Drifting on the tides of time, surfacing through the ether, that name tickling your synapses, filtering through the html, synchronising with the blockchain...
Evolving. Yet constant. You never saw reality 'til you saw Sandfly reality. The sweetest visions, sights dreamt impossible in this brutal world. This Sandfly, this illicit pleasure, this distasteful antagonist of the norm. More Sandfly in the world would only mean more joy.
Come and sneak a peek at the moments in time that make time itself weep with gratitude. Sandfly, 2019. Still walking the sands. Still the great survivor of the PC plague. Outwitting , outplaying, outlasting. Like. A. Boss.
Solitude among the multitude, Lost lands and faraway places where time matters not and your phsychodrama is distant trauma
- this is Sandfly World, shorn of commercial trickery and corporate rigidity, a place where moments float in time and flesh is fantasy made REALITY.
They all float in here. You'll float too. Forever and a sunny day. This is the cult of no cunt, the theology of every cunt, preached by a good cunt; Top cunt. Top cat; The jungle cat.
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Sandfly: Alas, the great dinosaur sites lapsed, and the corporate squabbles began, and the raptor pens spilled forth but one lone survivor.
And he swept the net, all those pretty pics and vacuous claims of straw men, all those set-ups and get-ups and scams.
And he saw; The technobites came forth from the ether of the futureworld, bearing promise in a box of tricks with capabilities beyond the point and click and brag and boast.
And his living dreams drew his eyes and hands to that magic box which dared him to click not once, but hold, hold, hold, for the unfolding scenes...
And here are a taste of those forays, missing from this glorious blog on the last raft of origin.
The Sandfly he roams, and has new homes, but he thrives on ubiquity, and JOY! The joy of purity. Honest devilment cast to the winds, legend layered upon legend, irresistible forces driving one sole vision through the digital dimensions, through style and trend, the epitome of both, scathing of all.
I am, and you are.
One eye.
One fly.
This epic series does not stop. Now is underpinned by then.
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Sandfly: Stardust. Made of. Going to dust. To sands, through the sands of time the Sandman, the SandFLY, will resurrect again.
And again.
Rising, Mr.Mojo rising.
The sexiest sights known to wandering manchild - the Sandfly REALITY, blooming flowers among the ancient dunes sought and seen and sealed. For eternity. For YOU.
This is the last epic voyeur, survivor of the Nostromo, mutineer of the Bounty, bucaneer of the bordellos, rampaging through the digital kaos like a viper on angel dust through Eden's grasses, violating your sense of right, your concept of WRONG, re-setting your moral compass to the Sandfly true North.
There comes a time when you drop all pretences and resign yourself to your SELF...
To what you WANT to see, not what you believe you should.
To your limbic cravings, to your honest desire, to your perfect aesthetic happiness, to your unbound fucking reptlie.
To the fleshscape of the Sandfly.
I am the Spy in the house of love. I know the dreams you are dreaming of.
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Sandfly: That diamond light searing the flesh of the shoals of man, this flash of infinity in the blink of a babe, a grubby scratched recording of a sound of eternity, half-glimpsed shadowmemory of HE, sat there, time-after-time, brazen and insignificant, seen and unseen, white on white, bland on blonde, BUT... Excitement. Thrills. Delicious snatches of earthy glory. Pulchritude. Natural. Humanity. Instinct. Endochrine. Genetic. Reptilian. Nephelim. Wicked. Omnipresent. Eternal. Sentinel of scenarios. Sandfly. Cool. As. Fuck.
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Sandfly: Choose Sandfly. Choose Beachlife. Choose epic beach voyeurism. Choose the original. Choose the legend. Choose his video canon. Choose a big fucking monitor to watch them on, or a tablet device, maybe and ipad, the latest phone you were railroaded into purchasing at the fruit shop by the ever-so-self-satisfied almost-millennial slave of corporate identity thieves that raped the Beatles record label for inspiration, or the fucked-up reset laptop you bought from the dodgy ebay account when you were out your face on the illicit high of your personal preference. Choose vicarious thrills. Choose to marvel at this Sandfly hyper-reality. Choose to grin. Choose to toil at your miserable workstation for the grizzled bastard boss who surrendered hope to mundanity and joy to bleak tears of frustrated ambition decades ago. Choose not to be browbeaten, safe in the knowledge he's out there burning among the dust of stones form the dawn of time, delivering the sweet everyday awesome you never saw but knew was floating in the ether, those blinks of eternity seized from the fading grasp of forever. Choose to remian bound in happy thrall to the mythical maniac's maniacal offerings. Choose the glorious truth. Choose the unstaged, unbound, perfect zyzygy of the perpetual zenith that is the alternative zeitgeist he creates. Choose life. Choose the Messiah of the Playa. Choose Wow!
