This here thingy is made entirely of bits of clipart I found out there to which I’ve “done things”; most of it came pre-loaded into a new app I got recently. The tree came from an app called Mandalas wot does…well, mandalas, would you believe it. Actually, the mandalas are already “made” and you just add colour. Is one of those toys for folks who cannot draw and are NOT creative AT ALL but would like to feel they are creative, and who liiiiike to shaaaare their selfies and other crap with their many, many, many “friends” on FaceSoddingBook, a pox on them all. Me, I love the shapes and I steal them ruthlessly and frequently, same as I nick some clipart with gay abandon because some of it is too delicious not to nick and work with. That deep. So, stealing can be fun. Shoot me… This one (there will be others, soon) I’ve dedicated to my darling dead friend, Ash, who was into Norse mythology, especially root-chewing giant worms (or wyrms, as they’re called in old English -or by pretentious people who like to affect an old-fashion mode of expression). He also had a very cuckoo sense of humour and I know he would have pissed himself laughing. I do miss him a lot. As usual and on the Por Mucho Pan Principle, there’s two versions. Life is too short to agonize about some kind of choices.
There, some relevance. The Road is an upgrade of something so ancient that really I have forgotten how the original came into being. The second story is that “In them early days things were pretty jumbled and very hazy and nobody quite knew what was what. Creatures came upon one another and wondered and puzzled and, sometimes, they quizzed each other -with varying degrees of either civility or success.” Voila!
Tempus fugit vertiginously fast; gloria mundi transits like it’s going out of fashion; Carthage is being destroyed relentlessly over and over; my elderly bones sing a droning dirge from dawn till dusk. And I have become a tedious statistic to people that once pledged their knowledge and their endeavours to the promotion of the wellbeing of their fellow bipedal carbon-based sentient life-forms. One day you are a heedless bright young thing with flowers on her hair and next you are a wreck, most of what’s left of your mind occupied by Shoggoths and the ineffable Cagnolitos of Tindalos. But why bovvah? Let us go, once more, with Mehitabel: Toujours gai, toujours gai. Argh, me hearties. The phantom whale is a-coming! Look, off she blows!
Here’s a couple of sunrise scenes. Let it never be said I’m all Gloom & Doom. Well Met. In her quest for kindred spirits, young Miss BattyBall has been travelling along the Via Spaccata for many moons, on her way to the Open Marshes. Half a mile before the Fuzzy Crossroads, where the Via intersects the Slippery Slope, she is met by a couple of chubby sauroids bearing gifts and a small cluster of sentient stardust, there to assist her in the often perilous negotiating of said junction. Also to provide some much needed comic relief; the sentient cluster has a nearly inexhaustible stock of crappy jokes, spurious anecdotes and utterly absurd but otherwise entirely truthful and accurate tittle-tattle. Sunrise Demonettes. They dance with the rising sun, they do, these flaming creatures. Just for the pure joy of it.
I’ve got a new toy; a new app for the tablet. I actually paid for this app, believe it or not. Other than being pixelatious, as opposed to vectoroid, it’s quite groovy. It’s called ArtRage and this is my first serious attempt to get something out of it. The scene takes place somewhere in the generic South. Actually, it’s happening not to far from Uluru. There.
El lagarto está llorando. La lagarta está llorando. El lagarto y la lagarta con delantaritos blancos. Han perdido sin querer su anillo de desposados. ¡Ay, su anillito de plomo, ay, su anillito plomado! Un cielo grande y sin gente monta en su globo a los pájaros. El sol, capitán redondo, lleva un chaleco de raso. ¡Miradlos qué viejos son! ¡Qué viejos son los lagartos! ¡Ay cómo lloran y lloran. ¡ay! ¡ay!, cómo están llorando!
Not a joke. A little old lady with perhaps a touch of dementia, walks into a supemarket and steals a pint of milk. She gets arrested and the full force on The Law falls on her poor addled bonce and she gets called names into the bargain. A fat cat bursting at the seams with fraudulently obtained cream hides his profits in some nice little tax haven. Nothing happens to him and he gets feted and praised and called a benefactor of mankind by the Mainstream Meedja; every dark, murky night millions of peasant dream of being just like him one day. I’ve said this before but it bears repeating: I know “monsters” with more good sense and integrity that either the fat cats or the peasants. There. PS. I seldom bother with topic themes but this one about the leaked off-shore accounts “scandal” (and the subsequent meedja response) was too good to miss. Also, it coincided with one of my latest lots of monstrous larvae. These two are Sol and Elvira, like the daughters of Messer don Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, alias el Cid.
Update 11/04/16 For don Esteban Bucknell, because I kind of promised. According to Google Translate specula means, amongst all the other more obvious things, watchtower. That’ll do me. Meet yet another relative of the MadGirl-who-stands-before-tanks-and-dies-young. This one is likely to last a little longer…if she’s very careful how she opens her fridge. Offer her a wee dram now and again, along with your requests, and if she deems your requests righteously groovy she’ll see what she can do. And because too much of even a just moderately good thing is wonderful, have a B&W version, just in case.
By the Sea. (This one is for the folks at the Met Office and the Maritime and Coastguard Agency.) I have a dream. I’m sitting by the sea, listening to the shipping forecast, musing dark musings and watching time trolling past, when a colossal and kindly sea serpent called Teresina, like my maternal grandmother, pops out of the primeval depths and makes me an offer I can’t refuse. PS. The two little apprentices accompanying the sea serpent are a strange tribute of sorts to the tactical PR nous of those bible bashers that materialize on my doorstep occasionally. Invariably, they have in tow a couple of impossibly cute small children that, also invariably, stop me from telling the godbothering adults exactly what I think of their highly refusable offers to save my black soul. I just tell them I’m a Buddhist or a Post-Lapsarian Anabaptist or, my favourite, a certified agent of the local Jesuit branch. They don’t like that one one tiny little bit, they don’t, and they bugger off double quick.
Here be a couple of compadritos wot have recently joined the Family. Mistah Fox. He very angrysad to looksee peoples nobrainy iniquities. Mistah Fox he cry manymany angrysad tears and he make bigbig rain and bigbig rain makes bigboggy flood for to carry big trouble awash. There. Next time Mistah Fox come see you you give him tea and muffins to make his belly sweet and maybe he let you play with his mystic rubber ducky and his flying fishis.
2. Miss Bananahat. Miss Bananahat likes to go walkabout. Wherever she goes she takes her own vegetation, a couple of totem poles and some walking companions. Here she can be seen with two Angry Young Worms and a pair of puppies not-quite-of Tindalos she has been looking after whilst the parents are away on a much-deserved long weekend break in Magaluf, where there’s very good soul hunting & eating to be had. PS. Miss Bananahat is a nice lass but she can be a cheeky cow, she can. These totem poles are mine; she’s nicked them from me and won’t give them back. I’m not in the mood for an open confrontation so I’ll just have to rescue them back from her. The Shoggies will help and perhaps the Cagnolitos, who are notoriously fickle in their loyalties.
Update 23/03/16 The Reluctant Baby. For Dr. Paul Myron Anthony Linebarger, aka Cordwainer Smith -long time no read but obviously not forgotten. And for my compadre Patricio, also a great believer in the things that dwell “at the bottom of one’s head”.