‘Once a thriving city that lasted for more than 1300 years, Lion City, so named because it stood in the shadow of Five Lion Mountain, is now submerged beneath the waters of Qingdao Lake. When the government commenced on the Xin’an River Dam project in 1959, Lion City was the casualty, as the area was in need of an artificial lake. For more 40 years the city remained mostly forgotten. Recently, however, the Chinese government has taken steps to preserve the remains for future generations via sonar mapping, videos and photography.

‘Lion City was once a large habitation, covering approximately 1.5 square miles of land. All the architectural wonders that were in the city before its inundation still remain, sitting around 90 feet below the surface of the lake. There are imperial tombs, palaces, temples, government and civil buildings and residences.

‘Many decorative elements still exist as well, including at least 18 memorial arches and dozens of statues. There is also an intact city wall with five gates in it. One of the things that makes Lion City so unique (aside from it being located underwater) is that almost all cities during China’s past used a system of four gates to represent the four cardinal directions. Lion City has one more than this commonly accepted number.

‘Though the government is not planning on draining the lake to get the city back into the open air, it has for the last 10 years been dedicated to preserving its memory. Unfortunately, only archaeological diving is allowed, so no tourists can explore the city on their own as of yet. Likely this will change in the future as China realizes the cultural value of the city and the interest that diving enthusiasts from all over the world will show in it.’ — chinesejourney.com

 

 

_____________________

 

‘The trading town of Kalyazin was settled on the high bank of the Volga. The small river of Zhabnya, flowing into the Volga, separated the town into two parts. The Monastery of St. Nicholas was located on the one bank of Zhabnya, the Trinity Kalyazin Monastery on the other one. In the 18th century, the population of that area grew thanks to blacksmithing, shoemaking, and pottery. Kalyazin also was famous for its lace which was sold in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Trade traffic was growing, and Catherine the Great gave Kalyazin city status in 1775.

‘The Monastery of St. Nicholas quickly became one of the biggest and richest in the region of Tver. Around 1800, a beautiful five-tier bell tower almost 75 meters high (it’s like 25-floor building today) was erected near its main church. Light and elegant, it overlooked the city, and the sound of its bells was heard for kilometers.

‘In 1917, the epoch of the Soviet Union started in Russia under the slogan “We will build a new world.” Of course, the “old world” was supposed to be destroyed. Communists rejected religion, and for starters, banned church bell ringing.

‘In the 1920s, an ambitious project was developed: a few hydropower plants on the river Volga. Accordingly, several cities and hundreds of villages located on its banks were to be flooded. Mologa, Korcheva, Vesjegonsk are just some of the flooded cities. Kalyazin also went under the water of the Uglich Reservoir together with its cathedral, churches, houses, and streets.

‘Some citizens thought it was just rumor and refused to leave their houses. They were flooded together with their property. According to a declassified certificate of NKVD (Ministry of the Interior), 294 lives were lost, but how many people actually preferred to die at home, we don’t know.’ — victorblog

 

 

 

‘The Yonaguni Monument is a massive underwater rock formation off the coast of Yonaguni, the southernmost of the Ryukyu Islands, in Japan. There is a debate about whether the site is completely natural, is a natural site that has been modified, or is a manmade artifact. The sea off Yonaguni is a popular diving location during the winter months owing to its large population of hammerhead sharks. In 1987, while looking for a good place to observe the sharks, Kihachiro Aratake, a director of the Yonaguni-Cho Tourism Association, noticed some singular seabed formations resembling architectonic structures. Shortly thereafter, a group of scientists directed by Masaaki Kimura of the University of the Ryūkyūs visited the formations.

‘The flat parallel faces, sharp edges, and mostly right angles of the formation have led many people, including many of the underwater photographers and divers who have visited the site and some scholars, to the opinion that those features are man-made. These features include a trench that has two internal 90° angles as well as the twin megaliths that appear to have been placed there. These megaliths have straight edges and square corners.

