Looking again at this title, I can see this could be the name of a childrens’ book, this wasn’t however really my intention. I recently watched Adam Curtis’ Can’t Get You Out of My Head, where he presents Kerry Thornley as an eccentric who fell into a deluded dream world. It was interesting to see this materialist take (possibly for the BBC) as I had only every considered if from the ontological weirdness positition. For Curtis, the Discordians were clever pranksters who tried to expose the absurdity of conspiracy culture, only to be undone by their own illusions. The show’s neat storytelling — the trickster trapped in his own trick — but it’s also a flattening. Curtis’ materialism leaves him blind to (possible —see agnostic disjunction) the deeper mechanism at work. Operation Mindfuck was intended as parody: a satirical flood of rumors about the Illuminati, designed to expose how easily conspiracy theories could be manufactured and spread. Thornley, Wilson and others deliberately seeded nonsense to make people question their own credulity. Thornley’s life made him peculiarly vulnerable to his own invention. He had known Lee Harvey Oswald in the Marines; he was already caught in a web of coincidence and suspicion. When the Illuminati myth circulated, it began to attach itself to these very facts of his biography. What began as parody quickly fed back as paranoia.

Pneuminous theory clarifies what Curtis cannot see. In this framework, a vector is a blank phenomenon — an occurrence, a thing, a thought, a pattern, in the world on any level. In this case Thornley’s military service, his link to Oswald, odd coincidences in time and place: these are vectors.

Accretions of pneuma are the meanings or interpretations that latch onto these vectors. Operation Mindfuck seeded the Illuminati myth as such an accretion —a spell. Once attached, the myth grew beyond its originators. Other people repeated it, embellished it, and passed it along until Thornley himself encountered it not as author, but as implicated subject.

The process looks something like this:

  1. Vector creation — phenomena occur/exist.
  2. Pneuminous Accretive fusion via subject — in this casethe Illuminati myth attaches to them.
  3. Feedback — the pneuminous accretions return to Thornley (from sideways), binding to his life story. This is the a-temporal interaction known as synchronicity.
  4. Entanglement — the myth becomes indistinguishable from his lived reality, which facilitates the literal re-perception of the phenomenon, due it’s appearing to actually be continually happening.

Curtis calls this something like “a dream world.” But from a pneuminous perspective, it is a dream world in a sense (dreams are made of pneuma) but is also a feedback loop of accretions colonising vectors until the operator (in this case at least) himself is caught inside.

This loop also explains why Thornley experienced his life as filled with uncanny coincidences. Synchronicity is the secondary effect of accretions fusing with vectors. Once the Illuminati lens was in play, every odd overlap looked meaningful. His proximity to Oswald, rumors of CIA infiltration, strange recurrences — all were drawn into the orbit of the self creating myth.

Possibly what happened with Thornley was, because of the very powers he was playing with (the invocation of the Illuminati: literally a shadowy cabal of enormous power, even if only as egregore) attached to vectors of already synchronistic phenomena which possibly even were some kind of occult product, human made or otherwise. This double layering may have produced a kind of pneuminous vortex. The more accretions gathered, the stronger the pull. Thornley had effectively created a spiral in which coincidences (vectors) were endlessly absorbed by the Illuminati myth (accretion), generating more synchronicity that confirmed itself. The parody had become ontology (with the number 23 somehow in the mix as a kind of master signifier of it all_.

Curtis isn’t wrong to say Thornley got lost. But he mislabels the process. Thornley didn’t simply “dream himself into unreality.” He underestimated the very mechanism that pneuminous theory describes: once accretions start looping back into lived experience, they gain a grip that no irony can dissolve.

What Curtis dismisses as a dream world is better understood as a vortex of pneuminous accretions attached to vectors, the appearance of which was then fed directly back into the system — a genuine ontological condition, not just delusion. Thornley is not only a cautionary tale but a case study in how pneuma functions in the form of memes, myths and meanings can grow beyond their creators and return with inescapable (pneuminous) force.

19    Anna the Witch

“Anna are you worn and hard by your graft?

Anna will you wail and chill like the draft?

Anna will you tell us a tale of your craft?”

“Though spikey lees, behind betray,

I will not tell thee how I play,

I will not tell thee of the cave,

Nor of the silent darkness’ wave.”

“Anna play your tricks on me,

Anna, show your power to see,

Anna, Anna hear my plea!”

“Nay child I will not now bewitch thee,

Neither will I conjure here the sidhe,

To haunt and never let thee free.”

“Anna, with a thong of leather,

Anna, with a lucky heather,

Anna can you bend the weather?”

“Gale and hale, tornadoes of fire,

Flood and muds, deserts and mire,

Rain wash down the fools and all,

Silence follows final call.”

(Graham   27 February 2023)

20    The music of ‘Streets and Dreams’

Tarzan climbs a liana

            from the earth’s tough core

            through Easby’s Abbey tree

            to Valetta’s strait street leak.

Shit man!         And the bay goes, ah!

Ipso facto        too far,

too far to deny

            some horrible foreign tunnel leads

            to a vacant Eel Pie Island,

too far to buy

            a true standard to plant

            some place on the Jazz Ait.

Then    let ten listen   

            to the anchovy sound of an annual

HALLELUJAH           ϋμνος to a royal court planner.

So, no eel pie   to chew on then

nothing           but a boom-time rapper

            in a banana bandana

easing his deadly vowel chains

            into your fitful ocean and

urging nocturnal earthen       seizures.

