WHILE-WIND-LAND

by

 “Sedge”

 

a response to a whole thought that stayed from April 2018 till June 2024

“There’s always afterwards when it’s too late.”

 

 

While-Wind set me down at an inconvenient distance from myself. I was spawned singularly simply by responding to having noticed the thought of this event being possible & I observed, huffing with delight, as I lit up upon the surface, immediately distanced from While-Wind suddenly miles out, carrying more away, setting more down.

One cut-out cloud broke off & part of it extruded in descent, funnelling rain, & the other whorled from field-level up & danced side to side, & no rain, became a discreet form, a discrete person from cloud flesh. I believe it still is.

 

Mostly, shapes arose. I saw a whole life, which was mine, although only details — threat textures, delight sounds — & no other great events than what was happening now. In which I expanded exponentially, in the light of myself. It seemed I was expected to start at a time unspoke.

I am there. Without capital or obvious desperation, I am audible, visible as a ship’s hand. All I do is squander my spirits. Sequencing particles without exposing my virtues. Marvelling at birds’ punctiliousness, & at generalities of nature, more properly accounted for in natural histories. I have looked within a workmen’s tent. I wish you could have seen me.

Future objects cannot but exist, even though they are bottlenecked & hardly get past twentieth century reportage.
 

Objects presented in evidence for those who don't know how to start doing the thing they're already doing. My emotions engorged by Bernini. Extract prevarication & deferral. Archive is instant; plain individual, sudden. 

 
How to stop humming is very difficult. Ask the air. Display greater fondness.

Recursive instalments of knowing nothing in a way that can be connected or said again. All dialogue sounds the same, situationally & processually. If you watch a lot of films. Silence dialogue of all leaps.
 

Intentions seeking intentions. Not everyone loves seeing. Enjoy things people love to see you doing versions of.
 

Speak through the setting bounds. Speak through equivocal descriptions of power. Speak word-stuffs beyond independent grasp. Speak no creation except once & no agglomeration of voices, other than the ones the vent approximates.

Transformation is a public announcement without precedent. With everything I've got to give. Fallacy of how to love out loud. To do myself doing. Hauling facts. 9 & alone I sought evidence of its being myself in action. First, by seeking the stillness myself not doing. Not valueless, but not totting added value.
 

Acts of doing nothing, unaware of form, discovering you’re quiet.
I worked my way through ignorance set aside for me, always differently arranged as if rooms set out for me to sit down in. Working class music for dancing might as well have been hymns. Commons existed. I’d seen it done & thought I might try it some day.
 

In the dream republic, all dreams are republics. Idealism is death-rehearsal. Who's work we are. We await mechanical means
 

Abandon illusions with generic markers. How could you leave yourself there in a wilderness of fantasy with no one to guide you?
 

You can teach yourself to death. You may fill the whole page.
Seeing is inimically attached to & productive of objects viewed & thoughts thought; with the effect that actions are not separable from imaginings. I’m careful always to see the whole thing as it is.
None of this stuff needs to happen. Things can’t come unless the present condition is imagined. What is the shaded portion?
 

Can we separate necessariness of consciousnesses from their etiolated structuring by those who are defined in the structures of these structures? In such a scenario, structuring seems to be an obligation on those who choose structure — to be regarded a default position for others who would choose structure if only they knew how.

Seizing corrected trajectory, between dyke’s grooves, singing out loud to every car & crow. At the beat of the 10,000th iteration I know this is my subject. The condition to which we come, every day, being special. Appending a full night’s reading, cycling out the last things of lessons, half a day across While-Wind Land.
 

In While-Wind, in its time. We are what could have prevented false men tugging at extrusions of infinity.

Products of previous plausible futures sufficiently fulfilled.
These things are the things removed & driven off by the While-Wind.
Bent out of shape by tellers hoarding present moments, defining prismatic genies & illusion & complexity models as primary signifiers of freedom. No representation. No landscape. No fiction. How do I do it.
 

Presumption of mystery, sit down & sigh. Rest amid all my reports of indiscovery. I’m a sort of true thing. I say this aloud as I write silent.

Were a fly the herald of love. Pursuing oeuvre swimming among statutes of myth & commons. I never presented strands of others, for others to know them as their own, to hold them.
 