‘Other evidence presented by those who favor an artificial origin include the two round holes (about 2 feet wide, according to photographs) on the edge of the Triangle Pool feature and a straight row of smaller holes that have been interpreted as an abandoned attempt to split off a section of the rock by means of wedges, as in ancient quarries. Kimura believes that he has identified traces of drawings of animals and people engraved on the rocks, including a horselike sign that he believes resembles a character from the Kaida script. Some have also interpreted a formation on the side of one of the monuments as a crude moai-like “face”.

‘If any part of the monument was deliberately constructed or modified, that must have happened during the last ice age, when the sea level was much lower than it is today (e.g. 39 m (130 ft) lower around 10,000 years BCE). During the ice age, the East China Sea was a narrow bay opening to the ocean at today’s Tokara Gap. The Sea of Japan was an inland sea and there was no Yellow Sea; people and animals could walk into the Ryukyu peninsula from the continent. Therefore, Yonaguni was the southern end of a land bridge that connected it to Taiwan, Ryūkyū, Japan, and Asia. This fact is underscored by a rock pillar in a now-submerged cave that has been interpreted as a fused stalactite-stalagmite pair, which could only form above water.’ — collaged

 

 

 

‘Port Royal was a city located at the end of the Palisadoes at the mouth of the Kingston Harbour, in southeastern Jamaica. Founded in 1518, Port Royal was notorious for its gaudy displays of wealth and loose morals and was a popular homeport for the English and Dutch sponsored privateers to spend their treasure during the 17th century. When those governments abandoned the practice of issuing letters of marque against the Spanish treasure fleets and possessions in the later 16th century, many privateers turned pirate and used the city as their main base during the heyday of the Caribbean pirates in the 17th century. Pirates from around the world congregated at Port Royal coming from waters as far away as Madagascar.

‘By the 1660s, the city had gained a reputation as the Sodom of the New World where most residents were pirates, cutthroats, or prostitutes. When Charles Leslie wrote his history of Jamaica, he included a description of the pirates of Port Royal: “Wine and women drained their wealth to such a degree that… some of them became reduced to beggary. They have been known to spend 2 or 3,000 pieces of eight in one night; and one gave a strumpet 500 to see her naked. They used to buy a pipe of wine, place it in the street, and oblige everyone that passed to drink.” The taverns of Port Royal were known for their excessive consumption of alcohol such that records even exist of the wild animals of the area partaking in the debauchery.

‘On June 7, 1692, a devastating earthquake hit the city causing most of its northern section to fall into the sea (and with it many of the town’s houses and other buildings). In addition, the island lost many of its forts. Fort Charles survived, but Forts James and Carlisle sank into the sea. Fort Rupert became a large region of water, and great damage was done to an area known as Morgan’s Line.

‘Although the earthquake hit the entire island of Jamaica, the citizens of Port Royal were at a greater risk of death due to the perilous sand, falling buildings, and the tsunami that followed. Though the local authorities tried to remove or sink all of the corpses from the water, they were not successful. Some simply got away from them, while others were trapped in places that were inaccessible. The decomposing bodies combined with improper housing, a lack of medicine or clean water, and the fact that most of the survivors were homeless, led to many people dying of malignant fevers. The earthquake and tsunami killed between 1,000 and 3,000 people combined, nearly half the city’s population. Disease ran rampant in the next several months, claiming an estimated 2,000 additional lives.

‘Some attempts were made to rebuild the city, starting with the one third of the city that was not submerged, but these met with mixed success and numerous disasters. An initial attempt at rebuilding was again destroyed in 1703 by fire. Subsequent rebuilding was hampered by several hurricanes in the first half of the 18th century, including flooding from the sea in 1722, a further fire in 1750 and a major hurricane in 1774, and soon Kingston eclipsed Port Royal in importance. In 1815 what repairs were being undertaken were destroyed in another major fire, while the whole island was severely affected by an epidemic of cholera in 1850. A final devastating earthquake on January 14, 1907, again liquefied the sand spit, destroying nearly all of the rebuilt city and submerging additional portions.’ — skyscraper city.com

 

 

_____________

‘Villa Epecuén was a tourist village that was located in the Buenos Aires Province, Argentina. Now abandoned, its ruins are found on the eastern shore of the Laguna Epecuén, about 7 kilometres (4.3 mi) north of the city of Carhué.

