What Is To Be Done?

Floating Tittle-tattle. We all live, knowingly or otherwise, entangled in a maze, a cat’s cradle of lies, virtual realities, fake news, vapid fairy tales and mutually contradicting, periodically shifting party lines. It might come as a surprise to some to know that not all -not even all that many by a long long chalk- of these bogus premises blow in from the so-called Axis of Evil but actually suppurate from the self-styled Free World, which is the true progenitor, developer and main spreader of that most insidiously sophisticated and useful of tools of manipulation and control of the masses, contemporary Propaganda. Which recently has reached truly hysterical levels of efficiency. One day The Orthodoxy (and its indentured minions) says one thing; the next day it says the opposite; and the day after that it shifts once more, perhaps with an ever so slight variation, so that the flock will think it really different and even new. Thus the Governance by Idiots, or Idiocracy, perpetuates itself, assisted by a herd ever anxious to be led and told what to do (anything-for-a-quiet-life! free of the precarious labours of independent thought). Only the Floaters (& Co.) know what’s what but they are very small, very few and their voices very faint amidst the shrill din and clash of all the tales told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I like the Floaters. They take me with them in their frequent sorties and they tell me things. Have a splendiferous week.

Cyclical Stuff

Open Ends. A very merry Solstice to you all, in spite of the possibilities of having a really jolly one being rather slim. Stay stubborn. Stay sane. Dance for as long as you have legs to dance with.

Acknowledgment of Senior Moment. 22/09/21 This goes well beyond a mere “senior moment” and accelerates very hard from plain embarrassment to utter bewilderment. The worse is that I remained unaware of this fuck up for the whole of three days. Exhaustively checking my temporal sub-routines -which have bee somewhat maladjusted, lately- and doggedly backtracking the course of circs that led to it. (I suspect the clocks going back next week has played a not insignificant role in this gaffe) Nearly there although I won’t bore you with the results. All that remains is to say, like the Mi-Go would, is ‘Mozt zinzere apologiez, folkz. Ignore the zilly capzion and have a zpoinditiouz weekend”. Do. And be lenient with gross absent-mindedness.

Domestic Witch Hunting

Idle Chitchat. The disintegration of the social fabric via condemnation of dissent continues apace. You can hardly open your mouth to express the mildest of objections to the official party line without getting the spontaneous irregular armies of the self-appointed reps of law, order and orthodoxy jump on you like the wrath of God. You get insulted, publically humiliated, demonized, ostracized and if at all possible battered to a pulp. So if what you want is a quiet life at all & any cost, just keep shtum, nod politely to any dribble that the sheep gibber at you and, if things get too unbearable, get yourself some ear plugs. It takes guts to be a goat… Have a maaaaarvelous week.

Sweet Vanity

Evolution 8. Some more silly shenanigans for the weekend. Have a lovely one.

PS. And now you can see why Orcas sometimes curl their dorsal fin in such a funny manner. In memoriam of a remote ancestral whim.

Coplas y Coplillas

Alegrías. If this is for anyone is for Conchita Piquer, who sang a song -about a lad with green eyes- so risqué, for that time and place, that it was either banned outright or had the lyrics changed to a respectable (if not less soppy) version. I love Conchita. And lads with green eyes, if they are of the nice variety. And small monsters, that goes without saying. Have a fab week.

Small Life

Evolution7 Here, just for a giggle. Behold and marvel at the frivolity, the love of frippery burbling through the veins even of exceedingly early life-as-we-know-it. No wonder we evolved into the puffed up bunch we now are. (Said she, endlessly brooding about her choice of earnings for the day.) Have a splendid weekend, look out for intermittent singularities spewing knockoff Chanels and have an apposite po’ di mu’.

Tindalos Strikes Again!

