@HooklandGuide

Phoenix Guide to Strange England: #Hookland. Run by @cultauthor #Hauntology Re-wilding #Folklore #FolkHorror #Psychogeography Re-enchantment Is Resistance

 Hookland
paypal.me/Hookland
Joined August 2014
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Today's answer to the question: 'What is Hookland?'
Hookland is the recovered memory that you cannot dismiss. Hookland is the recovered memory you secretly hope is true. Hookland is that place you visited once, but cannot find on any map. Hookland is where all the weirdness you've edited out of your life comes flooding back. Hookland is ghost soil.

ALT Hookland is the recovered memory that you cannot dismiss. Hookland is the recovered memory you secretly hope is true. Hookland is that place you visited once, but cannot find on any map. Hookland is where all the weirdness you've edited out of your life comes flooding back. Hookland is ghost soil.

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Between tick & tock lies a dislocated hour. Home to things with names too terrible to say. In the lost hours, in the gained hours, temporal spirits come through. Between tick and tock, some swear they can hear a soul trapped in time, scratching at glass. #ClocksGoBack
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Goodnight from Candle Row, where an impromptu party at Weychester Wax Records has summoned a crowd the police cannot shift. Goodnight from St. Mary-of-the-Woods; crypt, where certain teenagers are not finding the spider-veiled tombs conducive to pashing. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Give me library ghosts. Give me a chorus of discarnate tutting, reproachful coughs. Give me spirits which observe the Dewey Decimal System, returning misplaced books to their appropriate places on the shelves. Give me well-read spectres who whisper with references. – #CJosiffe
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Goodnight from the Branwood Raceway, where Nathan Rush is fixing a bag-o’-bones charm to the mirror of his Vauxhall Chevette ahead of tonight’s demolition derby. Goodnight from Abigail Parish, worried she’s misjudged her offering to the Well of Shadows. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Re-enchantment is often a remembering, a discovery of a map already tattooed upon our bones.
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Goodnight from The Reaper Rides The Bus gig at The Black Broom nightclub, where even the bouncers are finding the fans’ outfits more than a little disturbing. Goodnight from Dr. Flag, intoning mathematical formula as an eleventh-dimensional summoning. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Goodnight from the nurses in Coreham General, unable to resist discussing the odd man in A&E whose silver jumpsuit couldn’t be cut off even with the sharpest scalpels. Goodnight from Laura Mills, wondering if she can capture souls in her compact mirror. Goodnight from Hookland.
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We're to be forgiven for believing that it's condition of licensing for an English pub to have an imbedded ghost. For in England, imbibing ale and engaging with spectres are activities braided together. The pub is a community hub for both living and the dead. – Dr. M. Benn, 1982
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Goodnight from Maisy Bloom, the light from her Derek Fowler nightlight not quite bright enough after Nan’s bedtime stories of Marrow-suckers. Goodnight from Jay Rickman, stealing himself to swallow a spoon of cider vinegar to keep the Night Hag at bay. Goodnight from Hookland.
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I am a witch of stick and stone; herb-bag, hedge and bone I am a witch of tide and wave; sand, storm and salt-grave I am a witch of bog and moor; fear me knocking the door – Trad. Hookland witch rhyme, still often heard in the county's playgrounds
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Goodnight from The Cape of Green pub, where there’s muttering about how early the snow will come and whether the Cloven Maiden’s prints will be seen in it. Goodnight from The Fisherman’s Hall at Wegweck Cove, where the dancing is becoming a summoning. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Those of us whose have lives revolving around the ongoing Long Neolithic will tell you that certain stones sing to us. If you push us further, we may also admit that certain stones growl. They guard their territories, prowl our imaginations. – Dr. K. Brophy #StandingStoneSunday
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Goodnight from Vicki Betts, desperate to test the efficacy of her new love charm in The Ice House nightclub. Goodnight from Broxton’s Orchard, where a lantern party is in full swing and each ghost story told darkens with the amount of roast cider drunk. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Goodnight from Spendlove Yard, where the spirit of Emma Wheatley is trying to loudly tut at the nonsense spewed about by the host of the Original Weychester Ghost Walk. Goodnight from Ruth Lee, reading the spill of neon in puddles as a scrying of tomorrow. Goodnight from Hookland
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Goodnight from the Wrabwick Green Parish Council meeting, where’s there’s much debate about positioning of litter bins and renewing the protective wards. Goodnight from Doug Barden, ghost-heavy as he waits on the Old King’s Ferry to cross the River Hel. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Goodnight from the harbour master at Maryworth, hoping there will be a reduction in chatter about ‘lights moving under the sea’ this evening. Goodnight from Emily C. Banting, the tide of salt-hag heart dragging difficult omens up the shore of her dreams. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Goodnight from Ashcourt, where the Guild of John the Baptist lead a fire-snake of torches from Church of St. John-atte-Bower down to the sea for the festival of Safe Return. Goodnight from Penny Ash, hoping the House Hob has put her supper on the boil. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Goodnight from Ann Dellaway, walking the Restal Waste to find a good spot to sink the Blood Sprite she’s trapped in a sulphur jar. Goodnight from Liv Draper, dreaming of the songs she will sing to the cherry-lipped girl who floats the paths of Nook Woods. Goodnight from Hookland.
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The Hum was a singing of the wires. The Hum was a telling of the land's electric ley in drone and buzz. The Hum was our conversation with wonder. How could we not walk below it? How could we not be pilgrims of the pylons? – Trippy Pete, ex=Pylon Person #VOH
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Goodnight from The Witch Shirt pub at Cloverhill, where the charity bucket is going round to help those folk caught up in last week rain of stones. Goodnight from Ellis Gar, asking the lines on his face to remember this as the moment he saw a Thornshriek. Goodnight from Hookland.
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