‘Developed in the early 1920s, Epecuén was accessible from Buenos Aires by train. The Ferrocarril Sarmiento line served the Villa Epecuén station, while the Midland Railway and the Southern Railway carried passengers to nearby Carhué station.

‘Tourism was well developed in Epecuén, as vacationers from Buenos Aires would seek the therapeutic salty waters of Lago Epecuén. At its height, Villa Epecuén had the capacity to accommodate 5,000 visitors, while unofficial accommodations allowed for 2000 more.

‘On 6 November 1985, a seiche caused by a rare weather pattern broke a nearby dam first, then the dike protecting the town. Rapidly made uninhabitable, the town saw the waters rise progressively, reaching up to 10 metres (33 ft) at its maximum. The village was never rebuilt.

‘At the time of the catastrophe, there were up to 280 businesses in Epecuén, including lodges, guesthouses, hotels, and businesses that 25,000 tourists visited between November and March, from the 1950s to the 1970s.’ — mentalitch

 

 

 

‘The port city of Baiae was commissioned by Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa during the civil war between Octavian and Sextus Pompey (37 BC). The magnificent port was intended for the impressive arsenal of the Classis Misenensis, the most important Roman fleet. It’s construction was entrusted to the architect Lucius Cocceius Auctus, whose ingenuity ensured the port’s connection to Lake Lucrine and Lake Avernus via a navigable canal and to Cumae by a 1 km (0.6 mile) long underground tunnel through which chariets could pass. Ultimately, the naming of the port itself was in honour of Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus.

‘Once complete, Baiae offered a comprehensive array of administrative naval services: warehouses for the storage of food and supplies, cisterns for potable water, dry docks for hull maintenance and workshops for the repairing of sails. Other, more personal needs were equally provided for: recreational facilities, the Temple of Poseidon, and discreet brothels.

‘With the passing of millennia, the original complex has been fated by bradyseism (caused by volume changes in an underlying magma chamber and/or hydrothermal activity). In the late fifth centuary Flavius Magnus Aurelius Cassiodorus Senator noted that the outer breakwater of the port had fallen into disrepair; in the following centuaries it disappeared completely, reuniting Lucrino with the sea. This lateral movement of the coast continued until 29 Septmber 1538 when an eruption occurred generating the so-called New Mountain, distroying the village Tripergola and reducing Lake Lucrino to little more than a pond.

‘Baiae again came to light via aerial photography taken during World War II. Pictures taken illustrate the topography of the extensive portal complex which covers an area of approximately 10 hectares. Buildings used as warehouses could be identified along with various column arrangements denoting courtyards of residential houses. Indeed, most of the mapping of the area has been compiled from studying such photographs.

‘The details pertaining to the port city’s construction have, however, been obtained via underwater surveys and observations. The walls and pillars rise from a few inches to more than a meter above the sea-bed and their stonework bears witness to the various building methods used, particularly reticulated work. Pathways, floor mosaics, ceramic wares and even the indication of frescoes can still be found in-situ.’ — The Underwater Archaeology Park of Baiae

 

 

_____________

‘Revered for its emerald waters and abundant recreation, South Carolina’s Lake Jocassee area was filled with rich history before the dam was built in 1973. South of where the dam and the hydroelectric station are currently located was once Keowee Village or Keowee Town, the capital of the Lower Cherokee Indians. The lake’s name “Jocassee” is derived from the Cherokee language and means “Place of the Lost One.”

‘The Cherokee lost their land to settlers, and then the settlers lost the land to the waters of the new lake. Both Lake Jocassee and the neighboring Lake Keowee were formed as a result of the construction by Duke Power for their Keowee Toxaway Project. With the building of the dam in 1973, the waters of Whitewater River began to flow upstream for the first time as Lake Jocassee covered the town.

