Befuddled Fish. All through this Brexshit caper I’ve kept aloof and quiet and on the wings. What’s the point of fighting the Inevitable? The Inevitable being, in this sorry ass case, the facts that: a) this country’s become a caricature of itself, b) that is run by morons and c) that “the people” don’t know their own welfare from a hole in the ground. So, next chapter will be the total, wholesale and foreverandever occupation by the WTO despotic doctrines, the compulsory buying your gas from the fucking fracking companies from across the Black Pond and the dancing to the demented music that the maniacs that pull the strings of the whole caboose make. Bye-bye NHS (this time for real & for good), hello even-more austerity. Well? Someone has to pay for all the bloody money spent in divorce bureaucracy and bribes and jaunts and diners and whatnots. And it ain’t gon’ be the filthy rich, that’s for sure. That’s how they stay filthy rich, innit? Anyways, the Fish are really pissed off.
A Rosa Is A Rosa. 100 years ago today she and her poor comrade Karl Liebknecht were captured, tortured for hours on end and finally murdered and disposed of by the Freikorps’ bastard hell-hounds. She was shot and thrown into the Landwerh Canal; he was driven to the middle of some godforsaken where or other and shot in the back.
The ineffable Wikipedia has this to say: Although the circumstances were disputed by the perpetrators at the time, the Freikorps, commander, Captain Waldemar Pabst later claimed, “I had them executed”
Nice one, Waldemar.
Today nobody remembers Captain Pabst. Rosa and Karl, on the other hand, live in our memories and in our hearts. I raise my glass (and my fist) to you both.
Mourning Ghosts. My love of all things Japanese (minus Shinzō Abe) began, more or less, with a film that bowled me over when I was 18 or thereabouts: Masaki Kobayashi’s Seppuku (called Harakiri in the West). I was gobsmacked and in love. Shortly after this revelation I saw Kwaidan and the love became a passion. Recently I managed to find a full version of Kwaidan on YouTube and my love was renewed and refreshed and re…whatever. This is my tribute to him, and to it, and to all the wonders that Japan has given the world of the arts. Doumo arigato gozaimasu, Kobayashi san. May your elementary particles spread endless joy across the continuum.
Bulerías. I think is a good strategy to start a new year on a frivolous, cheerful note. There’ ll be plenty of time and opportunity later on for the bile and the rage and the apocalyptic rants. So here goes this little harmless vignette which I dedicate to my mate Zoraida (aka arsaytoma), who loves Flamenco and whose drawings cheer me up no end, whenever we can get them. And to each and every Flamenco singer that’s ever filled my heart with delight. Viva la grasia!
The text translates as:
Little birds, finches, what have you eaten?
Soup from the pot and water from the stream.
And here’s a wee link to the Bulerías in question:
New Year 2019. Here’s wishing you the customary bundle of happiness, love, prosperity, health, fun, games and, above all, obstinacy. There’s no reason to think that 2019 is going to be any better than 2018 has been. But. But who knows? It may be the year that really intelligent AIs take over the world. In any case, do stick with a rudimentary Gramscian outlook: Pessimism of the intellect and optimism of the will. And to the Mehitabel Paradigm.: Toujours gai, toujors gai! They both annoy The Man.
Happy New Year!
Magic Garden. Aren’t they clever, the little flowers? I’m currently trying to persuade them to do the same with politicians. Turn them into, say, maggots, since they -the politicians, that is- are already half way there. I do have but one reservation: the real maggots may not welcome this addition to their tribe. After all even the lowest form of live has standards, what! Perhaps we should stick to turds. That’d be a cinch.
Have a very merry winter festival, or whatever it is you celebrate.
Solstice 2018. A sad Solstice. One of the pillars of my sanity and major luminary of my skyline, William Blum, died on December 9th, aged 85, after a long and fruitful career in the field of calling a spade a spade and tossing spanners into The Man’s propaganda machine. His wonderful Anti-Empire Reports opened many an eye to the facts of political life in the 20th and 21st centuries and strengthened my conviction that no, I’m not mad, bad and dangerous to know and that no, I’m not alone. We all miss him something chronic and I feel, once more, like a serial orphan.
Still, the old sun has reached its peak and the young one is pushing its way upwards and onwards. Very, very soon the dreaded seasonal lunacy will be over and before we know it the first buds will be popping their tiny heads out and the snow drops will raise their small voices to say Hey, we’re alive again. Whoopee!
Have a wonderful Solstice, comadres and compadres. And carry on best you can. Life is short and often sucks but it’s all we have, really. That and love.
Here go a few links to the one and only William “Billy the Kid” Blum, a guy who shot from the hip and hardly ever missed, in case you are curious about what the fuss is all about.
His last Anti-Empire Report:
And his legacy (we hope):
Obituary. Old news, small news and a somewhat late celebration But it’s the thought that counts. I’m looking forward to the next hagiographiotic* obituary we’ll be assaulted with. Why, it might even be that of Henry Kissinger (one lives in hope) and we’ll be told what a nice man he was and how he brought lasting peace and prosperity to the Chilean people and so forth.
*Yes. A hybrid of hagiographic and idiotic. Lovely language, English, innit?
(One of the many articles reminding us we’re not mad, bad or dangerous to know…:-) )
Evolution II. Change is not always everybody’s’ cup of tea. As Douglas Adams pointed out, somewhere in the HHGTTG, some people think that it was a very bad idea to come down from the trees; and some even go as far as claiming that crawling out of the sea and developing legs was a seriously bad move. Still, evolution happens, whether we like it or not. Although, sometimes, listening to Theresa May babble her incomprehensible rubbish, or Donald the Orange Duck foam at the mouth about…well, anything, really, I have an urge to join the reactionary camp and cry “Let’s go back to the Primeval Soup, for Bumba’s sake!” Sometimes I also have this itch to run out into the street shouting “Cry havoc and let slip the perritos de la guerra!”All things considered, I much prefer that last urge, even though the body will not allow the putting it into practice, by any stretch of the imagination. Again, small mercies…
Woods. I still love. Many things and many people. There.
PS. La Bella Mallorquina is the ineffable Maria del Mar Bonet, of course. Who else?
Have a sample: