The frog was a prince the prince was a brick the brick was an egg the egg was a bird well haven't you heard?

For reasons undivulgent, i have been seeking a new spiritual advisor, whom shalt be my first ever spiritual advisor. I need a spiritual advisor because i would like to have someone tell me that i am "the shit" more often, even though no one ever says "the shit" anymore. Also, i like to have people who i deem competent who tell me what i should be doing, because i dislike thinking for myself.

My leading candidate for a spiritual advisor is Peter Gabriel, circa 1972.

I met with Peter Gabriel via meditative seance the other day, which is like virtual reality. The idea was to feel each other out about the whole concept. Peter Gabriel admitted having his doubts, since he does not consider me to be worthy of his counsel. (It is true, that people much truer than i do not even deserve such counsel, especially from PG circa 1972, but just as i am wont to do during interviews, i veiled myself in shantily fabricated confidence and plasticine humility.)

I will attempt to transcribe the session.

Peter Gabriel made his virtual entrance to the meditative seance interview wearing his "Watcher of the Skies" reptilian wings headband, and fluorescent paint 'round his eyes, which glows when there are blacklights nearby. Which there certainly were.

--

: "..........."

: "Hey Pete. How's it going?"

: " ... .......h e l l o ..."

: "Yeah... so.... so i've been looking for a new spiritual advisor..."

: "From life alone, to life as one, think not your journey done. For though your ship be sturdy, no mercy has the sea. Will you survive on the ocean of being?"

: "Oh.. .umm, hold on. Shouldn't we, like, decide if we want to be, like, mentor and student, or whatever, umm, before you start giving all of, like, umm, the advice, and stuff?"

: "I know a farmer who looks after the farm. And I know a fireman who looks after the fire."

: "Oh... you've changed clothes. So what i've been meaning to get clear in this session is, is it really a spiritual advisor that i need? And if yes, are you the right guy?"

: "A FLOWER?"

: "Hey! Another costume... Funny.. Hey, listen, maybe this is an inconvenient time to do this thing, yeah? You should let me know, because I know it's sort of late in, like, Wales, or Bath or wherever. And really, if it's better for you, then i can set my alarm for really early, like 5AM for me is 10 for you, right? So maybe that's a better time? Just let me know."

: "I've been waiting here for so long. And all this time that's passed me by, it doesn't seem to matter now. You stand there with your fixed expression casting doubt on all I have to say.. Why don't you TOUCH me, TOUCH me, TOUCH me NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOOOOWW!"

: "Okay, i am definitely leaving now. Now. Now. And stuff."

: "There's only one direction in the faces that I see - it's upwards to the ceiling, where the chamber's said to be. Like the forest fight for sunlight that takes root in ev'ry tree, they are pulled up by the magnet believing they're free. The carpet crawlers heed their callers: We've got to get in to get out, we've got to get in to get out."

: "Hey, i like that one. Also, your wardrobe is impressively varied. And close by. Anyway, i'm out. See you later, yeah?"

: "Still alone in o-hell-o. See the deadly nightshade grow."

: "Bye."

--

I also met with Robert Fripp, but he insisted on having a virtual curtain drawn between us as we "communicated". Robert Fripp insisted on communicating by drawing obscure runes onto parchment with feather quills, and passing the parchment between ourselves, underneath the curtain. He also insisted on complete silence, with the exception of a crackling fire, that needed to crackle not too little and not too much, but just enough, and if the crackling noises were outside of this narrow band of acceptability, then Robert Fripp would kick the fire, hard, and the fire would cry and whimper for a couple of minutes, and then it would get its fucking act together. Robert Fripp is too intense to be my spiritual advisor, i have decided.

Lastly, i met with Andrew Latimer, who puffed on a joint the whole time and had a good laugh anytime i opened my mouth, saying that i sounded like the "bloke in the Sopranos". He was slurring his words a lot, but i think he was also saying how it is pathetic to need a spiritual advisor, and he completely butchered a mumble which had something to do with a "stiff fucking upper lip", i think. And i decided he was correct.

This posting was more an excuse to put multiple pictures of a costumed Peter Gabriel all in one place.

Thank you,

-Tim.

p.s. The following was written thirty-two or more years ago:


4.30 pm. The tube train draws to a halt. There is no station in sight. Anxious glances dart around amongst the passengers as they acknowledge each other's presence for the first time.

At the end of the train, a young lady in a green trouser-suit stands up in the centre of the carriage and proceeds to unbutton her jacket, which she removes and drops to the dirty wooden floor. She also takes off her shoes, her trousers, her blouse, her brassiere, her tights and her floral panties, dropping them all in a neat pile. This leaves her totally naked. She then moves her hands across her thighs and begins to fiddle around in between her legs. Eventually she catches hold of something cold and metallic, and very slowly she starts to unzip her body: working in a straight line up the stomach, between the breasts, up the neck, taking it right on through the centre of her face to her forehead. Her fingers probe up and down the resulting slit; finally coming to rest on either side of her navel. She pauses for a moment before meticulously working her flesh apart. Slipping her right hand into the open gash she pushes up through her throat, latching on to some buried solid at the top of her spine. With tremendous effort, she loosens and pulls out a thin, shimmering, golden rod. Her fingers release their grip and her crumpled body, neatly sliced, slithers down the liquid surface of the rod to the floor.

SPLAT!

The rod remains hovering just off the ground. A flagpole without flag. The other passengers have been totally silent but at the sound of the body dropping on the floor, a large middle-aged lady, wearing a pink dress and matching poodle, stands up and shouts, "STOP THIS, IT'S DISGUSTING!"

The golden rod disappeared.
the green trouser-suit was left on a hanger, with a dry-cleaning ticket pinned to the left arm. On the ticket was written:-

NAME.........................................
ADDRESS.....................................
.....................................................
.....................................................
.....................................................