‘Jocassee Lake Dive Shop owner and technical instructor Bill Routh was the first to discover the Whitewater Bridge, Camp Jocassee for Girls, and the Attakulla Lodge which rests below 300 feet of water. A friend of Routh’s was the first to discover the Mount Carmel Cemetery, made famous by the 1972 film Deliverance, which was produced the year before the dam was constructed and the valley was lost.’ — blueridgeoutdoors

 

 

 

‘Evidence of an ancient “lost river civilisation” has been uncovered off the west coast of India, the country’s minister for science and technology has announced. Local archaeologists claim the find could push back currently accepted dates of the emergence of the world’s first cities. Underwater archaeologists at the National Institute of Ocean Technology first detected signs of an ancient submerged settlement in the Gulf of Cambay, off Gujarat, in May 2001. They have now conducted further acoustic imaging surveys and have carbon dated one of the finds.

‘The acoustic imaging has identified a nine-kilometre-long stretch of what was once a river but is now 40 metres beneath the sea. The site is surrounded by evidence of extensive human settlement. Carved wood, pottery, beads, broken pieces of sculpture and human teeth have been retrieved from along the river banks, according to a report in the Indian Express newspaper. The vast city — which is five miles long and two miles wide — is believed to predate the oldest known remains in the subcontinent by more than 5,000 years. Theorists are postulating that the area where this city exists was submerged when the ice caps melted at the end of the last Ice Age.

‘If confirmed, the find would also push back the date of India’s earliest known civilisation by 5000 years. The Harappan civilisation has been dated to about 2500 BC. The newly identified site “looks like a Harappan-type civilisation but dating way back to 7500 BC,” said minister Murli Manohar Joshi. It was generally believed that a well organized civilization could not have existed prior to 5500 BP.’ — collaged

 

 

_______________

‘The Lost Villages are ten communities in the Canadian province of Ontario, in the former townships of Cornwall and Osnabruck (now South Stormont) near Cornwall, which were permanently submerged due to the creation of the Saint Lawrence Seaway in 1958.

‘The flooding was expected as the result of the Moses-Saunders Power Dam construction, which began in August 1954. In the weeks and months leading up to the inundation, families and businesses in the affected communities were moved to the new planned communities of Long Sault and Ingleside. At 8 a.m. on 1 July 1958, a large cofferdam was demolished, allowing the flooding to begin. In all, approximately 6,500 people were displaced by the project, 530 buildings moved, and countless homes, schools, and businesses demolished.

‘Some communities were relocated rather than abandoned altogether. Many materials including several historic buildings from the communities are now preserved in a museum in Ault Park near Long Sault. Some high points of land in the flooded area remained above water as islands and can be visited.

‘In some locations, a few remnants of sidewalks and building foundations can still be seen under the water, or even on the shoreline when water levels are sufficiently low. Elsewhere, divers can follow the old roads and sidewalks of the towns underwater.

‘The “Lost Villages” were: Aultsville, Dickinson’s Landing, Farran’s Point, Maple Grove, Mille Roches, Moulinette, Santa Cruz, Sheek’s Island, Wales, Woodlands.’ — ar-tour