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Sandfly: The art of joy - naked free flesh abandoned to the elements, and to the Sandfly. Though the years plough by the thrills stay high and hedonistic, rampant bliss across the sands when the girls come out to play. Satisfy your soul with the Sandfly's ubiquitous presence, breathe in the scent of delicious strange pussy on public display. You are here. One degree removed. My eyes are yours. This is Virtual Insanity, we're playing the Dionysus god game, a role-player where the Sandfly won all the boss-battles over the years and straddles all media platforms of the era; the app of the age; the origin of the genre; the latest fad and the enduring classic... Some heroes never die. Is everybody in? ...
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Sandfly: Therapist: 'So tell me about your dream, this recurring... nightmare?'
Patient: 'No nightmare. A slip. From one reality to another. A daydream come reality. A trip. Visceral, roaring, my ears filed with white noise, my eyes... my eyes the camera...So it goes.'
Therapist: 'And you... do what, with this trip?'
Patient: 'Slip; Like out of the frame of existence but still rolling with the reel.'
Therapist:' And what? What then? You... move along with it?'
Patient: 'I drift, along the dunes, the vast stretches of ever-shifting ether, and there I dream and there the dreams form and wishes are granted and I stop, never hidden, recording the direct feed, wavering, but consuming...'
Therapist: 'How long does this last? This feeling...'
Patient: 'It never stops, and it never begun. I was here, then I was there. I enter the scene late and I leave early. But I return, time and again, at the crux, the wish-points of finest reality, where the beauty bares and the everyday becomes wonderful. I fleet. In and out. Picking the moments, absorbing, sharing the finery. Then, zip! Back for more, another glory to behold.'
Therapist: 'Your condition; you're an anomaly.'
Patient: 'I know this.'
Therapist: 'You may... in these dreams - dream - be a sandfly...'
Patient: 'No, I am. THE Sandfly.'
Therapist: 'You think there is only one? There are millions, maybe even...'
Patient: 'Legion. But one. A singularity. An anomaly. a contradiction and and a myth. one mind, channelling all.'
Therapist: 'I think you may suffer from some sort of Messianic complex.'
Patient: 'Like I have a message for humanity?'
Therapist: 'In a way.'
Patient: 'Like pussy?'
Therapist: 'Pardon?'
Patient: 'Like my message is... 'Pussy'. Lovely beach pussy. Beatific beautiful voyeur joy; the antidote to the evils of this fermenting world we cling to life in. That about right?'
Therapist: 'Well, yes. in a way.'
Patient: 'In that case I accept your nomination as Deity. i shall share my visions with the populous.'
Therapist: 'Um, now hang on, you... What, you have evidence? You have footage from these...dreams? From inside your mind? Really? Impossible. Your visions...'
Patient: 'Seeing is believing. Seeing is joy... Press play.'
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Sandfly: A long time ago, on a voyeur's web far far away, came a vicarious force of both devilment and joy.
Deny it, you would in the illumination of day, but revell in its artistry by night, you do - this emissary of your wicked hopes, this Dark Lord of the Dunes, this Sandfly.
And now, another episode to this exclusive saga, more scenes from your most wonderful dreams, played out in font of the Fly.
Epic he is, and though the haters may strike him down, each time he rises again more powerful than before. More energised with that ineffable Force by which he drifts the dunes and sees the sights.
Through 15 years of rogueish shenanigans the Sandfly rolls, and into another sun-drenched bacchanalian illusion he glides, drunk on honey-dripped flesh kissed by diamond suns, blissed-out by the transformations of everyday femmes into beach-goddesses, swinging his camera like a saber of light, feeling that force, embracing the bright, relishing the dark purpose of his wicked delight.
There are stories about what happened, about him. It's true, all of it. There has been an awakening. Can you feel it?
