Quantum’d Kitties. Meet Bubbles, the Long Lost Shoggoth. She vanished into thin air aeons ago, during the second Gallant Shoggoth Uprising, nobody knows how, or why or where, and has now reappeared equally abruptly. She seems to be in perfect physical nick, if a bit dazzled and quite unable to tell where she’s been all this time or what she’s been up to. No worries. She’s been made welcome, given tons of Smarties, assigned to the female tribe and “twinned” with Grumpy, to offset her exceptionally cheerful temperament and somewhat temper Grump’s cantankerousness. Entangling entities seems to be Bubbles idea of match-making and a favourite hobby of hers. Oh, well…
Update 13/10/15 1. It’s National ShoggothHood Week (or two weeks, if the fancy takes us), proclaimed to celebrate the Return of the Native (Bubbles), and all things Shoggothic. Here’s an invite to the first of the many shindigs that will take place in and around my garden for the next seven days -or twenty, if the spirit grabs us. There’ll be food and drink and interesting substances and music and song and dance and beautifully staged tableux vivants -and even tableaux mourants, look you! amongst which not only the now universally acclaimed The Defenestration of Ben Bernanke but the never before seen in public The Spontaneous Combustion of Henry Kissinger. Everybody’s most welcome, except for politicians, banksters, lawyers, transnational CEOs, Bildebergians and other people of that ilk. Come join us and raise a cup or two to groovy protoplasm in particular and hackers, pirates, whistle-blowers, System Irritants and other awkward creatures in general.
2. National ShoggothHood Week seems to be prospering and expanding. Here we can see Bubbles being taken to meet the Celestial Tadpole in her beautiful Peripatetic Cluster, or Cloud 10, as it’s know amongst the discriminating space jet-setters.
Me, I’m taking a small break from all these wonderful excesses to meditate. There’s no bliss more blissful than contemplation of the Great Mother of the Six-Petal Wibbles. Here’s how you do it. Find a quiet spot and bunch of friendly Sneakes (that’s right, Sneakes; very sneaky snakes) to act as cushion for your fat ass and custodians to your fragile vile body. Invoke the Holy Optik Chaos. Drain your mind of all mundane stuff…and watch the pretty Wibbles float out of the dimensional hole produced by the combination of your propitious set up and your great need to forget, be it only for a short time, the horrors of the incoming American election, the ineluctable TTIP and the fact that the Xmas frenzy has already started. Happy dribbling!
I do this without much faith but still, it’s has to be done. The poor chap’s going to need as much help, from any quarter, even the airy-fairy, ethereal, I-wish-pigs-would-fly, sympathetic magic kind as he can possibly get. Here’s to you and your socks & sandals, old comrade. I don’t think you’ll last (think Greece…) but still you did irritate the fuck out of “them” , didn’t you? Good luck mate!
Update 19/09/15 I’d really like to tell you what this was all about but the Shoggies have sworn me to secrecy so I can’t, although I was lucky enough to be allowed to take pictures. Oh, well…
Update 22/09/15. Aftermath. Now, the point here is not that I’d like to tell but I’m not allowed, so much as that we’d all very much like to know what’s going on. The Bears came, transacted their (allegedly) dodgy business and decamped. All went smoothly, according to some arcane plan and without a hitch. However, the moment they left this strange creature and her totemic companion, or bodyguard, or bosom pal that it may be, materialized out of nowhere and they have now taken residency in the clearing. Nobody knows where she comes from or why she is here or what the fuck she’s up to, if anything (she just sits there, blowing stardust bubbles and disconcerting the night sky); or why does she travel in tandem with a non-descript quadruped with a monkey’s tail. Not the Moon, nor the young Keeper of the Woods, not even the saintly spiders who dwell in the old dryads, nobody has the foggiest, either, of who, never mind what she is. Is she a spontaneous manifestation? A by-product of the ursine transactions or a mere electromagnetic fluke? Could she be radioactive (she does glow, after all) or is she merely enlightened? Is she a deva? Is she an asura? What does the funky beasty eat for breakfast? Have I been reading too much Iain M Banks? Am I losing the plot? Answers on the customary postcard, please.
I was seized by a most inexplicable urge to do something linear and squarish and, possibly not at all beautiful; certainly not pretty, let alone cute. For cute there’s always the Shoggies and the rest of the fattybomboms. So, I came up with this here thing on the left which, as well as being linear and squarish and not pretty is also a little bit nasty, as are all institutions wot claim to act as bridges between us peasants and the divine, or The Source or whatever. A pox on them all. Naturally, no sooner I had finished it that I had the twin itch to do its counterpoint. So here she is, on the right, looking at a relative ease but by no means pious or complacent. Do vote if you feel like it.
Update 17/09/15 Faith Floats. Septimus Wyndbagg-fffoulkes, aka The Floating Reverend, has drifted into the vaporous heartland of the Frequent Mutation Tribes (United). Coming across the Accidental Tortosnails and their companions, the Symbiotic Birds, he has launched into a most eloquent and passionate delivery of his special kind of scriptural dribble. The fortuitous molluscoids and the birdies are natural atheists, congenitally communist, circumstantially communitarians, temperamentally anarchists, hermaphrodite, parthenogenetic and of a sunny disposition, therefore they are totally bemused by the discourse, which they regards as a curious mixture of absolute twaddle and coals to Newcastle, but are impressed by the son et lumière display that accompanies the babble. They are also very polite and hospitable to a fault; therefore they will listen patiently to Septimus’ cheery prattle, nod wisely, give him lunch and send him on his way with many wishes of health and good fortune.
Septimus is the nogoodnik second son of a wastrel second son of an impoverished aristocratic family. With not two pennies to rub together, nor a square inch of land to call his own, he was, therefore, destined for the ministry, as he was too small and even-tempered for the army. He was lucky enough to find a sponsor who paid for a few years at the University of Dylath-Leen whence he emerged with a lower third in Theology, a First-Plus in Rhetoric and a Past-Master-With- Knobs-On in Performing Arts & Showmanship. So he’s not much cop as preacher as such, but he’s awfully sweet-natured, highly imaginative, very funny, extremely laid-back and so scatter-brained that he can start preaching the delights of renunciation and end up with a fiery vindication of profligacy. He also has panache, chutzpah (hence the totally bogus extra small f in his surname) and bottle aplenty. He has not, to date, converted a single soul to anything -in part because it’s nigh impossible to figure out what he is on about half the time, but he’s made a name for himself with the flâneur fraternity and he’s frequently asked to lunches, dinners, suppers, poker games and garden parties. So his life ain’t half as bad as his wobbly origins might have anticipated. I like happy endings, don’t you?