home, during the early hours, sometimes leaving for days at a time. Things were paid for by the state, and he rarely used electricity as he disliked food, and hated using the heating. It was all dependent on the current meds[ab/mis/use, see box for details, thus always read the label]. Both Tellman and his step-mother/father remained dependent on medicalized progress. It was in their blood. Tellman was scared to be alone, though; but he decided he would find his old pen-pal Professor Norkgrub. He had nothing else to do. The televisual projection system was broken and the internet was blocked, due to his step-mother/father controlling it for other activities. But it was not interesting him really. He continued to dislike "brainwash" music also, despite it was now being given away for nothing, like most entertainments. It was all advertising now. No-one likes strange words either. The music was trying to be pzionik to cause stresses and strains. It worked, as it created the chrome bobble hat that protected Tommy Tellman from unsuspecting Sonic distresses. The neighbours played pumping music, that made his ears bleed for hours. But this honeyed ear-blood, gave Tommy something interesting to examine. This might take hours, but Tommy did like juices. Even though he was fearful of the acidic reflux they caused.

Tommy done something brave. Tommy Tellman decided to go out for a juice. He was scared of pubs, and would occasionally help himself to a sherry. But sherry made him light-headed, and confused him. That was a treat for him, though. He avoided alcohol and discovered a deserted public house, called The Christchild and Vonderpump. It was disgusting, but Tellman only wanted a juice. He smelt the sulphuric pungent, wafting from behind the bar. The whole building had been condemned for many years. He decided to stay and consume the strange juices it secreted from it's secret underground gardens. This is when Z.F.Galvez [1570-2018] first appeared, carrying a leather folder containg his documents, various grimoires and relics. He showed his dimensional identification, a scrawled card stating:

Z.F. GALVEZ,

ASTRAL INVESTIGATOR [hourly rates available, sexual favours not included. Subject to terms and conditions, further legal rubbish-stuff applies; love is the law]

This was bizarre. It was a blank card, stained with some type of alien mould; but Tellman saw it clearly. It was burned within his feeble mind. He did not notice that Galvez was wearing heavily worn, casual unisex-clothes, heavy shoes, and a bobble hat. Galvez had no features, it was as if he was almost ethnically invisible. Galvez smiled, nodding; he liked it that way, as he continued drinking a strange mixture of herbs and spices, known as mex-mez-tea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART ONE: The improving impoverished neuroses of TOMMY TELLMAN.

 

I am compiling this on behalf of A.J.Galvez, who dictated his notations to me in a dream-like vision[before strangely vanishing for what he called "surgery".] After my med-team grew confused by my continued disturbance[s] they discontinued my current medication[s]. I sometimes get these d-state-dictated-penetrations. Then Galvez delivered unto me some primitive astral-device. I was shocked to find this document, pre-programmed by A.J.Galvez, built into my stasis module saying [corrupted file; end now?]:

 

 

Good SF

in the 70's avant guard vein. We are asked to fill in the blanks: wipe-cycling? Okay I don't no what that is, but I sort of do. Also there's a faint whiff of Burroughs in here somewhere. Maybe it's the cavalier referrences to strange drugs or the occasional disturbing scatology ("picking dried skin off his genitals"). Anywho, it's my cup of vile and foamy liquids...
~~~ciao for now, Laika

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