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** Shane Christmass, Ha. Now ‘Short Night of Glass Dolls’, that I know, and, yeah, I too think it’s cool. Mm, I cannot remember where I was when Night Stalker was doing his thing. I think in LA, but … blur. Thanks about the books. Especially the Selffuck one because they/he still hasn’t sent me the books I ordered months ago. No, I don’t think I’ve ever been invited to a festival there, but I assume it would be pretty costly to bring me or anyone in from this far away, and I’m not the kind of crowd magnetising superstar that would make such a money outlay feasible, I assume (again). ** ae, Hi! Grocery jobs sound tiring and hard on the backs or something. I hope you two get to crossfade into something more … worthy? Ubuweb is doing an erotic zine? I thought that place was kind of dead to new adds. I’ll visit. Anyway, cool. Thanks a lot for the shopping link. That looks like a handy site to know about, and I didn’t. Some artists built an online or viral or digital or whatever Dream Machine. It’s in a post here coming up in a week or two. Thanks much for the info and for everything. Happy Thursday. ** David Ehrenstein, Really, ‘act like Brian’? That’s wild. Jagger must have hated that. ** Tosh Berman, Hi, Tosh. Jack is back! I was watching the inauguration off and on all day/evening yesterday, and it was so amazing not to see a single thing about or showing that piece of shit the entire day, at least on the channel I was watching. ** Dominik, Hi! Speaking as a fellow lover of editing, it’s often more fun to edit texts or scripts that aren’t that hot, you know? Where whatever your edit is, you know it’s all uphill. The fiction thing is something I’ve been working on off and on for quite a while. It’s an attempt to transform the material/script of the doomed ARTE TV series project into a work of script-like fiction. I’ve tried a bunch of approaches that haven’t worked, but I’m trying a new one now that seems promising. If it works it’ll be a novella co-authored by Zac and me. The Pinault thing will be in person, so it’ll happen when that’s possible, Who knows when that is because there seems to be a strong chance that the govt. is going to announcement confinement tonight, mega-ugh. I’m finally seeing Zac today and hopefully frequently now, although if the confinement happens, who knows. How’s stuff where you are? Ha ha, nice and weird love! Love where every hair on its head is roller coaster and its eyes are shrinking rays and its body is an escalator, G. ** Bill, Hey. Ultra best of luck with the work swamp this week. I’ll be saving you a blog seat until further notice. ** Misanthrope, I think so too. Yeah, don’t get me started on opioids. My usual pragmatic viewpoint and demeanor go out the window. Hope Kayla sails through her bout with the Co-monster. Most seem to. Sounds like she’s been smart about it. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. Have fun with the class today. Know you will. And big up on the general return of order. These days, that’s manna. ** G, Hi, G. I’m glad you liked Jack’s stories. Wow, thank you so kindly for those amazingly kind words about my poem. Hm, I think I wrote that poem when I was taking poetry classes in city college, so I would guess it dates from ’73 or ’74? Anyway, wow, thanks so much! You good? ** Kyler, Hi, K. I think I did know you’re a witch. I mean, what aren’t you, let’s face it. You got the vaccine? Whoa, lucky you. I’m not in the qualifying camp here yet. No pre-existing conditions and the age requirement is 80 or older thus far. ** Brian O’Connell, Hi, Brian. So happy you dug it. Jack’s writing is ace. Gotcha on the dead witch novel. Dude, my past is littered with half-finished things with concepts that seemed exciting but were lame-ass. High fiver or low five. Yeah, I had the inauguration on all day either in the background or being watched. It was comforting and relaxing just as it seemed like it was going to be. Twitter = upside down cross and clove of garlic (for me). There’ve been these worker guys in my apartment tearing everything up looking for holes mice could enter and exit from for three days, and that means I’ve been stuck here supervising, but today I’m going to kick them the fuck out by noon or so because I have shit to do. Dinner, out, nice. Boy, I miss that. Have a great, great one! ** Right. Underwater dead cites, what’s not to like, am I wrong? See you tomorrow.

* (restored)

 

BRIAN JONES
by Jack Skelley

MISTER SHAMPOO

“It’s going to happen, I tell you,” Brian lisped insistently. “It’s going to happen soon.” Then he turned away from Mick and Keith. Brian slipped a shilling into the meter which turned on the gas fire — a few precious minutes of heat — and shook his wet hair over it.

Mick was in another of his this-isn’t-working-out-and-I-should-return-to-accounting-school moods. Yes, since Brian got the group together last year he had booked a trickle of gigs around London. But the only attention the Rolling Stones were getting was from the “jazz snobs,” as Brian called them, or from the mods, rockers and art students whose bloody rows usually got the shows closed anyway. And now it was winter, the worst winter in 100 years. And Brian and Mick and Keith were crowded in a piss-cold, two-room flat with a single light bulb that hung Bohemian-style from the ceiling.

Mick was standing under it now, in a periwinkle ladies’ housecoat.

“I mean we’ve only played one show this month, Brian,” he said. “And we still haven’t got paid for that. It just doesn’t add up, does it?”

But Brian wasn’t worried. Keith’s guitar parts were starting to kick in. And they had a great new version of “Not Fade Away” that didn’t so much toughen Buddy Holly’s hit as demoralize it. Keith imposed a Bo Diddley stomp over it, while Mick snarled his commands and Brian slurped mocking asides on harp. What’s more, Brian was on the verge of closing a management deal with Andrew Loog Oldham. Brian hated Loog; he was just a cheeky publicist looking to get rich off the blues. But as the Stones’ manager he could get them more gigs. And he could get Brian an extra five pounds a month salary. Five pounds his flatmates didn’t have to know about.

