Tim Dedopulos

It's time to raze existence. It's time to banish light. It's time to call the void in, on the Muppet Show tonight.

My thoughts on the current state of AI driven software development, why I'm no longer concerned about a runaway intelligence explosion, and what I think is a far worse outcome we could be walking into maevyn.codes/decoherence

Me: Aaaah! My throatway. T: Do you mean your throat? Me: No. My throatway. T: Okay.... I like to trick him sometimes with confusing wording. Keeps him on his toes.

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

The witch is a creature of weather. Wind-summoner. Drought-breaker. Cloud-reader. Flood-flyer. Mist-wearer. She adapts to it, she adjusts the weather to her favour. It's one of her most vital relationships. She wears it on her boots. She wears it on her skin. – #EmilyCBanting #FolkWitchFriday

Might as well post it here! A magical girl animation I've been slowly chipping at over the weekends for ages.

From the introduction to the Hookland Tourist Board I=SEE STRANGE HOOKLAND book:

Thread icon thingie. Witches (and others) our Samhain/Halloween offerings (so far) are ready! thomas-brown-1.sumupstore.com/products?cat...

Whilst out and about and cake-bothering booksellers, I saw my first Hookland sticker out in the wild.

Goodnight from Gemma Wray, who knows enough about predatory spirits to refuse the pleas of entry to her cottage by silver-eyed children claiming to be lost. Goodnight from Jamie Blackstone, dreaming of the undertow that will take him to the Fathom Brides. Goodnight from Hookland.

The post box at Oak Acre has gained a reputation as one those places where you can post a letter to a dead loved one and possibly receive a reply. The GPO investigated to see if someone in from the Father Christmas letters reply team had gone rogue, but the results haven't been publicly shared.

Goodnight from Bill Horn, gluing each matchstick with ritual precision as he builds a replica of The Blood Wives stone circle. Goodnight from Andrew Dobbs, too ashamed to visit A&E as every slur he called Susie Wyles manifests as a violence of scratches across his skin. Goodnight from Hookland.

I can count the national governments I approve of on the fingers of one foot.

Hookland album covers, an occasional series. Number 12: Dave Padbury's 1983 'A Twist In The Wyrd'.

Even in death, disparities between rich and poor are rarely erased. The wealthy departed live apart in grand houses, employ a watch of lithic angels. Sometimes they retain pale servants to tend to them, running boneyard errands under a constancy of parasols. – #CLNolan

This is a thing of wonder.

@brandesstoddard.bsky.social Brandes! Very, _very_ happy birthday <3 I hope you have a delightful day, and that the year to come is kind to you and the family. Much love.

It exists as a physical thing. As manifestation. As a night remembered and a county found.

@whoisnot.bsky.social Very, very happy birthday, Gábor. I hope the coming year is truly transformative. Much love.

We had a nice surprise recently. A box of special Red Phone Box hardcovers was discovered. You'd think we would have one, but when we had to leave London, I accidentally packed only one copy and it was one of the mass printed ones. I'd forgotten how beautiful they are.

THE PYLON PEOPLE RETURN ⚡️📡⚡️ Seven years have passed since the first Pylon People release. Seven years that somehow feel like a century of bad signals, dead air, black fields, and voices coming through the static. ⚡️📡⚡️Available on Bandcamp only: pylonpeople.bandcamp.com/album/hookla...

Goodnight from Leah Flitford, yet again scrubbing ectoplasm off the skirting boards after a séance gone awry. Goodnight from Pengrove Primary School, where all the leaves and twigs on the nature table have twisted themselves to spell the words: ‘WE KNOW’. Goodnight from Hookland.

Welp, just deleted Google Chrome from all my devices. Which took some doing on the Macs because of the hidden 5Gb LLM model it had sneakily installed without permission, which is *why* I'm yeeting this malware browser for good.

It's true. And amazingly good fun!

Goodnight from Mary Marlow, pouring extra cider into the Gathergood stew she’s making for her late husband’s birthday dinner. Goodnight from Susie Mugford, feeling hollowed out by The Boom-boom Club and wishing there was a spell to cure the heart of tenderness. Goodnight from Hookland.

There will be disappearing dolphins (@iansimmons1960.bsky.social take note); naked amnesiacs; daylight vanishings; UFO cults; black dogs; cunning folk and even a mention of Spring-heeled Jack. There might even be some free Hookland fudge.

If you have ever wanted to hear me talk about folklore, Forteana and Hookland in an East End pub, this is your chance.

Goodnight from The Bloody Babe pub, where the ferret fashion parade has sharply divided regulars on the wisdom of ever putting animals in costume. Goodnight from Dr. Fiona Low, continuing her experiments on containing spirits in the magnetic fields of C90 cassettes. Goodnight from Hookland.

Let's see, what sort of thing for today, then? Let's stay in Hookland for a bit- King Under Sea of that county. Good morning.

So, about that time a friend and I ended up being menaced by fae... old.reddit.com/r/Experience...

Did I mention the time I spent a month planning and executing a Chaos Magick ritual that spectacularly -- and implausibly -- brought me the exact result I asked for in less than five minutes? It's here, if you're curious. old.reddit.com/r/Experience...

That would be the time @hookland.bsky.social, our friend SD, and I accidentally spent a couple of weeks in a parallel reality version of the UK. It's too long to thread here, but: www.reddit.com/r/Glitch_in_... We literally saw reality shift in front of our eyes. Wild, paradigm-shattering glory.

I lived in a pub when I was younger, a rural spot a short way outside the market town of Andover in (Old) Hampshire, southern England. One of the places I used to drive out to was an old, decrepit hill-side pond in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by really gnarled trees.

In honour of @cultauthor.bsky.social's birthday yesterday, here's a few reposts of links to some of my strangest experiences.

You tell yourself it's the ivy moving against the glass. Tell yourself old, half-abandoned buildings are full of noises you'll never fathom out. Then the voices start and you realise no writhing vegetation, no auditory pareidolia from ancient pipes offers up full sentences.

The locked attic room in Ashcourt from where science fiction writer Olag Gandle disappeared on February 15th, 1936. The disappearance remains unsolved and a matter of much speculation. It has entered the folklore of the county as faith, as ritual. #LightACandleForOlagGandle

...at any rate, good afternoon. Queen of Owls from Hookland for you.

I need to say a very sad R.I.P. to @mystificus.bsky.social. She was wickedly funny, ferociously clever, endlessly insightful and entertaining, and a good friend. The world is dimmer for her loss. Rest well, Cee. We'll miss you.

So this looks epic...

@catvincent.bsky.social Happy birthday, Cat!

Some homes hold their ghosts with quiet forbearance. They do not boast of their phantoms nor advertise for psychic researchers to poke and test them. They accommodate both living and dead residents, afford privacy to both sides. Places of gentle spectral tolerance. – #CJosiffe #Ghosts

Goodnight from the long-shuttered cabins of the abandoned Neverland holiday camp, its resident shades still drunkenly dancing to Petula Clark records. Goodnight from the fields of Coldharbour Farm, where a bear made of mist is moving against the prevailing wind. Goodnight from Hookland.

Good night, my brother. Bòn chans.