The Dreamers3.2 Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue; never mind the sixpence in my shoe –for one thing, they don’t make them anymore. This is for Ursula K. Le Guin, who died peacefully in her bed a few days ago, aged 88, after a long life of dreaming and dreaming damned well. Ah, yes, the girl could dream like nobody’s business. So here is my tribute wot contains all the four ingredients for an alchemical marriage that happened a while back, when I was young and foolish and good Si-Fi starved. Borges said once that nobody likes owing anything to their contemporaries. This is, if it is at all, rubbish. We all owe lots of things to lots of people so it’s a waste of time liking the fact or not. Personally I rather owe to of my age group (or near-age group) that to some centuries old geezer whose ideas were dodgy to begin with but yet linger, and linger, and liiiiiiinger (oy vey!), instead of laying quietly in the intellectual elephant’s graveyard where they belong. In fact, for this modest loving homage, I’ve borrowed from myself, look, you! Bye bye, Ursy. Fare thee well, give my regards to the sub-atomic particles and see you soon(ish).
Here, this’s got everything he would have liked: Sun, Moon, wee stars, olive trees, cerros and, more to the point, gloworms, gusanitos luminosos or luciernagas, for short. The only thing missing is a river but you can imagine it meandering its way to the sea, now wild now peaceful, just behind the hills. Here’s to you, me old dead china!
A Singular Mother. Young Oolaloo is introducing her latest offspring to its sisters (the Winged Worm is adopted). The kids are delighted but somewhat puzzled as to the nature of the new arrival, as is Oolaloo herself. She conjectures that the father might, just might, mind you, be that good-looking merman she met at a very nice party at the GorgoMormo’s; or perhaps that brilliant and forensically clever Deep One with whom she spend a grand weekend at the Mother Hydra B&B last time she visited her friends in Y’ha-nthlei. She’s not bothered, really. Determined to emulate the Shub-Niggurath in the family unplanning department and equally firm on the eugenics aspect of her endeavour, she chooses as different fathers for her children as she can, if always within the limits of her rather fussy and elitist taste in men, naturally. But as long as they are healthy, of good stock, bright and good looking and not totally psychotic, as far as she’s concerned they’ll do. And on my usual principle of Por mucho pan…have a B&W version. Life is short.
Aliens Too. aka A Stranger Here Myself. They came. They saw. They couldn’t believe their eyes. They are now touring the underground caves of Crapston Parva. They report that the psychic leeches that dwell in the subterranean streams that link the caves are indeed a pain in the neck, but nowhere near as offensive as the natives they encountered in the Beautiful South of England.
Fish Fight. (Happy New Year, Iran.) There has been conflict in the DeepDeepDeep these past few days. Tempers are being lost and tensions ratcheted out of the blue and for no apparent reason. Scales fly, and here and there silly arguments erupt at a drop of a hat. The natives are restless. We suspect the usual suspects. You know, they who discovered a while back that is easier and cheaper to destabilize a country than invade it; or, if you really must invade, get some other clown to do it for you. This way you’ll avoid (direct) accusations of being a psychotic bully and of trampling on human rights and international law. Neat trick, if you can swing it. In this here scene the Big Fish is indicting the Little Fish with having sent a postal order for £5 to the Cod Quota Liberation Mafia. Or maybe it was the Free Catalan Burial of the Sardine Cultural Cabal, I forget. The point is that there’s not the tiniest grain of truth in said accusations. The Little Fish hasn’t got two bits of plankton to rub together, let alone a fiver to spare on political movements for which he cares not at all, what! The Big Fish knows that, but he’s been listening to the Today’s Program on Radio4 on an empty stomach and that’s something nobody should ever do, for it is a well-documented fact that doing this can cause mental derangement, brain fuzz and rank paranoia. As a matter of fact, it’s advisable not to listen to the BBC altogether, full stop. And may the sweet Mother of Bumba protect Iran.
Here, have an obscure cultural reference link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Burial_of_the_Sardine