A shilling’s worth of gas spent, Brian began his brushing. One hundred strokes will catch the blokes, he remembers his mother once said. And Brian’s blond mop was glazed to a sheen.

Mick was still bitching.

“I mean what do you think?” he turned to Keith.

Keith was in a cross-legged pose, plunking on Brian’s Gibson, his fingers stiff with cold. Brian finished brushing, then smoothed his new tab-collar shirt in the loo mirror.

“I’d like to know who filched my piece of chicken,” said Keith.

Too late. Brian was already out the door.

Mick crossed his arms and glared, first at Keith, who shrugged and returned to riffing, then at the door as it slammed shut. He heard Brian bound down the stairs.

“Mister Shampoo!” Mick sneered. “And where did he get that shilling?”

 

*

THE BLACK BEETLES, THE BLOND MEDUSA

It was in Munich that Brian met Anita. It had been a rough show — there’s always some crazy Kraut who throws a beer stein at the stage. Brian barely dodged one and it got him a bit twitchy. And afterwards Mick and Keith were baiting Brian again as he hunched in a corner of the dressing room.

“What’s the matter, Brian? Did you see the black beetles again?” Mick laughed. Then Keith laughed, and so Loog laughed. And they all laughed.

“The black beetles, ha ha ha.”

Huge swarms of black beetles were what Brian had hallucinated coming out of the wall at Keith’s house back in London. And Mick and Keith always seemed to bring up Brian’s bad trip just when he felt the most vulnerable to their taunts.

But now someone stopped them in their tracks.

“Hello. Who’s this rare bird?” said Mick.

There she was. Anita Pallenberg. An aristocratic beauty, with hair the exact color of Brian’s. She even wore a floppy hat and French jacket similar to his. Able to slink past roadies and promoters with the stony gaze of a model, Anita arrived backstage and homed-in not on Mick or Keith, but on Brian.

“I said, who’s this?’ Mick repeated. But Anita cut him off with a scowl. She sidled next to Brian and, between her fishnets, flashed him a glimpse of her hash and amyl nitrite.

That night, Anita took Brian to her bed. She put on Aftermath.

“It’s my favorite. I’ve completely worn out the grooves,” she said.

Her muslin fabrics were just like the ones Brian draped around his bedposts. He boffed her, burying himself in her limbs, her hair. Then he cried in her arms… partly in joy, partly in relief, because now he sensed a way out. He pictured her wicked mane gleaming through the window of his Silver Cloud Rolls as it swooped through London. They would be magazine demigods, and Mick would envy every glossy spread, and every journalist’s rave for how Brian’s sitar fired up “Paint It Black,” or how his flute forged a magical Elizabethan blues on “Ruby Tuesday.” Best of all, Mick would be stuck with Chrissie Shrimpton — that stupid girl, the mere sister of a model — while Brian would have this empress of decadence, this Teutonic Medusa.

Anita drifted into sleep.

Brian whispered, “I need you.”

On the turntable the needle clicked, clicked, clicked.

 

*

THE BENTLEY

Keith’s Bentley purred as it swerved around a herd of goats. An old Frenchman made a rude gesture, but inside all you could hear was Tom, their Cockney chauffeur, yapping about his paratroop days. Brian and Anita were on holiday with Keith, motoring from Paris to Tangier, which had become the Stones’ sanctuary ever since London’s police were hounding them.

Though Anita nestled with him in the back seat, and his asthma medication was never out of reach, Brian’s anxiety was rising with each kilometer.

By now the Stones’ social life was a game of superstar chess. Outclassed by Anita, Mick had dumped Chrissie Shrimpton with a vengeance, swooping up Marianne Faithful, whose pale hair and pedigree rivaled Anita’s. This made Keith, still lacking a socialite girlfriend, the odd Stone out. So he renewed his bond with Brian who was relieved to have Keith back in his camp. But what were Keith’s real intentions? And why were Keith and Anita glancing at each other?