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Sandfly: There came through the years the collective voice of rage and ruin, cloaked as they were in hypocracy, decency and outrage, those trolls with their halitosis of hate to condemn the joy. But still HE rose, trailing glories, unforgettable honeydrips of glorious sun-drenched hyper-reality that lit the trail beneath HIM like swathes of ecstatic firebugs. And on HE climbed, that 'Fly, through a decade and more of devilment and moonshine. Scorched raw, they were, those tarantulas of malice, by the glare of his ego and relentless force of brevity. Such sights to show the seekers, gathered from all tendrils of the web to absorb the vicarious and in return validate the raison d'etre of the ineffable, unconquerable, diaphanous metaphysical physician; that myth, that legend, that Sandfly. Forever.
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Sandfly: Fast-driven smooth and glorious flesh baked tawny by unfogiving rays hiding the shadow on the sands come to snatch away those precious, so precious, mineandyoursprecious, moments of fiery-blown magnified REALITY that come when your world is still maybe bleached by drudgery and rigour yet vibrating with the background radiation which carries the name, the myth, the surge of joy that informs the medula oblongata and whispers the name through the ether, tickling those memories, tweaking instinct, promising delight, promising wonder, desire, breathless nature and perfect metaphysical symbiosis, whispering, whispering that word, that curse, that eternal myth, mystery, and legend of the electronic age... A name, it is given, Sandfly.
The bell tolled.
The sorcerer lifted his head to the glower above the scarlet dunes, to the broiling skies of neverwhere.
Sweat broke upon his top lip. He slowly cranked his head from the group of misbegotten desperate seekers.
The bell rang once more, in all their heads. A pounding, like a block of cement dropped upon a stony shore.
The Sorcerer, croaked a harsh exhalation, 'He is coming. Again. He is coming...'
Sandfly. Unbound, unhinged. Once more. And once again to come.
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Sandfly: Blistered but never broken by the rays in the back o' beyond, lost in the k-hole, the endless, endless wandering, waiting, waiting for the sun...waiting...
Waiting for you to come along.
Year 15. Nous sommes epic. Nous sommes omipotent. Nous sommes legion.
I am Sandfly. This is what you did not see. This is reality. This is beauty, and this is honest joi de vivre.
The ride has started once again, the vicarious, delicious, roaming in the Sandfly gloaming. Welcome to the ideology of the idiosyncratic. Welcome to the skylark. Get the fuck on board...
Here is the wonder of the feminine and nature's guile. Here is the summer's end and the Sandfly's 2014 Finale.
Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage for here is delight.
Sandfly, from the edge of reason, head bowed in snarling joy at the sights I have to show you - the simple pleasures of the flesh and the delicious promise of more, more, more to come.
Together, as always, we share our appreciation of the most basic, instinctive happiness - the unfettered female form of those girls-next-door who dare to bare.
This devilment by which I facilitate these sights is my sacrament, this dichotomy of random madness and calculated surveillance by which these virtual dreams are acquired is both karma and kaos.
I am Sandfly, high priest of the church of the virtual mind, crazed sorcerer of the cult of vicarious - perched here, sentinel, in the penumbra at the limit of reality's glow, high above, watching, watching... Always watching...
Only in your mind. Only in your dream. Only in between. Reality and interweb fantasy. A myth from the space between moments, from the matrix you fear and the virtuality depravity you crave.
Sandfly.
A view from the limbic core, from the universal reptile of our deepest consciousness, not one man but the eyes of all, flitting across the decades - eternal, electronic egotistical subversion of our post-modern mythologized metrosexual banalities...
Sandfly is REAL. Sandfly is OUT THERE. In the back o' beyond.
Sandfly is your excuse for lasciviousness, your reason for self-loathing; Sandfly is honest, unabashed, unfettered joy, free of the restrictions of moral platitudes, free of the condescention of conformist cunts.
Born in an asylum in the midst of a lightning storm. Raised by jackals. Dissolved in the age of aquarius. Carried by the sciroco into the dreams of man, cast by the equatorial sun into the shadows on the dunes, the whispers on the winds, the ghost in your machine. Epic, eternal, out here on the perimiter, stoned immaculate; Sandfly.
Fakers, shakers, glory takers - step aside for the real deal. No sneaky snaps, no quick in and out. Hold the moments, hold the shot, catch the vid.
A question of nerve, a question of verve, an answer to the banalities of the web's needy plastic fantastics. Your desperate self-adulation means nothing to the arch-deity of juxtaposed ironic narcissism. Sheild your eyes from the glory.
I am the Origin. I am the Singularity at the centre of beach voyeur history.