Your words are as hailstones on stained glass. You talk of days.
I’m more likely to be exactly where I am, sitting on a moving or static bicycle or a picnic rug or a tuffet of stalks, evaporating still at the edges of While-Wind Land.

An exigent poetic sentence excreted into an archival land-book, an idea posing as & nonetheless remaining a brief report, animated. Where a wind has not settled yet, where a stream dried & ran again. Fear is long. Dispatch riders never remembered. Perils will have our viscera for breakfast. Perils we cannot imagination as food are worse for us.
 

Fogs’ absence of any shapes at all, identified noise in darkness — the thing of the thing. Mystery is pattern & vice versa, long & nearly forgotten pattern. Philosophers are always sufficiently exhausted. Exhaust yourself. Whether all is well is not a subject. Confident in fear, errors become ineffectual in damping down noises of invisible fears - turn those to god, seeing the end of your effacement & the beginning of the effacement of terrifying mystery by new, terrible mystery.

 

Readily love to conjure your image in my lives, that I may trample down hard, invisible terrors of hard, mysterious day-to-day years. How may we endure?
 

Tired of sense of purpose’s permanent rough cross. Mystery as much as the identifiable pattern. The mystery is the identifiable pattern.
Having thoroughly researched everything, I resort again to accompanying myself musically. Universalising fields in While-Wind Land. It is special words.
 

Consider two mysteries together: one will explode & the other will explode. There’s never two mysteries examined side by side that weren’t linked inextricably or bridged under by a great mystery river or valley, or obliterated by the other. Two mysteries are impossible. There can only be one or none. Gather about yourself mysterical protection.

In While-Wind I saw only god reading an unread book. Speculation is inventing god’s intent. Taxonomy is tragedy. When you’ve said all there is to say do not stop. Half your chatter at the end of knowing.
 

Perhaps we are to do this. Wind whiles the land.
 

When poetry is spoke of as not anything like common hulloos that press the bell. Mystery is uncovering night light on your own. Whether you tell it.
 

Someone you & I know is in the same spot in While-Wind Land. Sorting & pressing barley grains of the exact scent of warm sun flesh.

Thanks for getting all those people together & lying in your very deep grave. Deeper than I’d have thought with rosa Damascene petals in a sandpile on your coffin lid, still wise on the tree as I’m inhaling them. What comes to life isn’t song sounds, or the medium, but sometimes, yes, but the skeins we assembled & unseen fear is airy as.
 

Not much of an idea but a great story. You can see where it is set. It wasn’t the future I couldn’t see. I was set down for the first time in While-Wind Land. I was meant to be pretending. I keep repeating myself like I’ve just learnt. Finding the boring point.

Equalising pressures balancing vectors. I’m in love with pressure. I swim in them & know their lapping around my knees & swishing in my ears
Delighting unevenly spaced harmonic intervals. Descriptor of music.
Living with evaporating music. Music rather than musical space or musical space for music, where music could be. If it sounds like the shape & feel of it, then it’s done. Abandon the breeze. Two different real things.

The magnitude of what you would have recognised, at the moment of recognition & understanding, if you hadn’t been dreaming of a way to make it into words & if you hadn’t veered to avoid acting on death & resurrection of the idea at your own hands. You made a hand of your mouth.
 

Tarmac shimmers in all the closes, haze hotter from double glazing. Wizening cloud speed, fly apart, you’re older than you thought & drift further. Neither a finder nor a keeper be. Pictures won’t help. Not cloud pictures, not when they are slowing down into the shape of the While-Wind. 

I have desire to witness ghosts & speak with god overwritten — & now, While-Wind, I see I’ve done little else. A glistograph shows external shaping, but not for all whose image is reproduced. If you do not know who you are, you will not come out right in a picture.

I am alone, untutored, unprompted in a TV broadcasting region

Crafting ignorance into the medium for grand gestures of opposite understanding, to witness implosion of impossibility. Cultura preta of all possible discontinuities. I cannot value. I rest uneasy. Having to make up my own story. Ideas hover, switching, swything-swords clipping language. 

A man writes two words on the back of his hand. Not projected into buildings. Learning loneliness. Stenting spaces. I remember everything lonely separately. I remember all shapes & sounds. I make up. I taste of myself. Sight & sound combined, I lead you to suggest. You never heard this voice before. Force in nature, the physical movement to intent, to action, spoke of as force of nature.  I’m more you than you are me. I’ve got your eyes.
 