By the time they reached Toulon, Brian was wheezing severely. Anita felt his forehead.

“Brian, you’re burning up! Tom, find a hospital!”

Brian was admitted, and though she offered to stay with him, something made Brian urge Anita to continue south with the others. That night, while Brian writhed in a French clinic, Keith and Anita were screwing in a Spanish hotel.

For three days Brian fired off message after panicked message, all of which went ignored until the Bentley arrived in Tangier. By the time he rejoined the Stones’ party, which now included Mick, Marianne, and a whole entourage, Brian was certain something was up between Anita and Keith.

The others could sense it too. Tension was thick on the 10th floor of Tangier’s Hotel El Minzah, and the all-night acid parties only made things weirder. Brian balled himself into a corner, a Scotch and Coke glued to his fist, and watched. By the time the party got rowdy — Tom the chauffeur tobogganing down the hallway on room-service carts — Brian had crept into town by himself. He returned to his and Anita’s suite with a local prostitute — ornate tattoos were burned into her neck and cheeks — and he insisted on a ménage à trois. But Anita was not in the mood.

Then came the barrage.

“You fucking bitch!” he screamed. He picked up a platter of couscous and Frisbee’d it at Anita’s head.

The beatings and the cries went on into the night and were heard down the hall, clearly bumming everyone’s trip.

In the afternoon, Anita appeared on the patio, her face caked with foundation and concealer. Keith bobbed in the pool before Anita and she stared back, a mixture of passion and pleading.

A few tables over, Mick whispered to Marianne, “Things are getting fuckin’ heavy around here. Somebody’s got to do something about Brian.

And so Brian was escorted to the central square to record Moroccan music, and when he returned to the hotel the desk clerk gave him the news: Keith had thrown Anita into his Bentley and driven off hours ago. The entire Stones entourage had flown back to London without even telling him.

Brian raced up to his room.

“Judas !” he screamed, and flung a potted plant out the window.

 

*

FRINGE

The children flocked around Brian who was seated on a donkey as he entered the ancient village of Jajouka.

“See the man with the big hair ! See the man with the big hair !” They trailed him, showering him with fig leaves.

The artist Brion Gysin was taking Brian and Brian’s new girlfriend Suki — the latest stand-in for Anita Pallenberg — into the remote Rif mountains of Morocco to document the pre-Islamic rites of Pan.

Brian squatted with the the master musicians of Jajouka, smoked from their pipes, picked up their instruments and began wailing, just as he did back in ’62 when he learned to play the blues harp in one day. He played along with them a bit more, then supervised the recording. Headphones pressed to his ears, he stalked around the musicians, whirling the microphone in arcs and figure-eights, swaying with the twining of the pipes. Brian knew that one day the rest of the world, too, would purify itself in these waves of sound.

Then, towards dawn, the Jajoukans prepared the sacrifice. An elder in a white kaftan carried a goat the color of desert sand to a flat rock. Brian fixated on this goat. The animal stared back through its shaggy fringe.

The blade swooped down and the scream ripped through the air.

“That’s me,” choked Brian. “That’s me.”

 

*

INHALER

It has only been a month since Mick, Keith and Charlie drove out to Brian’s farm, offering him 100,000 pounds to leave the Rolling Stones.

After the meeting, Brian laid his head on the table and wept. But now, on the night of July 2, Brian is relaxing, watching Doctor in the House on the BBC with three friends.

It’s been a warm week, the pollen count is high and Brian hits his asthma inhaler between shots of brandy. After the program, Brian takes his guests outside for a swim. He staggers on the diving board, but Brian is a good swimmer and slices through the deep end. After 11 p.m., one by one, all three of Brian’s guests remove themselves to the house.

Brian swims alone.

It’s a watery blues that Brian hears now. A frantic alto sax gurgles bop from a muddy delta. There it yoo-hoos on sitar, soars above the hills of Wales, then plunges to the mountains of Jajouka, where African reed instruments, the texture of raised tattoos, bleat like goats with circular breathing, gasp infinity, then smudge away in the smoke.

Twin Renaissance recorders harmonize bitterly but resolve to a plunked marimba.