Birds of Tindalos. As predicted, the Tindalos Stuff keeps on emerging spontaneously, unbidden and unruly, as it’s the Tindalos wont. Meet the Birdies of that angle-loving, curve-shunning most bizarre of dimensions/lands/habitats/locations/whatnots. Here we can see a mother bird introducing her young chick to the so-called human race, and commenting on its peculiarities in general and a few specific idiosyncrasies. Because she’s in a lazy mood she can’t bothered with any finely tuned ad hominem attacks, although she has more than a few special bête noires of her own. You’re quite welcome to name your own objects of contempt and save her the trouble. Have a sponditious life.

Complexity’s A Drag

Simple Souls. That’s how the cookie crumbles: the more complex the system the more things that can go wrong with it. I ought to know, given the prodigious amount of things that are going kaput in, on, out and about my complex vile body. I think I’d gladly emulate the little chap in the doodle and become a single-cell organism. The only drawback I can see in this otherwise amiable state of being is that I wouldn’t be able to operate a mouse or a tablet and therefore no doodles. Then again, that would make some people very happy so it would sort of even things out, more or less. I love happy endings. And bad poetry.

  • When I was a small amoeba
  • Cuter than the queen of Sheba
  • If trod upon I would split
  • Slide, regroup and reknit
  • And go back to puff my cheeba.
  • When I was a small amoeba
  • And I didn’t have a liver
  • I could get drunk every day
  • Happy, merry, free and gay
  • And my pods woul’n’t even quiver.
  • When I was a single cell
  • Life was easy, life was swell
  • Now I am eukaryotic
  • Drifting around quite neurotic
  • And my life is one pure hell.
  • If you know what’s good for you
  • You’ll stay put and not be two
  • Cleave to your monadic charm
  • Never try to grow an arm
  • Don’t become organic stew!

Happiness Without Tears II

Smell the Flowers. By all means take it easy, chill, relax, don’t have kittens over trivial things. Activate the Mehitabel Protocols and extract as much joy as you possibly can out of this wretched social order we’re gripped by. On no account, though, resort to sad little gimmicks like this:


Or this:


(Frankly, if one needs to resort to this sort of thing one deserves any amount of shite one, invariably, ends up getting.)

Avoid falling into the clutches of the Happyness (sic) Industrial Complex. You might start with a harmless-sounding weekend seminar on Happy Happy Clappy Cognition and you may end up on morality pills (or antidepressants, same difference) for the rest of your lives. Also, and on the other side of this ongoing existential piffle, avoid buying the third rate merchandise spewed by con men of the Jordan Peterson variety. Bliss is possible. Just don’t confuse it with “fun” and the ersatz joviality of selfies. One thing is good, genuine, unpretentious merriment and quite another this current hysterical, dogmatic worship of The Little God Fun, as my good friend professor Hinks used to inveigh against a long time ago. (Cheers, toots!)

Oh, and in for a penny… To add a note of delicious flippancy to the rather serious theme of “happiness”, here’s my favourite (possibly semi-misquoted) line from one of my favourite films of all times, Richard Lester’s A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

Michael Crawford (on realizing how crossed his and Annette Andre’s stars truly are):

Then, my love, for us there can be no happiness…

Annette Andre: Then we’ll just have to learn to be happy without it.

Admirable attitude, girl. Way to go.

Have a spiffing weekend.

Navigation Skills

Sailors. Topic: Personal politics; internal; undefined; exasperating. That’s pretty much how I feel most of the time. Sailing, half blind or fuzzy-eyed and with the faintest of ideas as to destination (other than the grave, which is common to us all), along and around unknown and often unknowable territories, both physical and metaphysical. Still, one has one’s snakes for company and the odd true-hearted pal, so all is not total shite. Terms, conditions and the Mehitabel Paradigm apply.

Have a spiffing weekend and un po’ di silly mu’

(I know I’ve uploaded this link before but, you know, por mucho pan… and all that. Besides, the reggae beat on this Catalan popular children’s song is almost a political statement.)

Elucidating note. The two stowaway conillets (Catalan for wee rabbits) are refugees from the Monumental Catalan Catastrophe, desperately trying to hitch a ride to AnyOldWhere as long as it’s very, very, very far away from Plaça Sant Jaume and the dire dwellers of the Palau de la Generalitat.