All my words sieved, desiccated to survive mould & mildew. As soon as I remember a thing I forget it. Words outrun. Rely on that. You may wipe the pigeon’s beak. Dwell on similution. Be descriptor turn to steam.

What are they, serials always completed? It’s not far to travel from not working for nothing to not working at all. Culture is the same thing, is respite. Mimicry sees the day. In While-Wind-Land, I make up titles for future works, to the sound of my already working on the other page. Hard to think on certainties of all the pasts so far, at all, now. Respond & see.

The work, the vehicle’s light. Tell us, how to drive. As it were done.
Rivulets filled footsteps & the hollows irrigated that land. Thrown off on to the edges.
 

Morning subject. Afternoon subject. Early night subject. Middle night subject. Subject of when night is morning, & morning, night.
 

First, I learnt nothing from my cats. Second, I isolated myself from my cats, offended by their disdain for my effrontery. Third, I understood my cats were generous & loving.
 

Give gods to each other full gifts. While While-Wind-Land’s heights are low.

Came out of a mere, the Knight of While-Wind-Land. Certain of new tradition. New are the dreams. Before light fell on plausible parts. Previous world be as it may. Before truncated thought.
 

Harms’ description is a realisation of the idea. Idea whose duration has been realised. Although ’character’ is moralistic embodiment of luck, causing fictional characters to suffer is the greatest evil.
Exclude yourself on a horse.

Bee coming. Bee, going. All measured by bees in While-Wind-Land.
Write the outline of a glyph & write a whole world out of it
 

My future hangs upon the loosening plastic door knob of ratiocination.
On the same spot, set down by While-Wind at the edge of the old causeway, not looking out upon the fen, just looking at where it once lay.

While-Wind-Land makes you abandon syncretism & scientific romances before they catch — no stages in While-Wind-Land.
 

Excited calm, on this same spot. Birds marvelling, finding, precautioning not to write my name on walls. Worship is descriptions, listings against infinity.
 

Soup & champagne fill me on a train. Recreating conditions of transformation requires a model of stillness & utter communion. Seaside city of filthy glass inhabitants. We are at the edge of water margins. You see it more than me, I can see that. You seen it longer.
 

I see sea edge & fen edge. At the time I was on the fen, set down by While-Wind in the same spot. Nature was gravity. Stand & hear how. See, look, the watery stone.
 

We are not people who move to a place thinking how to be so of it that it animates us. How & why to make porridge. How enthusiasts compose note poems that are completed & begun.
 

The true enthusiast proceeds from breath to god. Acceding to self-knowledge by constant findings of insufficient knowledge as were ever wore, the enthusiast speaks only of enthusiasms & abides by one rule: alight.

I can hear not imaginary songs, but true melodies for the song.
Everyday encounters with terror of the event itself & recognising it.
No performance uncharted. The toys’ reach.
Recording accurately how a wood pigeon works around a crow.
Tickets to see the sunset.
The warning against solid fantasias.
The merry material.
The two realities.
The kinds of loneliness.
Doing nothing, alone, I can do it for three days.
I have 72 hours.

I started on no subject & no idea except the look in my mind. The look of a book, faded dirt in the grossgrain, kindly tingling. Adding to the description is my only work. Recovering collected data in matched behaviours & signs is the great work, the greatest entertainment. The great witness.
 

Inuit navigators’ hand-felt wooden coastline reckoners include duration. Response requires no response.

I had to travel & from there progress from a different starting point I shouldn’t want to start from. I jaunted as a jaunting horse were. Mediating high speed simultaneity, stilt habituses sunken filled with history.

I made all of the past from disparate discontinuities. Whose work standing on the same spot, understanding & making explicable. 

In a way that doesn't work & doesn't seem like it's happening.

Night sky so bright under place-holding tarp of heavy dark. What, the air between the el-train pillars of Cambronne. In the same spot by the While-Wind, it was here.
 

Emptied out of wanting. The cats know this & come to me less often now.
Flying your spirit out. My pockets have nothing to hold them. I’m integral ecstasy itself of bridling forming a crust on the holon. 

