Leo. The Lion. Fire. Fixed. Embraced and ruled (and therefore sometimes obscured) by the Sun, giver (and taker) of life, pleasure and holidays in Benidorm. Naturally confident, dramatic and flamboyant, Leos can be warm-hearted and generous to a fault if in a good mood. Or mean to the point of pettiness if they think you’ve scratched their pride. Perhaps you have. Don’t. Leos roar and talk loud and sashay like it’s going out of fashion but they aren’t quite as tough as they act. By all means, tell them where to get off if they overdo the “I’m the King of the Jungle” bit. Do it with some wit and humour, though, and they’ll even love it; and use it to turn the tables on you by purring and batting their big bad eyelashes at you. They love to flirt, see. No harm meant. It’s just a game. See here, this one in the pic, flirting shamelessly with his presiding star. Tch … 🙂
Stay Curious. Here’s Rory (short for Rodrigo), the thorny moggy, with a little something to wish you all a happy Autumnal Equinox.Chances are it won’t be a very happy, nor even a cheerful one, what with the Tory monkeyshines still going strong (although, who knows…they might yet self-destruct), and the Persian Gulf heating up incrementally courtesy of the usual psychos, and all the rest. But whilst there’s breath there’s hope. Why, for all we know Netanyahu may be the next dead dodo in that ongoing Comedy of Horrors that Israel has become. As long as he doesn’t get replaced by Avigdor Lieberman… (Perish the thought!) This is Rory’s third appearance in one of my doodles. It’s amazing the vast quantities of comfort the creature brings to my megrimed heart, for all his spikiness and stroppy epigrams.
Pissed Off Deep One. aka They Dynamited Y’ha-Nthlei, They Did, The Bastards…Nothing to add to his little harangue, really. I couldn’t have put it better myself. And thank Bumba for the comforting Sneak. Our savage breasts would all be lost without her soothing sympathy. ‘ere, ‘ave a little music to go with the pic. (Really, I’ve been waiting for ages for an excuse to sneak in this link)
Cancer. The Crab. Water. Cardinal. Ruled by the Moon, patron saint of poets and lunatics. Moody. Droll and charming if and when they feel like it. Stroppy and obstreperous if the spirit takes them the wrong way. Also caring to the point of soppiness and capable of a persistence verging on perversity. Exceptionally sensitive and often insecure they need a teddy bear more than many other a sign in the celestial map. This one in the pic is deeply shocked at the chaotic state of this nation and intensely offended by the fact that it has become a bad joke. And a caricature of itself, as never tire of pointing out.
Gemini. The twins. Air. Mutable. Under the aegis of Hermes/Mercury, patron god of travel, communication, boundaries, commerce, luck, trickery and thieves. (And by extension, mediatic hermeticism and political flimflam.) Here we can see them bearing news, both good and bad. Good: John Bolton’s toast. Bad: Boris is still in 10, Downing St. Well, there’s always the fragile hope that Bojo will rupture something in one of those hysterical paroxysms of self-importance of his and he’ll die of a punctured ego. Have a simply beautiful weekend.
Zodiac 1&2. Aries & Taurus. I have been dilly-dallying for nearly two years about this but it seems that the stasis finally is breaking up. The impulse of doing a Zodiac springs from and boils down to the fact that most of the characters in it are animals. So here goes the first two beasties, in an experimental, tentative approach. Aries has a little lamb, the future black sheep of the family, and Taurus has his Anti-Taurus for company, to balance any excess of fluffiness. If there are anti-neutrinos and other anti-particles I can’t see why the celestial bull shouldn’t have his antithesis, don’t you agree?
The Watcher. This is a reproduction of the stained glass rosette that graced the front of the old decrepit church at the top of Federal Hill, Providence, RI, where the cult of the Starry Wisdom took temporary residence until its outlandish shenanigans became too much and the local authorities closed it down and disbanded the faithful. Officially, at least. Years down the timelines, some idiot called Blake stirred things up and there were more numinous carry-ons and subsequent mystical trouble. To cut the story short, the church kind of blew itself up, or the Dweller in Darkness, or Haunter of the Dark, or whatever preternatural thingummybob inhabiting the steeple, blew it up whilst effecting its escape. Or some such shit. The Rosette, naturally, shattered into microscopic smithereens and became a dust so fine that was able to infiltrate the eyes, and then the brains and finally the DNA of many local politicians. The rest, alas, is history. It does kind of explain Trump, Henry Kissinger and Dominic Cummings, innit? On a totally unrelated note (but I include it here because it cheers me up): it’s been SO nice to see Bojo bite the dust spectacularly. Mustn’t get complacent, though. This kind of Terminators have a knack of picking themselves up, dusting the opposition down and starting all over again…and again…and again. Just like the many dwellers in darkness of old. Eyes peeled, people!
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.