The Chronicles of an old Bohemian Space Cadet

Warm and profuse greetings to all my readers.

Whether you be sad and lonely, bereft of hope, or wounded and aggrieved by those outrageous arrows of grotesque misfortune, I am sure, you will find something here to enrich and medicate your soul and ignite your little psychic spliff of infinite becoming.

My little house does indeed contain many mansions - both literal and metaphorical - in which you dear reader, are invited to explore, at your leisure.

The tail I have to tell, is a richly hued, fractal tapestry of personal experience, woven over eight decades from the dusty threads of this old farts rambling recollections.

The great Celtic tea leaf himself, Mr Dylan Thomas once said, 'old age should burn and rave at close of day', and indeed, it is my sincerest wish that my lexical ejaculations shall scorch the neural pathways of more receptive and creative minds, rather than be consigned to the silent padded cell of mis-attributed senility. The old marbles, although a trifle chipped, come up a treat when a occasioned by quick polish.

Born into a penniless aristocratic family in the fourth decade of that extraordinary and tragic narrative, known officially as the twentieth century, I began to author a very different life story from the somewhat linear and boorish biographies that people of my familial and social milieu usually end up scribbling on the flimsy papyrus of their personalities.

I was born an introvert, an 'underground man', lonely resentful, over-sensitive, and misunderstood by all those who should have understood. But, alas, one beautiful day the doors of perception were indeed cleansed, and Ignatius Agrippa Hermes Rust went overground at last, to breathe in the rich and rarefied aether of art, literature, science, philosophy and of course...the eternal existential mystery at the heart of life.

I have a plethora of fantastical tales to disseminate to the willing and (very) open minded reader. Tales that encompass this world and many others, populated by characters you will already know and some you cannot really ever know, but only feel, like a guitar chord resonating in the diaphanous butterfly wing of your soul.

This crumbling, isolated and labyrinthine old house from where I wheeze and scribble this document, represents the borderland between the microcosm of my mind and the macrocosm of the vast unfathomable reaches of the cosmic cathedral beyond. As above, so below...as the old saying goes eh.

I have gotten intoxicated in a bomb shelter with Francis Bacon in the Blitz, been humiliated by Duchamp and Beckett on the chessboard, punched in the eye by Jack Kerouac (on more than one occasion), spat on by Michel Foucault, sat down with Situationist's, jammed with Keith Richards in Marrakesh, got splattered by Pollock, propositioned by Warhol, and digressed on the compensations of old age during an exquisite Parisian lunch with Henry Miller.

I will relay some of these tales in more depth later of course, and many more, remarkable for there strangeness and oddity.

But I must leave you for the moment, I have a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle that awaits my moaning belly.