 

Gray sky like the side of a big building. I stitch describe a normal life. The address to everything changes as I draw nearer. As wind is audible pressure.

Seek value choice seagulls hungry for domestication, if they want it. All beasts who’ve hung around waiting for acceptance.
 

I rest a little & accomplish gestures before sundown. The hand of my mouth spits up separation of means & technique. I show you an open exploded diagram. Its collapse inward or diminishing is certain, but were it to evaporate as it is extended under usage, all resonances would persist.

It gets done so that you notice it happening. Lone-full separate where you are simultaneously more akin to all things. Someone stands next to you a lot.

Leaves pierce you kerb-side. Abandon time.
 

Doing things I've just thought of & continuing to be set down & seeing a new thing never more in my mind than before & fabricating it. Days string. Wind whiling.
 

You might be alone. It will value itself waiting.

The Explained

It is my solemn duty to present a list of books to do with altered, and altering, perceptions. It's traditional, when writing about this subject, to list books you'd like people to know you've read.

Take this quick-ish route to join in the fun: Hamlet's Mill, Passport to Magonia, On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are, Valis. The first two are grand, and accessible, works spanning all antiquity and myth. The latter two are contextual and exemplar texts on how real the self is.

Please do tell me which ones I've missed, and I'll tell you why I've not included them. Well-known titles could be omitted, but browsing around from known to unknown is much of the fun.

All titles are, at the time of writing, available at The Internet Archive, except * - and you can create a free account there, to borrow some of these and browse more. If you can spare it, please drop 'em a $ to keep it happening.

Adams, Douglas. 1979. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

Arendt, Hannah. 1951. The Origins of Totalitarianism.
ABible, The. 1611. (King James Version including apocrypha).
Bramley, William. 1993. The Gods of Eden.*
Bowart, Walter H. 1978. Operation Mind Control.
Carroll, Lewis. 1862. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
de Santillana, Giorgio & Hertha von Dechend. 1969. Hamlet's Mill: An Essay Investigating the Origins of Human Knowledge and its Transmission Through Myth.
David-Neel, Alexandra. 1929. Magic and Mystery in Tibet.
Dick, PK. 1963. The Man in the High Castle.
Dick, PK. 1981. Valis.
Dr. Seuss. 1957. The Cat in the Hat.
Eliot, TS. 1922. The Waste Land.
Epic of Gilgamesh, The.
Forsyth, Frederick. 1971. The Day of the Jackal.
Gibson, William. 1984. Neuromancer
Grahame, Kenneth. 1908. Wind in the Willows.
Hall, Manly P. 1928. The Secret Teachings of All Ages.
Hancock, Graham. 1995. Fingerprints of the Gods: The Evidence of Earth's Lost Civilization.
Hebdige, Dick. 1979. Subculture: The Meaning of Style.
Heinlein, Robert A. 1961. Stranger in a Strange Land.
Hunkin, Tim. 1990. Almost Everything There is to Know.*
Huxley, Aldous. 1932. Brave New World.
Icke, David. 1996. I am me, I am free: The Robot's Guide to Freedom.
Koestler, Arthur. 1972. The Roots of Coincidence.
Lear, Edward. 1846. The Book of Nonsense.
Le Guin, Ursula K. 1968. A Wizard of Earthsea.*
Lovecraft, HP. 1936. At the Mountains of Madness.
Mack, Lorrie; Harwood, Eric & Riley, Lesley (eds). 1984. The Unexplained.*
Mackay, Charles. 1852. Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.
Moore, Alan. 1982-88. V for Vendetta.
Orwell, G. 1948. 1984.
Sanderson, Ivan. 1974. Uninvited Visitors.
Sitchin, Zecharia. 1976. The 12th Planet.*
Vallée, Jacques. 1969. Passport to Magonia: from Folklore to Flying Saucers.
Upanishads.
Vonnegut Jr., Kurt. 1969. Slaughterhouse-Five.
Watts, Alan. 1969. The Book: On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are.
Webb, James. 1974. The Occult Underground.
Williamson, George Hunt. 1974. Secret Places of the Lion: Mysteries of Time & Space.
Wilson, Colin. 1971. The Occult.
Shea, Robert & Wilson, Robert Anton. 1975. The Illuminatus! Trilogy.

