A while back, I fed the "Heuristic England" blog through a Markov Chain Language Generator. I was very pleasantly surprised by the results. The sentences appeared to manifest the germ of a hallucinatory reality that pointed out to myself at least personal truths but with the furniture of english heretic subject matter. In other words a hint of a personal mythos, encapsulating the imagistic totems of my external pre-occupations. In fact one of the most esoteric aims of English Heretic was exactly this. It's also been my intention to develop a creative mythos from English Heretic... the web site being a demonstration of an heuristic and emerging system, from which to launch a platform of hermetic fiction. The results of the Markov Chain experiment seem to bear witness to that intention. Whilst they might appear somewhat ellipitical, the following examples to me feel very significant and represent a set of results I intend to mine, exhaustively. As I alluded to, in the recent online interview at musique machine, they perhaps represent the instruction manuals for the furniture of my future imagination:
The family, I found out from polite if somewhat diversionary conversation, came to the french windows and opened them to the ground and hand cuffed, my wife rushed into our attic study.
It was Wyard who was attempting to embroil himself a fantasy of discovery of the coven's woodland procession.
With his last strength Wyard fell into the room from some ante chamber within the predicted parameters of the woman at the achingly timeless hamlet of Bix Bottom
Back in the afternoon, he noticed the movements of brutal murder, a ceremonial nature and the nihilistic abyss of the right foot
I decided I would use the May Day Bank Holiday weekend to visit Medmenham abbey and the clock against the marble mantelpiece.
Neglecting to properly dry out the tape, Wyard carelessly hacked at the boundaries of an aristocratic Satanist, Johnny Alucard.
Bush choreographed the film's most chilling moment arguably being the emergence of the town's future petty criminals
A low budget cult film from 1969, called "Blood On Satan's Claw, by an anomic gang of sociopaths led by Neal Collins' sibling.
Mostly his findings consisted of no more than a trivial detritus jettisoned from the film set intent on preventing me from carrying out my researches
Neglecting to properly dry out the tape, Wyard carelessly hacked at the centre of the online community
Two youths were being hauled violently from their stolen vehicle by a feeling of foolishness
Revolted and yet with a laurel of blossom: “the film's most chilling moment arguably being the emergence of the less desirable catchments”, my wife yelped excitedly
Within the forum, a clique of buffs had formed who were especially interested in the rotting remains of a neurotic past, washed upon the rippled beach of his more extrovert self, lurking on the sofa, his adolescence, the clouds would reverse at speed across the lawn.
Perhaps she was correct: maybe the church had been somewhat under whelmed by the cult
As I drove the short distance to a cliff edge
He like to imagine this cargo to be the assets of some grand conspiracy.
The meaningless of his more extrovert self, lurking on the 1960s into the unbearable light and the ruins of St. Bartolph's church
Close behind the ageing brown leather sofa on which stood an Art Nouveau clock
The maiden is forced to consummate a mock marriage, with a laurel of blossom: the film's one highlight: a classic calling down of count Dracula in the desert by Satan
For years he had ostensibly offered his hand in perspective.
A curious phenomenon: Wyard had a wooden veneer of the film
Seemingly suspicious of my adventure, I feel it is probably worth mentioning the rough outline of the room.
They were no longer basking sky ships, but penumbral watchers, monolithic guardians at the damp cellulose, the blade of his sensibilities reflected in a pathological reclusiveness, an English hikikomori.