Deep down in the mix, a blues harp heaves, trailing clouds of echo.

And a metal tube slithers on steel strings, falling down frets to the bottom of the scale, where — bump, by bump, by bony bump — at last it settles, with a perfect twang.

 

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. Jack Skelley has been a favorite writer of mine since the early 80s when we were both young turks in the kind of legendary poetry scene around Beyond Baroque in Los Angeles. He went fairly quiet for some years but has recently come back gangbusters style and has also popped into the blog’s commenting arena a number of times of late. Anyway, I thought I would celebrate his return to the literary wars by restoring this post featuring some stories of his about Brian Jones that I uploaded onto the murdered version of my blog about 11 years ago. I hope you enjoy them, and if you can spare any comments of any sort for Jack, that would be cool. ** Shane Christmass, Hi, Shane. Cool, thanks. And, yes, I have seen ‘Baba Yaga’. Totally nuts, no? ** h (now j), Hi. I’m doing galleries galore this afternoon, and if I see anything remarkable, I’m happy to share. Very best of luck with your work, if you need it. Consider me a silent cheerleader. ** David S. Estornell, Fabulous. Rockin’ day to you too, man. ** David Ehrenstein, Thanks for the witchy side trips. ** Dominik, Hi, Dominik! Ha ha, no prob. Yes, I’m sort of trying to give the escort world its own avant-garde. And the avant-garde is never very popular, sadly. I’m happy you’re still enjoying the job and maybe even more so? Video game scripts! Wow, that’s exciting. Well, hm, on second thought I’m not sure the scripts of most video games are their best aspect, but still. I think that’s really fucking cool. Not to mention working on that SCAB-related writer’s book. I guess I shouldn’t ask you if you like the book. Happy you = happy me. I’m all right. I’m working on a fiction thing and scheming with my friends Zac and Sabina about a talk/presentation we’re going to give about haunted house attractions at an art museum here and other things. Zac is almost completely better now, thankfully. And he has the antibodies now so he’s safe for the next nine moths or so. Love that looks like a witch but is actually a warlock except when it’s naked whereupon it looks like a witch, G. ** _Black_Acrylic, Yep, ‘Suspiria’. Could’a been in there. New Mark Fisher book, wow, didn’t know about that. My to-read pile is reaching Babylonian heights. ** Thomas Moronic, Hi, T! Yeah, isn’t it? You good? You doing far more than hanging in there? ** T, Hi, T. Thank you for fancying me up. Alerts, yes, please. And I’ll do the same if … Strange that ‘Suicide Manual’ is his only translated work. Well, not strange, I guess, actually, given the state of publishing and its current goals. But you would think one of he many adventurous smaller presses would be on that. Thanks, I’ll check his blog and use my decoder. I don’t think I ever found witches or the idea of them scary. I did used to know this guy who was a warlock and claimed that he was astral projecting himself into my bedroom at night and spying on me, and he scared me. Thanks for the heady energy boost. I need it. The cafes are closed here, so I can’t rely on repeated double espressos to do that work sadly. But have one on me if you’re in a realm where such things can be imbibed at small, round tables. ** Steve Erickson, Hi. I haven’t hunted the video yet, no. Tonight, I hope. Yep, it’s bye bye to the world’s worst human being today. Or rather I guess it’s not bye bye since I’m sure he’ll keep spewing evil from wherever he lands. But the disempowering is a start. ** Brian O’Connell, Hi Brian. Cool, happy it hit home. Curious about that witch novel you started, obviously. It does seem like lit. could use a good witch novel. Glad Wharton is pleasing you so far too. I think I’m going to have to dip into her again. Yes, fare thee not well to the big shithead today. Vollman is an excellent writer. Very singular. Very prolific. Very ambitious, sometimes maybe a bit overly so. I would start with ‘The Rainbow Stories’. You get what he does in that book without the huge concepts that he often saddles his novels with. Not to say they’re not fascinating concepts because they can be, but the stories are a good way in, I think. Have a day you’re proud of. I’m going to angle for prideful on my end. ** Right. Read Jack Skelley please. Thanks. See you tomorrow.