Long modernism and the exponential unknown

Alexandra David-Néel, dragged up in Tibetan gear

 

 

 

 

“The belief in psychic phenomena, in miracles and in magic is as alive in our days as it was in the Middle Ages. What we have gained is the freedom to speak of these things and to attempt the experience of them without having to fear the stakes of the Inquisition.”

In her brief preface to the 1965 edition of Magic and Mystery in Tibet, Alexandra David-Néel summarises succinctly the longest-lasting and lowest-valued effect of modernism: freedom to experience and to speak about the mysterious, the unknown, the unexplainable.  

Explainers and documenters of ineffable mysteries, from Blavatsky to David-Néel, from Colin Wilson to Bruce Duensing — and countless others, before, during and after — have assayed altered perceptions and acuity of human awareness of the unknown and catalogued its materialisation in mysterious expressions.

Inspired by keen intellects, compendiasts and enthusiasts foraged, gathered and syncretized, producing mélanges of knowledge-at-the margins, particularly relating to the occult. The modernist syncretic strand tracing hidden and lost knowledge, developed during the past 150 years from the monolithic occult, has been re-constructed into separate, often discrete, fields of knowledge. A reader browsing mysteries now finds references to parapsychology, paranormality, spirituality, alternate and hidden histories, lost knowledges and alternative lifestyles, magic, miracles and demonology. And UFOs. And ghosts. Maybe angels, too, if you like.

By the 1970s, a kind of journalism noir of self-narrated research quests, literature reviews and comparative studies mediated an aggregated body of knowledge on the mysterious unknown. At the same time, academic studies of the unknown were starting to flourish in parallel with US government research on parapsychology, and other subjects.

In the 1990s there had never been so much unknown, and so much of the unexplained explained, and so much more of it under investigation, and so little known about it. At that time it was still possible for a person with an interest in the unknown to claim that they knew as much as there was to know about it.

The examples, the feelings, the objects, the repetitions, the similarities. Listing the unknowns and their attributes is not nothing. The greater work is in finding ways to communicate understanding that the search will likely reveal no final state, and that the first good results will come from recognising that human responses are real. Even responses to ineffable unknowns.  

Dean Radin has shown that responses to and effects of particular experiences can be measured using scientific methodology, whether these responses and effects are regarded as improbable and/or replicable.

In the matter of the unknown, in everyday settings where unknowns are most often responded to, quality of questioning has yet to catch up with free expression of experience. Our responses to stimuli may be entirely predictable, if not entirely rational. But not questioning equates to not imagining, which is both impossible and undesirable.

Steps to take in exercising freedoms to talk about the unknown include: determining functions of ‘unpredictable’; measuring products of material responses to indiscernible, unidentifiable, unknown stimuli; realising and measuring unknown stimuli; analysing discursive, linguistic and aesthetic aspects of both responses to unknown stimuli and the subjects of responses.

Image: Preus Museum, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Blue Men #2

Ancient Brittanic warrior, presumably prior to being woaded

Brief notes on blue people context in contemporary culture and history.

Dr Manhattan (Watchmen, Alan Moore, 1986-87), is far from being a fully disinterested observer. He uses his simultaneous-being to analyse the universal clockwork, in which he too is enmeshed, and as the only witness to totality judges Homo sapiens, sentencing them to extinction.

In Avatar (James Cameron, 2009) a blue-bodied hominid species attempts coexistence with and then fights for survival against an invading force of humans. During intense, brief conflict Pandorans - all species combining forces - prevail over Homo sapiens and prevent completion of genocidal planetary degradation. 

Avatar is an inverted blue man tale, figuring Homo sapiens subjects who are non-homogenous, at least in ideation, witnessing Pandorans’ distress (having first caused it)

Ancient Britons' camouflage, using a gray-blue woad suspension as a disguise, was much like contemporary military camouflage paint, allowing its users to remain only partially observable, whether perceived. As described by Manda Scott in her Boudicca adventure novels, woad-dressed men and women played the war game of seeing without being seen, both witnessing and attacking from shadows and environmental cover. It is not written that Iceni or other Brittanic warriors disguised themselves in tribute to, or as inspired by, non-human blue people known to be witnesses to turbid emotions and altered states.

