Neo-Futurist Field Report: The Duncton Common Incident

A study in accelerated mythology and spontaneous ritual

I was somewhere around Duncton Common when the temporal field began to distort. Not visually that came later but vibrationally. The kind of atmospheric shift that makes sunlight feel interrogative, makes empty car parks pulse with unspoken purpose.

This was meant to be a standard Neo-Futurist field study. Me, my acrylics, a handmade panel prepared for velocity painting capturing the Sussex heathland as it accelerates through geological time. Board shorts, Baywatch vest, full confidence in the mission. Paint the landscape as it speeds away from its own history.

But the scene began to exhibit non-linear behaviors.

Vans materializing. Idling. Vanishing. A procession of lone motorcyclists performing ritualistic five-minute meditation circuits. No hikers. No dog walkers. No civilian witnesses. Just this stop-start energy signature, like I’d stumbled into the preliminary stages of a ceremony I wasn’t cleared to observe.

Then the breakthrough occurred.

From the treeline: a hippie goddess piloting a Bentley. Not contemporary Bentley this was a chrome cathedral from the psychedelic epoch. 1970s aristocratic mysticism on wheels. Curtains that had absorbed decades of incense. Cushions that remembered Woodstock. Interior atmosphere thick with unnamed botanicals.

She transferred to the rear compartment with fluid precision. Then, in a gesture of pure Neo-Futurist logic, shed her terrestrial garments and began channeling the cosmic frequencies through a trumpet.

Loud. Liberated. Luminously naked.

A jazz-fueled pagan transmission from the backseat of British automotive royalty.

I stood there, brush suspended, completely recalibrated by the absolute correctness of the moment. This wasn’t aberrant behavior this was inevitability expressing itself through available materials. The landscape had summoned its own soundtrack.

These are the moments when consensus reality develops hairline fractures and something mythic bleeds through the gaps. The Neo-Futurist artist doesn’t document these ruptures we recognize them as glimpses of the accelerated present, where ritual and technology, nature and consciousness converge in impossible geometries.

I didn’t sketch it. Didn’t photograph it. Didn’t interrupt the transmission.

I watched the Bentley breathe trumpet music into the Sussex dusk and understood: this is what the future looks like when it chooses to manifest in the eternal now.

The heathland shimmered. The painting painted itself.

This field report represents ongoing Neo-Futurist documentation of temporal anomalies in the British countryside. Working with gouache-to-acrylic transitions on handmade panels, I investigate moments where the mythic present breaks through industrial time.

Next transmission pending atmospheric conditions