On a roll          even an eerie eleven

            does not haunt the earth

for hell             gathers sooner

and colours a rather rough Rubicon

bronze             from north to south

rust red           from east to west

And now rife with fossils

            set forth and stressed

            aloof and dumbed

they rhyme

            laid out to Mallaig where

            di Lasso disowns the air

as if Lorca had swallowed     our defence lines

I have never been to New York. I have not walked under its autumn leaves or felt its changing light. Still through the eponymous song, I know its melancholy (or the fantasy of its melancholy). This song alone carries it to me. This is the reach of the pneuminous accretion: one need not inhabit the city for the accretion (which is in a sense truly the city) to inhabit you.

The city is an accretion of pneuminous accretions, a pneuminous machine. Its towers, boulevards, infrastructures: these are only the vectors. Accretion occurs as cultural crystallisation. A work fastens affect to a vector, charging it. Autumn in New York is such a fastening. The melancholy it carries is not a representation of the city but a pneuminous deposit within it.

The deposit does not remain inert. Feedback is essential. The melancholy aura of the song infects the vector of New York. NARP Listeners then walk those streets under its spell. Their reinforced experience — their photographs, their stories, their further art (all more accretion) — folds back into the city’s aura. Each iteration thickens the charge. The city becomes (amongst other many other things) melancholy because the song makes it so, and the song is melancholy because the city can be encountered as such.

Thus the city (any city) is never itself in a naive sense. It is always more than itself, a resonant circuit of pneuma: matter, art, perception, all interlooped. “New York in autumn” is no longer reducible to weather or architecture; it is an accreted object, a hyper-condensation of cultural aura.

Through the song, New York exports itself. The melancholy of its autumn arrives already folded into my imagination, a feedback loop extended across distance. In this way, the accretion proves itself: I do not need the city for “Autumn in New York” to move me. The song is the city; the city is the song. And the loop continues, thickening, even for those who have never yet walked those streets.

This is the rational occult theory of the accretion in action: the notion of the pneuminous circuits that constitute the everyday things we take to ‘be’.

18    Anathemata

n + 1

A pointless question repeated,

a way of peering into the abyss,

it appeals to me, this

crack in the cave wall.

If lost in the event field

of a fallow horizon,

if black sounding strings

see Thuban align again,

a chiasmus of things set apart

will amplify his dreadful heart.

 . . . from Lindum to London

bridges broken down 

Gale, hail, tornadoes of razor wire,

floods, muds, deserts of city and shire,

then moor and fen will wild again

to crack and cook and burn.

See: the omelette… stinks. 

And purple tongued it turns on Tyre

to swallow the whole hollow folktale

up to the head where, it is said,

the universe shrinks to strings of nothing.

0→∞

Now, it’s time to pick up an old guitar,

make it a chicken,

an old house cat,

a gift card,

a bird, a snake,

but no black noise

and without knowing what I’m doing!

(Geoffrey Mark Matthews 3 February 2023)


19    Anna the Witch

“Anna are you worn and hard by your graft?

Anna will you wail and chill like the draft?

Anna will you tell us a tale of your craft?”

“Though spikey lees, behind betray,

I will not tell thee how I play,

I will not tell thee of the cave,

Nor of the silent darkness’ wave.”

“Anna play your tricks on me,

Anna, show your power to see,

Anna, Anna hear my plea!”

“Nay child I will not now bewitch thee,

Neither will I conjure here the sidhe,

To haunt and never let thee free.”

“Anna, with a thong of leather,

Anna, with a lucky heather,

Anna can you bend the weather?”

“Gale and hale, tornadoes of fire,

Flood and muds, deserts and mire,

Rain wash down the fools and all,

Silence follows final call.”

(Graham   27 February 2023)

17    Anno Domini

Ayin, Ayin! Cursed to view through fluted veil:

The lyre plays tastefully,

Ethereal young girls of the fey watch the ox,

Quite by chance the plough struck stone,

And the flint egg broke asunder,

Draco stepped out and spake:

“I am here what wouldst thou have me do?”

Accustomed as he was to the magicians’ circle,

Yet no avaricious sorcerer stood before him,

No gloomy garret greeted him,

No sombre cellar met his eyes,

Lit by candle, book and bell.

Only the soft breeze and gentle sun,

Only the whispering leaves and hedgerow rustle,

Only the timorous, curious murmur of those fair folk,

Who scattered when the egg was cracked.

Realising he was not trapped, Draco looked about in wonder,

And turning to the Ox he addressed it thus:

“I think, my noble beast, thou didst not bring me here,

And that mine release is some chance accident.”

The Ox nodded her consent, yet where the ploughman was,

No one could say.

(Graham   31 January 2023)

18    Anathemata

n + 1

A pointless question repeated,

a way of peering into the abyss,

it appeals to me, this

crack in the cave wall.

If lost in the event field

of a fallow horizon,

if black sounding strings

see Thuban align again,

a chiasmus of things set apart

will amplify his dreadful heart.

 . . . from Lindum to London

bridges broken down 

Gale, hail, tornadoes of razor wire,

floods, muds, deserts of city and shire,

then moor and fen will wild again

to crack and cook and burn.

See: the omelette… stinks. 

And purple tongued it turns on Tyre

to swallow the whole hollow folktale

up to the head where, it is said,

the universe shrinks to strings of nothing.

0→∞

Now, it’s time to pick up an old guitar,

make it a chicken,

an old house cat,

a gift card,

a bird, a snake,

but no black noise

and without knowing what I’m doing!

(Geoffrey Mark Matthews 3 February 2023)