It would be impertinent to interpolate opinion on woad as body paint, using only Julius Caesar's text as a source. Similarly, it is presumptuous to assume homogeneity, origins or intent of blue men.

But we may speculate. Perhaps blue men emerge briefly, camouflauged as blue men, to mime, empathically, sympathetically or sarcastically, our psychically loud, resonant emotional responses to distress.

 

Blue men #1

 

George Cruickshank, Blue Devils, 1835

The colour blue is often assigned to sadness in lands acculturated as European. This hue was not chosen arbitrarily from the visible spectrum. Blue is the colour of figures described accompanying delirium tremens and melancholy.

Early 19th century poet John Clare glimpsed blue men while walking near Maxey, a watery spot between Helpston and Market Deeping. Clare was a drinker, although he doesn’t say whether he was drunk at the time.

Sometime between the early and late 1800s, blue devils became the blues.

In the early 1980s, a school friend related a dream-state vision after a heavy weekend’s drinking. Unsure whether he was awake, he was both delighted and alarmed by a little blue man dancing above his feet. 

Neither my friend nor Clare perceived intent in these apparitions.

Blue men appear as impartial observers, witnesses, supernatural first responders. These witnesses to distress seem unconnected to its causes. They are players of separation or detachment in our performance of processing, as we respond to particularly keen experiences of emotional resonance. Generically specific figures of empathy with ourselves, accompanying and heralding our own witnessing and protection of ourselves at our most open and vulnerable.

The plain irrationality, explicable separation and supernatural detachment of blue men figure them as disinterested observers beyond intent. 

 

East Anglian Heights

After reading Daniel Defoe’s Tour of the Eastern Counties of England, I decided to write a linear tour, sliding down the East Anglian Heights. Itinerary: Luton street food vans -> King John’s treasure.

Gordon Home imagined inserting himself into modernity that way, Through the Chilterns to the Fens. This is an impossible route, of course: the Heights mark the westernmost extent of historical East Anglia, veering round the edge of the historical Fens.

I stood on the spot. Narrated wonders forgotten by libraries, un-rediscovered even by freelance travel journalists. Wonders out of which God, on appeal, might compile a wünderkammer or terrarium for me to tramp after life.

Whittling down subjectivities research angles got ever more oblique. And they proliferated and curation sickness got me. It went to poetic wording.

It’s not easy getting back in once you’re out. It’s even harder when you weren’t there in the first place. Raymond Williams fantasised long and hard, under great imagined pain, about how great it would be if the Labour Party were actually Marxist.

The wettest place in England now the driest, with Osiris-finding frisson such a real fiction that people exposed in floodground newbuilds will care to worry only through eventual narratives currently in pre-production.

Summer light renders the land us, and our cultures down to dribbling subsistence. Repeatable, repeating, comfortable as egg.

Instead of making something about thinking, I enjoyed the thinking for the time being, which is sometimes sufficient action.

>

Further reading:

map showing effects of water level increase of 1m above high tide [coastal.climatecentral.org]

Defoe, Daniel. Tour of the Eastern Counties of England. 1722.

Home, Gordon. Through the Chilterns to the Fens. JM Dent & Sons. 1925.

Roxby, RM. 'Historical geography of East Anglia: II. The configuration and chief soil regions'. The Geographical Teacher. Vol. 5, No. 3 (Autumn, 1909), pp. 128-144.

 

 

The Chorleywood process - Поехали!

 

"Vanessa Holloway & Andrew Whitley" by Real Bread Campaign is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.    

 

Sapiens Sapiens, settled in and propagated for its easily accessible, harvestable yeast secretions. Buoyed up, propelled, cultivated by funguses, Sapiens Sapiens grows in networks of inescapable lifelong psychoses, in which objects, ideas and experiences precede, supersede, adumbrate, whittle, and carve being. Ideal structures narrate material network flows, which are consciousness and, at the other end of the material-visible durational spell, territories of happy food units.

Yeast, the most loveable edible domestic fungus.

Yeast hosts with invisible structures erupting out of the tops of their heads, trailing through space-time, stretching out to unknowns, unseens, unfelts. Imaginary fungal spires. All structures created and maintained to ensure proliferation, rising, and atmospheric breakout.

1961.

The year of the Chorleywood process. The year of Gagarin.