Tribal Squiggle2. Something cheery and colourful for the weekend. This are the Four Tadpoles of the Apocrylapsus and their All-Singing, All-Dancing Hermeneutic Bludgeons. They be the official badge of the Awkward Gits Syndicate clan of Lippy IV, near the Seven Sisters in the constellation of Taurus. They, the Gits, that is, dislike Freud and worship nothing and nobody, but are very, very fond of speaking harmless piffle as if it were gospel. They are friends of the Shoggies and the Li-Lo and they visit us whenever they can. They are superb cooks and, like the Shoggies, great collectors of silly jokes; the sillier the better. Would that their emblematic tadpoles were dwelling in in 10 Downing St!
Moon Beasts & Mates. This is a wee rework/recycling of some old stuff that suddenly seems terribly apropos and relevant. Banana republic anyone?
(Please notice how happy Yog-Sothoth looks. He knows that Their time is coming ‘round again. And, frankly, I doubt that the rule of the Great Old Ones could be much worse or less repulsive than that of the Mafiosi regimes we’re currently living under.) Have a maaaarvelous weekend.
Flying Fortress. She’s like a gigantic Tardis; if you think she looks vast from the outside you ought to see her inner spaces: no end to them. Her larders and storerooms are inexhaustible. Her cellars are truly miraculous.
She travels the places in between, rescuing the old and the poor, the rejected, the neglected, the discarded, the unloved, the reviled unintentional migrants, the endangered species and any other lost souls she can find. The finches in the upper masts cry out Oyez! Oyez! Here be shelter! The two in the middle turrets guide the drifters. This way! This way! they say. And the two in the lower barbicans say Welcome! Welcome! Come in. Have a rest. Have a drink. Make yourselves at home.
Inside, the former cast-offs are fed and bathed with mystic bubbles and served stimulating, nourishing drinks by a battalion of dancing ferrets.
I hope to bump across her very, very soon.
Star & Balloons. Waiting for the next rant (and this ‘orrid heat wave to subside), here’s some pretty stuff. We all like pretty stuff, innit? Good for the eyeballs. Keep cool, drink lots, stay indoors.
Do My Bidding. aka The Madness of King Trump. You know someone has lost it for good when they start issuing decrees and universal orders. Not that I had any doubts, ever, that the Strumpet was a nutter. But by now it must have become clear to the most myopic and/or pusillanimous of observers that the guy’s gone totally off the rails. Why, even the non-stream media is beginning to use the same “crude” language* as I’ve been using for quite a while. When it comes to imperial politics it’s a waste of time to mince your words and use polite euphemisms, don’tyouthinkso?
Plant y pwll. Here’s a little something for Arthur Machen, writer of some of the weirdest, creepiest horror stories ever, and, I think, conflicted Welshman. That is, he seemed to love his native Wales to bits (and who wouldn’t?) but appeared to be in two minds about the origins of its people and the alleged survival of some dodgy race of old. I’ve never gone very deeply into this so I’ll stop the pontificating. Have a spiffing penwythnos. (Sorry, Rhis, me old china… It’s all online translators Welsh, I’m afraid…)
In The Garden. As every gardener worth her muck knows robust, healthy roots bring forth vigorous plants which will produce prosperous flowers which in due course will become delicious fruit. Now, to have strong roots you need good soil. Good soil relies on on good manure. Good manure is largely based on waste matter; so, by all means, pile up the doodoo. However, do NOT attempt to nourish your soil with reprocessed politicians of the Dominic Cummings or the Gavin “Spiderman” Williamson ilk. Yes, they are excrement, pure tapeworm droppings one and all, but not the kind of guano your veggies will be at ease with. There is wholesome shit and pestilential shit. Now you know.
This scrap of horticultural advice was brought to you by the Alternative Gardener’s Question Time.
Have a splendid week.
PS. This is for me mate, The Dude, who’s been having problems with his melons, of late. Also because the background of this pic is in tune with his latest spirographic productions. In fact is a wee tribute to them. Cheers, compadre!
Foxis of Tindalos. What’s that? You though because having done the Cagnolitos and the Tadpoles I’d stop mining the Tindalos vein? Think again.
Here be the delicious Foxis, also native (if the term can be applied to these creatures) of the same enigmatic and dicey locality. They have temporarily deserted their home dimension (again, a relative term in this case) to throw some light on the subject of language and meaning and on some of the perversions, distortions, corruptions, misconceptions and similar shenanigans so hysterically in vogue lately. Slanted language breads disordered thoughts which in turn often lead to despicable actions.
Have a nice day.
A man may take a drink because he feels himself to be a failure and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the process is reversible.
False words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil.